Cat In An Ultramarine Scheme

“They let us go because they can find us anytime they want,” Gandolph said, after a deep gulp of air.

“And we them.” Max darted his eyes up to the lit-up pub name above. O’Flaherty’s.

“It’s good to have contacts on both sides of the law,” Gandolph said. “Peace doesn’t mean total harmony.”

“We don’t need Kathleen’s blood money,” Max agreed, “but we need to find out more about where it came from and where it is now. We know she was haunting our backyard recently. Damned if this little set-to hasn’t exercised my memory as well as my legs. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to go back to Vegas to track down the last bloody acts of Kitty the Cutter and look up that little redheaded spitfire you like so much.”

“Oh, Max,” Gandolph said, mopping his brow with a fine white linen handkerchief he pulled from a breast pocket. “You’ll be the death of me yet.”

“Meanwhile, let’s get the hell back to our hotel,” Max proposed.

“And pick up a Big Mac on the way.’ ”

“I hope you’re referring to a firearm.”

“Sounds like we’d have better luck at that back in Vegas, after all.”

Getting Their Irish Up

Blackie and Blackjack (people are so unimaginative in coining street monikers for strays, but that is how I was named, back in my Palo Alto days) are running alongside me now that we are in the tunnel, aka Chunnel.

“This is a terrific shortcut, Mr. Midnight,” Blackie tells me. (I have instructed them in proper protocol and respect.)

“I love all these wall-to-wall billboards,” Blackjack adds. “I love to watch people-fights.”

“The urge is mutual among species, unfortunately,” I say. “But these images are from motion pictures. They form what is called a diorama, and when those tracks are filled with automated vintage cars, the place will be Slaughter City for ignorant cross-traffic. Keep your eyes peeled for rats and cut the chatter. We need to save our wind for a long subterranean journey with a pyramid climb at the end of it.”

“Wow, Mr. Midnight,” Blackie says. “You sure know your way around exotic Las Vegas nightlife.”

What can you do with a pair of wet-behind-the-ears two-year-olds? Granted, the ear wetness is from grooming, which is commendable, but I could use some second wind here.

“Say, what is that big silver metal door?” Blackjack asks, as I skid to a stop.

“Our path to enlightenment, boys, and reunion with our clan. It is called a ‘safe,’ but it was not very for the murder victim found inside recently. See that rat hole to the side of it? Dive in there.”

“Huh? We are not hungry.”

“Look, Blackie, I do not care about the state of your stomach. You should not have been duping the Crystal Phoenix chef and gorging yourselves in Midnight Louise’s place. Now I want you two to shimmy-shimmy inside there until you get behind the safe. The rat-size tunnel widens there to boxer size.”

“Ooh, people-fighting,” Blackjack says, sparring with his front mitts.

“I meant dog-breed boxer-size. Just shut up and move.”

Both are still street-skinny, which I cannot say for myself. I hope they will push the passage a wee bit wider for me when I bring up their rears. And do not make any smart remarks bringing up my rear. I am not in the mood.

Anyway, I finally writhe my way through, leaving too many excellent side hairs along the trail. Blackjack and Blackie are waiting in the dim light of the tunnel beyond, their eyes gleaming the same eerie green I am told mine do when viewed at the right angle in the dark. I instruct them further.

“We need to be quiet once we reach the big warehouse under the Neon Nightmare. You will hear much thumping and caterwauling and chaos from the nightclub. Ignore it. We will walk secret ways known only to Bast and me.”

The luminescent greens of their eyes grow rounder. That is what I need, cowed underlings. Pity there are no humans I can call on to do the job, but this requires the small and wiry underground fighter.

Really, this mission is getting to be like herding people. Blackie and Blackjack are ever ready to go off task, speculating about the reason for the tunnel, and then oohing and aahing like tourists when we hit the huge storeroom I anticipated would underlie the Neon Nightmare.

I am not about to waste time explaining a giant neon-sign graveyard to the uninitiated.

“Start climbing, and make it snappy,” I order. “This is not a kit playground. This abandoned jungle gym for giants could be dangerous.”

Above us, the ceiling that is the Neon Nightmare floor vibrates with the thump of deep bass speakers. Occasional flashes of the nightclub fireworks penetrate the depths.

My two intrepid assistants run under a giant 3-D high heel to hide.

“Thunder and lightning, Mr. Midnight,” Blackjack whines. “Ma Barker would never let us out in it.”

“Ma Barker is not here, and I am. Would I hide behind a human woman’s footwear, no matter how large, like even Miss Lieutenant Molina size? I would not! Now get out and get moving. I need every set of shivs and fangs available.”