Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“I heard you were big for your boots,” he growls.

A glob of drool hits my shiny black lapel.

That is it.

I am up on my feet and braced for serious skin surgery. I may be a lightweight compared to this yobbo, but I am faster on my tootsies and have more hidden razors than a pimp with a shaving fetish.

“Hold it, Shorty,” the bruiser harfs. “I would love to staple your pinballs to the teak decking, but I am making like a St. Bernard here.”

“You are carrying hard liquor?”

“Naw, a message. Okay? Jeez, lighten up.”

That is a physical impossibility, both in my coat color and attitude, as both of them are the always-fashionable black. But I sit on my threatened pinballs and wait for this dude to sling some serious trash talk.

“So sing.”

He pants out the message in that annoying, excited whine dogs get, no matter how large or small, nearly knocking me over with concentrated drool-breath.

“I am the construction-site watchdog on some shoring-up work out at Lake Mead, see? So I am patrolling and minding my business, which is being prepared to tear the throat out of any trespassing human, when I am accosted by one of your sort.”

I nod, impressed. It would take a lot for even me to accost a Rottweiler on patrol. Whoever is trying to contact me must have stones. And gravel for brains. Or be desperate.

“Your kind is not in my job description,” the big dog goes on, “so I let him live long enough to sing a song or two. Turns out he has breached my territory deliberately. I gotta admit I am surprised. He appeals to my sense of duty to the human race … the ones who are not violating my masters’ territory, that is. I agree that when I am off duty and driven back to town I will take a stroll to this Circle Ritz residence and lay some info on one Midnight Louie. I figure that is you. Cool joint.”

Well, now we are chatting as guys will do. I retract the shivs and redact the tough talk.

“Mighty cross-species nice of you,” I say. “You ever hear of a dude in your line of work, but a little different? Drug and explosive sniffer. Small fella with a mighty snout. One of those Liz Taylor wrist ornaments. Called Nose E.”

“Oh, him. Maltese. About my paw-print size. Yeah. He does not do legwork. Purse-pooch detail. I know of him. Smarts and nerve, but not my kind of protection-racket guy. Neither are you, no offense.”

“None taken, Mr.?”

“Butch.”

Right. “So, Butch, what is the message, and who had the nerve to walk up to you and ask you to play passenger pigeon?”

“The message is that a human body part has turned up in Lake Mead, and someone has to clue in the local constabulary. Apparently you are good at communicating with humans. Me, I do not find it worth my while. I do my job, keep my nose clean, give out my lumps, and gulp down my steak tartar on the hoof or, off duty, as a postwork treat.”

“Same here,” I growl.

My Miss Temple would be appalled by my demeanor, but guys must intimidate guys.

“I need to investigate this for my own self. Where do I find this snitch of yours?” I ask.

“Hercules Construction project, near Temple Bar, at an eatery called Three O’Clock Louie’s.”

I nearly do a cardiac swan dive. Every word is familiar, from the site on Lake Mead that by odd chance echoes my beloved roommate’s name, to a restaurant that bears a moniker close to my own.

Butch chuckles deep in his massive throat. “I thought I would shock the black kneesocks off you. This has been worth the hike. My ‘snitch’ and your contact is the dude named after the restaurant, Three O’Clock Louie.”

“My good dog,” I say, having recovered. “The reverse is true. The restaurant is named after him.”

“Whaddayou know? I figured you were a hairball off the old hide, but I did not know they are naming restaurants after your kind nowadays. It is not as if your old man is the Taco Bell Chihuahua, may he rest in peace and up to his knickers in puppy biscuits.”

“Neither are you, buddy. Now be a good dog and tell me when your construction crew is making the next run out to Temple Bar on Lake Mead.”

“Temple Bar. Dopey name.”

I hold my temper down and my shivs in.

He harfs on. “I am off duty and actually AWOL right now. Just follow me to the yard, and you can hop the next outgoing cement mixer.”

“Thanks, but I will hop a gravel truck any day. I do not go for rotating rides.”

“Just kidding, pal,” Butch says, slavering himself a river on our landlady Miss Electra Lark’s new cedar decking.

The sun is pretty high and hot for the haired set now.

This is the worst time of day for a long sweltering drive in an un-air-conditioned truck cab, but duty—and Three O’Clock Louie—call.

Who’s your daddy?

I might not have sired Miss Midnight Louise, as much as she would wish to hold that over my head, but there is no doubt I am a nugget off the old noggin of Mr. Three O’Clock Louie, his own self.

Simply … Artisto

“Don’t take my word for the Gangsters’ possibilities,” Nicky said, now that he had a stupefied and silent audience of two. “I consulted an expert. Exhibit A. Be nice, ladies.”