Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“And I’m a Gemini. Traditionally. Yet, in December, the sun passes through the constellation of a man twined by a serpent. But this interesting pairing doesn’t name a sun sign like the constellations of Libra and Virgo and Gemini do. As far as I and some interested parties were able to determine concerning the death of the professor, the star positions of Ophiuchus resemble a distorted pentagram and are a mystical symbol of the mysterious Synth.”

“That sounds … truly ominous, Temple.”

“Actually, it gives me a good angle on current events and a possibility of diverting police and media interest to individuals and enterprises far removed from Fontana family affairs.”

“That,” said Van, “would encourage me to regard this Ophiuchus entity as a friend of the family and make sure Nicky gives you a raise.”

When a Body Meets a Body

I have not had occasion to explore the bowels of the Crystal Phoenix since the Jersey Joe Jackson Action Attraction ceased to be attractive. My solo return to the scene of the crime puts me in a reminiscing mood.

It seems like only yesterday that the “new” Vegas promoting “family values and entertainment” fizzled like a glass of lukewarm iced tea at a stripper joint. Vegas hastily returned to soap-opera status: The Luxe and the Lustful.

I found it rather poignant when the underground mine-ride cars vanished, leaving only unused tracks in their wake. This area was now a dead-end destination, no longer a rowdy, raucous place a guy would expect to encounter fun and profit.

This subterranean sweatbox had a lot of history before it was resold as an entertainment venue. A gang of would-be heisters had used the tunnel for a robbery scheme but was undone by my able sleuthing work, thanks to aid from the world of Elvisimitators, now called “Elvis tribute performers.”

The actual King and I crossed paths here a few times, his path and presence being totally ectoplasmic. I find it interesting that the only individual in my circle of acquaintances, human and otherwise, who has also apparently had an encounter with the ghost of Elvis is Mr. Matt Devine, the former priest.

I believe my species has a special connection to the spiritual, hence our gift of nine lives. Or so. I am now working on the “or so” portion, which is why I sincerely hope my assumptions are true.

Mr. Matt never claimed to see Elvis’s ghost. There was merely an anonymous caller to his radio advice program who seemed to sound exactly like Elvis. This fact was vetted by Mr. Matt’s ex–seminary mentor now in the FBI, namely Mr. Frank Bucek. These “mentors” are apparently important folk in younger lives. (I would not know, given my mama was forced to train all of us kits on the street and move us on ASAP.)

Anyway, the world is full of would-be Elvii. Las Vegas particularly attracts the breed, and tourists have been married by “Elvis” almost since the King’s death more than thirty years ago.

Maybe that is what Elvis and Mr. Matt have common. They both performed marriage ceremonies, one more religiously than the other. Now Mr. Matt is eager to move on to taking vows instead of administering them. I must admit he and my Miss Temple make a photogenic couple, but I and my Miss Temple also look good in pictures, together or apart.

I have no intention of letting my significant other of the human sort leap into matrimony without me as a codicil.

As I understand it, a codicil is not anything fishy, but an add-on to legal matters, marriage being one of them. I plan to be the codicil on bedroom protocol. That is, I will retain my bed-snoozing rights so long as I can stand what else may go on there. I was not born yesterday or even a couple leap years ago.

I have a lot to muse on these days, what with the wholesale way my Miss Temple has swapped suitors without even consulting me. That has made me reconsider our relationship. I am thinking that I need a pre-nup for myself, and fast.

While I am so doing, ambling along the abandoned mine-ride tracks by the dim illumination of work lights, I run into an immovable object.

A moment later I am whisker-dancing in the dark with a stranger.

This is nothing new for a dude about major resort destination, even in these depressingly financially flat days.

Visions of Satin from the Sapphire Slipper chicken ranch in the next county, or Topaz from the Oasis Hotel setup down the Strip, dance a heady tango in my noggin.

Alas, my impediment, like the sleek Topaz, is black-furred and female, yet, by the twitching of my nostrils, I can tell it is only my partner in crime solving, Miss Midnight Louise.

“What are you doing down here again?” we croon in simultaneous challenge.

“The Crystal Phoenix is my turf now,” Miss Louise growls.

“This is my crime scene. I was here first, and my resident human has a big new project going here for the owners. That trumps your paltry claim of possession of the premises. Millions are at stake.”