Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“But, but . . . they said you had been run down by a Brinks truck.”

“Almost. It was a close shave and a haircut. I was hitching a ride downtown when I was discovered. The guard managed to sock me in the gut with a bag of nickels from the slots. I hit the pavement at twenty-five miles an hour. Between one thing and another, I was off the streets for a few weeks before I finally recovered.”

“No wonder I could not find you. I had to go to a shelter to have my litter.”

“You were with kit?” I feel as if my gut has taken another shot of nickels. What I most fear may be what I have to face as the truth. “What happened to them?”

Satin shakes her head. “They took them all away, but nobody adopted me. My coat was thin and dry from caring for five kits. I was doomed to a quick exit via the needle until the Sapphire Slipper head lady came in . . . and now they are all in danger—”

“Shh,” I hiss gently. “If these Sapphire Slipper ladies saved your life, I will save theirs.”

“How can you? Outsiders with firearms and issues of their own are all over the place. They invaded and took over our premises before your bachelor bridal party arrived.”

I cringe a bit to hear my associates, the formerly fearsome Fontana brothers, described as my “bachelor bridal party.”

Satin continues her under-the-breath report. “I managed to slip away unnoticed, but all my Sapphire Slipper ladies have been under guard since two hours before your limousine of humans arrived. That is a most impressive vehicle. You must have become a major entertainment figure to travel in such style. I have seen some fancy rigs pull up to the Sapphire Slipper, but never a stretch Rolls-Royce.”

“Stretch Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud,” I correct gently. “Yes, I have been in the personal appearance game . . . New York . . . television.”

I do not mention that my moments of fame were shilling for a cat food brand I would not touch with an infected toenail. “But now I am back home and working freelance. This is your lucky day. I am a professional. I am founder and CEO of Midnight Inc. Investigations.”

“You are a private dick?”

“So they tell me. You can see that I am not exactly at a loss here. Yes, you are right about the Limey limo, ducks. My Las Vegas posse travels only first class, and that is how I will bust us all out of this trap.”

“Your posse is large and many, but now they are disarmed and helpless.”

“Not usually. But we are armed and dangerous, are we not? You still have your shivs, right? These ladies of the night were not so foolish as to disarm you?”

She flashes them with a sudden spurt of street spirit. That is my black Satin! After my recovery from the Brinks job, I found no word of her on the Strip, although I hunted for months. A classy lady like Satin does not disappear unless she is kidnapped for domestic servitude, or worse, dead.

I take a deep breath, like Mr. Matt in a crisis. I do not doubt that Satin lost all her offspring to adoption, but some placements may not have, er, taken. I have a horrible feeling that I know one of her lost litter. There is a chilling likeness about the nose.

Miss Midnight Louise would not be able to keep her claws out of my hide if she knew her assumption of my paternity was right, and that her mother survived to become the house cat at a hooker emporium.

I shudder, which Miss Satin mistakes for regret, rather than fear, thank Bast!

“It is all right, Louie. I do not blame you for my condition and fate. We knew so little about safeguards in those days.”

“Right,” I say.

I do not know much about them these days either, except that I am surgically sterilized so I can play without paying. “Let us pad into the parlor and see who has the guts and smarts to take down the whole Fontana family at once.”

Cell in Solitary

Matt listened hard in the dark at the top of the stairs. The silence downstairs was reassuring, for the moment. No gunshots and crashing bodies or furniture.

He slipped out of his loafers, stuffed them in his side jacket pockets as best he could, and moved slowly down a long, low-lit hall like a hotel’s.

Actually, the layout of this place should come pretty close to a hotel.

The first room—a bedroom—he ventured into was a fussy Victorian affair: high four-poster brass bed with a lot of knobs and curlicues, dressing table, upholstered ottomans, fringe, and feathery dried floral arrangements.

He spotted an oil lamp on the dresser and found a box of long farmers’ matches beside it. The oil broadcast a heavy floral scent once the flame was going. Matt stifled a sneeze and went back into the hall, using the flickering light to search for a rear exit. There had to be one, thanks to fire safety standards.

He surveyed each room he passed, making sure they were vacant.