Cat In A White Tie And Tails

The building’s pyramid-shaped black-glass exterior shimmers with the reflections of nearby neon, making it hard to observe anything other than the lighted entranceway.

After having led Miss Temple to the secret rooms of the occultists who call themselves “the Synth,” we spotted some main members in consultation: Czarina Catharina, the medium … retired mind-reader Hal Herald … and the slinky something or other dame who seemed quite familiar with Mr. Max as both the Phantom Mage and in his real incarnation. There is always a slinky something or other dame. Then shockeroo. Another party broke in on the proceedings via another route. From our hidden niche we witnessed the Synth trio being confronted by armed and dangerous taskmasters in the long black cloaks and full head masks of the … well, Darth Vader variety.

This was a cheesy disguise, but executed with state-of-the-art built-in altered voice technology. In other words, kind of like my old man—quintessential Vegas.

In daylight I had reconnoitered every inch of the pyramid’s exterior “footprint,” as they say in technological circles. I found a suspiciously smooth seam at the far parking lot corner. I had been spotted, but mistaken for a lower life-form looking for a private depositation station.

Here is where I commit and array my agents. We have visuals on only one half of the peaked edifice with the four-square base.

Then we hunker down. Few know the patience of my kind when we hunt prey. We can crouch, still as stone, on any turf from a smoking hot piece of Vegas concrete to an iceberg, motionless for hours, awaiting the slightest twitch of vermin in the neighborhood.

“Bugs, snakes, and lizards will not do,” I tell my crew. “We are not after fast food tonight. I do not want to see one whisker twitch no matter what does the shimmy-shimmy past. You move only when I tell you, and then you track the prey to the final destination and watch until dawn.”

They take my edict so to heart, their heads do not even nod.

I crouch last, putting myself into the silent state of self-hypnosis where I am a rock until called upon to move. Not even a solacing purr can ease our battle-tensed muscles. We practice the art evolved by our kind thousands of years ago, when it was be still or be killed. Be silent or be prey.

Only now, the paw is on the other foot. I could get used to this, especially on my own, with my inner nerves twitching but my outer aspect poised for the kill.