Cat In An Alien X-Ray

She plants those thin-soled shoes and trots after me like my own Miss Temple on a rescue mission.

“God,” the guy mutters from the sidewalk, but he has to commit to her quest and rushes after her.

It is like having a fish on the line. You must give them enough play and yet reel them in closer and closer. I am an old koi-catcher from my Crystal Phoenix house-detective days.

I give the silent meow and hobble away. I let her get near enough to almost grab me with one pounce … and spring away. Next time I limp even more.

“Oh, he is hurting himself,” she announces. She has now decided I am a boy. Dames always go for me; Mr. “Old Alley Cat” should never underestimate the competition.

“We are never going to catch that cat,” he grumbles.

You got it, bub.

“He must be at the end of his strength. Look. He is heading for those tumbled cement blocks. He will probably hunker down there for the night.”

Uh … no, but you will.

I settle on my haunches in front of the John Doe and look up at my gracious rescuer with a happy little cry, almost kittenish, although it is hard to make my voice small and wee.

She gives a happy little cry in answer.

“Holy jalapeños, baby. That is a dead guy he is cozying up to.”

“Oh. Do you think he killed him?”

Okay, not so much in the brains area, but her heart is pure.

They are much occupied in operating cell phones and calling 911 and fussing about if the police might question their condition.

“Don’t worry, baby,” is the last thing I hear the guy say. “I hate to say it, but we have been shocked sober.”

“I hope the poor kitty is all right.…”

Poor Kitty is hot-footing his tender pads off this wasteland and getting back to his devoted roommate and their condominium at the Circle Ritz.

I pause before vanishing into the foliage and grounds of the major Strip hotels to see the squad car’s headache rack casting bright colors over the arid scene. Ma Barker was right. This is our town. If something is wrong, we must do what we can to make it right.

But I can tell you one thing. I should get an Oscar nomination for my “poor kitty” act tonight.

*   *   *

I am all the way home and preparing to shiv the bark off my living staircase into the Circle Ritz—the old leaning palm tree trunk—when someone hisses, “Mission accomplished?” in my ear.

I turn, spitting mad, but I am only facing my almost spitting image and certainly my almost double when it comes to names.

“Midnight Louise, why are you not getting your beauty sleep at the Crystal Phoenix?”