Cat In An Aqua Storm

All that is history as I sit here drowsing, humming along with the bees circling the canna lilies. The Goliath killer is in an institution for the criminally insane, and I am the victim of a criminally frustrated romantic entanglement. The Divine Yvette has returned to Malibu with her mistress, a so-called actress named Savannah Ashleigh.

The future holds nothing more for me than bittersweet memories and the sour breath of the lonely alleyways I tread. Speaking of which, I should cruise by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and see if they have replaced the koi fish in the decorative pond. Last time I went by there, a sudden population drop occurred, and Chef Song, who keeps the pond stocked, could be heard hurling Chinese curses to high heaven.

But he is an optimist, and almost as fond of carp as I am. I am sure that a new batch is frisking in the sunlight and bobbing near the surface, looking for tidbits from tourists. At the least, I will be able to snatch what looks like some fallen Tender Vittles, which is what these fat fish eat.

Sufficiently stimulated by my imagination to move, I do a slick fade into the canna lilies before you can say “Charlie Chan.”

2

Nancy Ninja Strikes Again

“Where’s Louie?”Temple stared toward the canna lilies’ red-and-yellow blooms bright against large green leaves. “He was there just a minute ago.”

“Probably got bored by how long it was taking us to get going,” Matt said pointedly. “I thought you didn’t want any witnesses.”

“Right. I’m still not sure I’m cut out for this.” Temple savagely jerked her waistline sash tight. “I feel like Dopey the Dwarf in this outfit.”

She stared down at herself drowning in loose, white cotton pajamas she wouldn’t have worn to a junior-high slumber party.

The most disconcerting sight was her bare feet, flour-white against the blindingly blue-vinyl mat they both stood on. Matt’s feet were lightly tanned, at least, and therefore interesting instead of pasty. Of course, Temple found everything about tall, blond Matt Devine interesting, darn it. Matt remained oblivious to all but his lesson.

“This outfit is called a ‘gi’,” he said, pronouncing the word with a hard “g.”

Gee, Temple thought. Okay. She plucked unhappily at a gigantic sleeve.

“You’ll get used to it,” Matt said, “and it shouldn’t feel too big. I got a child’s size, after all.”

Temple watched his warm brown eyes grow dismayed as he realized that his intended reassurance had gone right for a sore spot with Temple: her height, or—more precisely—the lack thereof.

She shrugged fabric-swaddled arms, not used to making a hissing rustle with her every move. “Great. Teach Shirley Temple to do this, then. Not me. She’d probably even sing something.”

“This won’t be so bad. I’m not going to give you chapter and verse of any particular discipline, just some tricks that you can use if anyone attacks you again. Jack Ree showed me the short-form women’s defense stuff. Anyone can do it.”

Temple eyed Matt, who looked as right in his gi as Robert Redford would, if ever RR would descend to doing a martial-arts movie. Maybe Matt’s light tan and sun-gilded hair made his gi look less like a flour sack with a rubber band in the middle.

“I still don’t know if I want to do it,” she said. “I’ve never been good at athletic things. Balls always went over my head and team captains always picked me last.”

“That’s the beauty of the martial arts,” Matt insisted with an enthusiast’s seriousness. “They all grew out of the peasants’ need to defend themselves without the weapons the nobility took for granted. And Asians are a small people. Any martial art is based on discipline and skill, not on size and brute force.”

The last two words made Temple wince in memory. “Those two guys were brute force, all right, up close and personal.”