Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

The lyric and music played in her head. So what if she was a little feverish, a little Vicodined out.

She had a lot of catching up to do when she felt up to it in a few weeks.

Here Comes the Ride

Naturally, I have not been invited to the Fontana Family bachelor party for Aldo.

Naturally, that does not make a bit of difference to my intentions and actions.

I intend to be in on the action, however juvenile and rowdy.

It is not often that one gets to see a Fontana brother tie the marital knot in this town. I was there when the youngest brother, Nicky, got hitched, and I will be there when the eldest falls to the blow of domestic bliss.

It is a snap for Midnight Louie to crash a party of this nature.

Obviously, ten brothers, their notorious uncle, Macho Mario Fontana, and Mr. Matt will be transported in one of Gangsters’ famous theme limos. The boys own that company, and only their vehicles are long and large enough to transport so many in such luxury.

The key is to anticipate which model will have the honor tonight.

I stroll among the cast of custom vehicles in the Gangsters’ lot.

First, I had to customize two overzealous guard dogs. I had nailed their noses with a one-two to each long German shepherd snout. They were whimpering when the human guard called them off.

“Bruno! Horst! That is only a stray cat. What is the matter with you two tonight?”

I can answer that better than they can: quarter-inch-deep tracks on their hypersensitive German schnozzles. If they were weiner dogs you could call them “Weiner schnitzel” after I got through with them.

So now I am car shopping, sniffing tires for hints of where these glamorous vehicles have been. Umm. The scent of French bread. Must have been at the Paris last. A dude can travel the world just from sniffing the Gangsters’ tires.

Since the Fontanas favor pale summer suits of Italian design, I am torn as to whether the stretch Lamborghini or the stretch Maserati will be the lucky ride tonight.

Then I hear the scrape of many feet on asphalt.

Rats! (Not the cause of the skittering sounds, but merely an expletive dear to my kind.) My keen ears pick up the sound of custom-leather loafers surrounding a vehicle the whole damn lot away.

I skitter myself over there just in time to shadow the last pair of black Bruno Maglis into the last closing door on a stretch vintage Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud. Was I wrong about the ride!

Luckily, the open interior is carpeted in black-like-me. Also, everybody is joshing Aldo and doing that kind of human arm slapping and feet milling that is very hazardous to my health.

I dodge size eleven shoes to hunker down by Mr. Matt’s more sedate size tens. A family of all brothers can be a high-spirited bunch. It occurs to me that Mr. Matt, until not long ago a man of chaste and churchly ways, could use a bit of backup among this mob. Oops! I did not mean that last word personally. Macho Mario Fontana is the last of the red-hot capos in this town, but no one likes to comment on that.

I dig in my four-on-the-floor as the huge Rolls lurches into gear and motion. The interior is one big conversation pit studded with built-in bars. Corks are popping like firecrackers and Cristal is foaming over a dozen champagne glass rims.

Nobody offers me even a sip.

However, a lot of it oozes floorward, and I polish a few shoe tips unseen. Hmm. Excellent vintage. Airy and impertinent, like me, with a smoky hint of Italian leather.

I return to hide behind Mr. Matt’s less expensive and also less damp shoes.

Macho Mario Fontana leans forward to address us. Or only Mr. Matt. Little does he notice it is now an “us.”

“So, compadre. This is your first time at an Italian bachelor party. I understand you will be the guest of honor at another one soon.”

“Yes, um, Sir.”

Mr. Matt is clearly befuddled by Macho Mario’s girth under the silk-screened vest that depicts in fine art detail naked ladies on red velvet swings. He is also no doubt taken literally aback by the pungent cigar smoke and the fiery tip that gestures at Mr. Matt’s chest on every other word.

“Call me Uncle,” Macho Mario insists, clapping Mr. Matt on the shoulder so hard he inhales a lungful of blue smoke and starts coughing. Even I am coughing and I am on the floor where the smoke is last to go.

“Are all the people at the party relatives?” Mr. Matt asks.

“People? Hell, have you never been to a bachelor party? It will be just us guys, and a naked girlie or two we smuggle in as a surprise for the poor dear Intended.”

Mr. Matt looks a little sick, whether from the cigar smoke or the promise of undressed entertainment I cannot say.

“Aw, that is right, son.” Another clap to the shoulder and a hearty, “Hi-ho, Silver.” “You are kinda new to this guy stuff. You were a man of the cloth. Dontcha worry about that. My nephews will get you togged out right for your own, er, festivities.”