Cat In An Aqua Storm

Ingram nods sagely, his old-gold eyes glimmering. It is true, he says, so help him, Havana Brown. The atrocities, he goes on, are part of a pet population control program.

“If they want to control the pet population,” I growl, “why do they not stick to pets, instead of snatching innocent dudes off the street and abstracting their oysters? Have you any news that will not turn my stomach?"

Kitty City, says he, is offering a new revue of naked talent.

I report that I am not interested in transfeline entertainment.

Too bad, says he. Then you will not be interested in the fact that the Goliath Hotel is hosting a competition of striptease artists of all sexes including questionable.

“Why should I be?" I reply.

Here Ingram looks unbearably sly and runs his barbed pink tongue over his scanty whiskers. He hears, he goes on, that Miss Savannah Ashleigh, the film star, will help judge the action at the striptease competition. Is not this the same Savannah Ashleigh who visited my old stomping grounds, the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, in palmier days, along with her companion, a foxy number of the female persuasion named Yvette?

I stare at Ingram as if seeing him for the first time. The name “Yvette” hits my ears like a bouncer’s fists. Yvette. The Divine Yvette. I hear again her subtle throaty voice, see the infinitely changing kaleidoscope of her baby blue-greens, feel sable-tipped silver fur brushing against my broad shoulders....

The Divine Yvette is back in town.

Wait, Ingram yodels in his scratchy voice as I rocket down the street, headed for the Goliath Hotel, do you not wish to learn about the exotic goldfish display at the Mirage—?

I pay no mind. If there is any force on earth that can distract me from the pursuit of food, it is the Divine Yvette.

In fact, even thinking of her in retrospect as I lounge here in silken comfort in the lap of Miss Temple Barr’s luxury almost makes me forget the shocking events of the past twelve hours, in which I have slipped the gentle bonds of my little doll’s attentions. I doze off, dreaming of crystal ashtrays brimming with champagne, catnip caviar and a world-class lady friend with whom to share them.

7

The Cookie Crumbles

Overhead fluorescent lights lent Crawford Buchanan’s normally pasty complexion a sallow tinge. The breath-mint-green hospital gown did nothing for him, either, except to tinge his silver hair yellow. Temple rebelled at expressing false sentiments, so her “Gosh, Crawford, you look... tired” avoided coming out “awful” only by a hair.

He lay in the industrial-strength hospital bed, puny and pathetic. Temple unconsciously lowered her voice to a genuinely solicitous level. “How are you feeling? Is it... serious?”