Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“Why,” Nicky asked back, “duplicate what’s already there, aching to be expanded and ballyhooed?”

“I agree, but what’s already there?” Van asked.

“The Fontana family’s mob museum,” he answered in triumph.

Silence ensued again. In it, Temple noticed that the hotel cat, Midnight Louise, had either entered on hushed little cat feet or, more likely, arisen from a concealed napping spot in the executive office suite.

She was now sitting demurely at Van’s ankles, licking her clawed front toes one by one, grooming her own brand of “peep” toenails, Temple thought.

Although Midnight Louie, Temple’s … roommate, had inspired this feminine version of his name for this once-stray cat, Louise was smaller than he, with longer black hair. She was just as spit-polished as her larger, buzz-cut, and “butcher” version.

Midnight Louise flicked a paw over one ear, as if cleaning it for better reception. Ears R Us.

Seeing that blot of black on the pale carpet, Temple finally got Nicky’s reference, thinking of another glitzier blot of black on the Vegas scene.

“Nicky. You mean Gangsters!”

He nodded, pleased as a teacher with a prize student. “Like gangbusters! You got it, Miss Temple.”

Van was puzzled. “That’s a small off-Strip hotel-casino setup.”

“I’ve been there,” Temple said. “Lots of ‘local color’ from the delicious bad old days. A string of indecently stretched black limousines always underlines the entry canopy. You’d think it was a funeral fleet. The hotel facade is polished black marble and neon-lit glass blocks. Very Art Deco. The upper stories are capped by a huge neon fedora and gun barrel, both cocked, with veiled red lights visible as squinting eyes in the eaves’ eternal penumbra.

“Customers are escorted inside by broad-shouldered men in sinister fedoras who wear pastel ties against dark shirts and suits. ‘Le Jazz Hot’ and forties swing is on the audio system.

“It’s a modest six-hundred-room hotel, but has the four-star Hush Money steak house, Speakeasy bar and restaurant, and a four-thousand-seat theater and gaming casino that’s ‘raided’ nightly by the fake feds. The Roxie, a vintage movie theater, even plays newsreels—about gangsters, of course.

“They have a small museum with gats and getaway cars from the gangland days of old, and up-to-date shopping in flanking wings: Gents and G-Men on the left, with the Moll Mall on the right.”

“That does sound like a smart concept,” Van conceded, “one that’s been totally overshadowed, Nicky, by your brothers’ allied and adjacent booming exotic limo service of the same name. Bad misfire. A clever concept lost in the execution.”

“Ouch.” Nicky mock-cringed. “Don’t say ‘execution’ in connection with mention of the family business.”

“Hardly a ‘family’ business. You’ve never linked the Crystal Phoenix with your uncle’s or brothers’ Vegas doings. Smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m the white sheep of the family. On paper.”

Van placed the flats of both hands on her floating glass desktop and levered herself to her full heeled height.

“Nicky Fontana! You don’t mean to say you’ve been secretly backing your relations’ questionable ventures? That is ‘Death in Vegas.’ ”

“I’m saying I have pull with the Gangsters’ owners, that’s all.”

Temple exchanged a glance with yellow-eyed Midnight Louise, who was frozen in mid-grooming, paw lifted, ear cocked. This was hot news.

“And,” Nicky continued, “I happen to know this brouhaha about a city mob museum has spurred the owners of Gangsters, the best little undermarketed hotel-casino in town, not the limo service of the same name, to launch a redo, taking and running with the mob theme barefaced, instead of resorting to pussyfooting around and ‘redacting’ history.”

“Oh, my God,” said Van, turning as pale as her taffy-colored hair, and sitting.

“Sweet,” said Temple. “That publicity campaign could rock.”

Even Midnight Louise emitted a surprised little squeak, which only Temple heard.

She had an ear for little nothings of the feline sort.

Where Louie Used To …

I am sunning my battered frame by the cool aquamarine length of my private pool on the Circle Ritz grounds when a shadow falls over me.

Shadows in Las Vegas are as rare as mint in a marijuana patch, so I know without opening my eyes that something ugly and unexpected is hovering over me.

I snick out all eight of my front shivs without a sound and open one green peeper.

Hmph. A jowly black face with a five o’clock shadow of dog doo-doo brown dominates my field of vision. Same color spats and gloves. Reddened eye-whites. Big white teeth fresh from the dental tech’s brushing, but no minty afterbreath. Instead, I sniff the reek of raw meat and desiccated pig’s ear, maybe even some pansy kibble product.

Yup. It is a dog. A big ’un. Runs maybe 140, like a middleweight. Makes me want to run, but my ribs are still bruised from the derring-do, save-the-maiden stuff at the end of my previous case, and I do not feel like it.

“Dead dogs wear plaid,” I say, uncrossing my mitts and preparing to carve a red tartan pattern into his ugly mug.