Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“Millions of fleas, if your unsanitary hide is involved,” she sniffs. “You have been hanging out more with the feral gang than I have.”

I did say she sniffed, and you can take that literally.

“I receive an herbal repellent from my mistress in my daily food to handle that sort of infestation,” I say.

“But you rarely eat the Free-to-Be-Feline she uses as a staple because you are politically incorrect in your most primitive appetites. Thus, you are unprotected.”

“Not true! I am the most protected tomcat in town! Unlike most cowardly human males, I have chosen to have ‘the surgery.’ ”

“While knocked unconscious,” she jeers. “You were kidnapped by that airhead actress Savannah Ashleigh and returned to your mistress in a satin pillowcase bearing her initials. I am amazed her plastic surgeon only did a vasectomy and a tummy tuck. He could have done a sex-change operation.”

I had never considered that possibility and feel slightly faint from the thin air in this deserted section beneath the hotel grounds.

“At least I am not an ‘it,’ ” I lob back. My powerful serve of sarcasm silences my mouthy self-described “daughter.” Youngsters. No respect for their elders, even when they are trying to label them as delinquent dads.

Now that the formalities of our unexpected encounter have been observed, we sit and get down to business.

“I agree that you must solve this case to protect your mistress’s financial interests,” she concedes. “Just get straight that your land is now my land and I have the Fontanas to protect, so I will be a participating party in any investigative shenanigans you and/or she might get up to, high or low, at the Crystal Phoenix and its environs to the property lines, above-and belowground.”

“Jeez, Louise. Have you been consulting a lawyer?”

“I thought you tacked an ‘Esquire’ onto your name on occasion.”

“My degree is in street smarts.”

“Mine as well, and far more recently than yours. What do you think of this scheme to link the Crystal Phoenix with Gangsters?”

“Not much. The CP has a solid-silver rep as classy. This mob stuff could tarnish what Miss Van von Rhine and Mr. Nicky Fontana have so carefully built.”

Louise is not buying my dire scenario.

“The Fontana brothers, sans Nicky, have built the exotic Gangsters Limo Service into a popular Vegas brand, though,” she ripostes. Ow! Her ripostes end with pretty sharp punctuation marks. “Even the mayor wants to loosen up the Code of Silence on the city’s mob roots. I thought you would approve of your human associates getting the jump on the city-hall bunch.”

“When those guys are nervous, there might be reason. First they called it a mob museum. Then they called it a law-enforcement museum. They are fudging the facts so much they would look good accessorized with nuts and marshmallows.”

“Are you always thinking of your next meal, Daddy-o? You could stand to lose a few fat rolls.”

“Bulging muscles, my girl. Now that your ‘furomones’ have been ‘fixed’ you simply cannot tell the difference between a male at the peak of his powers and some fuddy-duddy fixee.”

She shakes her head. “I am done trying to urge you to a healthier lifestyle. I do have news that tops your latest Elvis sighting.”

“That was some time ago. The Memphis Cat has not deigned to show himself this trip through the belly of the beast, so I am most interested in what your insights are.”

“I paid a recent visit to the Crystal Phoenix’s so-called Ghost Suite.”

“Ah, old seven-thirteen. A most provocative number for a hotel room. And who did you find there? Or should I say, what?”

“Miss Temple Barr, for one.”

“Really? I thought she was on the scoffer side of matters paranormal.”

“She was using the peace and quiet to muse.”

I nod sagely. The presence of Miss Midnight Louise, my possible number-one daughter, brings out the Charlie Chan in me.

“She also was using it to mourn, I believe,” Miss Midnight Louise adds. “I do not think that is healthy.”

“Hmm. You mean she was contemplating the absence and likely death of Mr. Max Kinsella. You were there when he hit the Neon Nightmare wall on that sabotaged bungee cord. A savage end to a most civilized magician.”

“You believe you can see Elvis and yet you think a seasoned performer like Mr. Max would use equipment he had not checked for flaws?”

“Perhaps someone compromised the cord after he had launched. That Neon Nightmare club is a maze of secret passages and rooms. The cord required an anchor at the top. I recall shenanigans of a similar sort at the New Millennium Hotel and Casino, which shortly after put an end to that treacherous lady magician Shangri-La.”

“Does that not make your nether appendage twitch just the slightest bit? These two acrobatic acts afflicted with lethal malfunctions?”

“Which ‘nether appendage’ do you refer to?” I ask, deadpan.

“The one that is long and useful for balance,” she snaps.

Yup. Literally snaps. I avoid her daughterly snit and let her fangs close on a whisper of my retracting whiskers.

I am still quick on the draw both fore and aft.