Cat In An Alien X-Ray

“So Midnight Louie’s explorations managed to unveil an ancient Mayan or Aztec abductee, or alien, returned to Earth, lightly scarred but otherwise in superb physical shape, somehow concealed in Silas T. Farnum’s now-you-see-it/now-you-don’t building?”

“I’ll believe that when he shows up as Hillary’s running mate in 2016.”

Temple had to give that joke a quick smile. “How can people swoon over this poor dead guy?” she wondered. “What an awful way to die.”

“Social media swooning is unstoppable.” Molina tapped the screen with one of her seriously short fingernails. “Part of the ‘rich Corinthian leather’ skin color is self-tanning lotion. Interesting, isn’t it?”

Temple recognized the “Corinthian” phrase from an old TV car ad featuring the rich Spanish-accented voice of pioneering Latino actor Ricardo Montalbán, dead a lot longer than this guy.

“I doubt the ancients went in for tanning preparations. Hey, maybe this guy was an actor?” Temple said. “Maybe Silas T. had hired him to add some alien color to his big revelation.”

“He ever mention an ancient Mayan theme to you?”

“No, but I’ve been visiting all the UFO and alien Web sites lately to figure out what Farnum was up to, and the ancient-alien theme is a whole industry.”

Molina shook her head. “Talk about alien visitors, you are one on those Web sites.”

“True. I don’t believe any of it. You can take any image or custom or artifact from history and theorize that ‘ancient alien visitors’ left signs of giving the culture a sudden technological boost. I’m quite satisfied with the way public TV says the pyramids were built. Slave labor is a lot more likely than alien tourists who lent an ancient hand and then left us to stew in our own slow mambo to modern times over centuries of ignorance and war.”

“Mercy. You’re pretty indignant about these fringe theories.”

“I’ve been pretty mercilessly misled by Mr. Farnum and his undercover enterprise,” Temple answered. “And the sad part about all this is that his magical disappearing act is the real deal. That’s on the Web too. Scientists are learning to bend light, and time, to make our eyes fool themselves.”

Molina’s mouth went thin-lipped and grim. “That just makes my job harder. It’s bad enough Vegas is a 24-hour cabaret of crime, my friend. What I don’t need are alien interlopers. Your cat is about all I can handle, just barely, in that department.”

Chapter 31

Short Stuff

Much as I loathe treading in Crawford Buchanan’s footsteps, he makes a good cover.

He has now buttonholed a lady wearing an outfit my vintage clothing–loving Miss Temple would give the Revival Stamp of Approval: plaid Bermuda shorts and crisp light blue shirt with rolled-up buttoned sleeves. Then again, this lady may have just bought from Lands’ End classic mail-order catalog.

Her sensible navy canvas boating flats are refreshingly odor-free, but I can’t say the same for her boon companion, whom she has released from a canvas doggie tote to the arid ground and swift perusal from my world-class sniffer.

This critter is so small, the dogdom bit is questionable. However, it has the intelligent and sturdy look of the noble and industrious sled dogs known as huskies.

I confess myself confused.

“Hey, shorty,” I greet this ambiguous animal.

I am answered by a round of yapping, which settles the species question.

“No offense,” I say after another long inhalation of its essence. Hmm. Attar of taco sauce. “I gather that you are familiar with the ruins called ‘Calix-tla-hua-ca.’ Pardon my accent, but my breed is not geographically centered, as yours is.”

“Whowho Whoareyou? Whadayoudoinghere? Iguardmyhuman. Iwillchewoffyoureartips.”