"Charming, " Electra directed a high-beam smile at the courtly bookie.
A motion behind the gla ss walls of the dj's booth indi cated that the blessed silence was about to be cursed with cacophony again. Temple slapped her hands on the table.
"Nice meeting you all, but l must head back to the famous Ci rcle Ritz." She eyed Electra. "I 've got to call a woman about a cat show. Coming?"
"You toddle on without me, dear." Electra's silver-starred nails made like c omets as they waved her away. "I 'll, uh, stick around with the guys for a while."
"But I'm taking the car ."
"That's okay. I'll hitch a ride with the boys. You must have some sort of wheels, right?" Her glance interrogated the circle of oldsters, who nodded as if they'd never heard of restricted licenses.
"I can always take yo u for a spin in my biplane," W ild Blue offered with a grin, "Out to Lost Camel rock."
This last reference caused everyone to laugh, leaving Tem ple in the dark, Must be a notorious Lover's Lane for the over-sixty set she thought. Probably they all parked out there and played Lawrence Welk tapes on their car audio systems and picked their false teeth in four-four time. On the other hand, given the way age stereotypes were collapsing nowadays, who could say what the zesty set was up to? Probably a lot more than she was these days.
The sound system kicked in with brass, spit and no polish. Temple back ed away from the companionable table-----folk s looking at each other instead of the stage, imagine that--waved good-bye to Lindy, and made fast tracks for the door. This was one time she couldn't hear the committed clip of her high heels.
Outside , in the glaring su nshine, a prickly wave of1oneliness fl ooded her. Nothing to do but go back to an empty apartment and call a woman she didn't know about some- thing she di dn't want to know about: a rinky -dink cat show and callers that hiss in the night. No rendezvous with the long-gone Max to contemplate, no one she loved waiting in the apartment she loved. Even Midnight Louie had vanished for the day on some feline mission or other.
Was Matt right? She wondered as she clicked toward the Storm's sleek metallic aqua sides, though not even that jaunty sight could lift her sudden malaise. Was she getting hooked on the odd nearby murder now that Max was out of her life? Did she c rave the excitement of a crime fi x? Did she like being the target of cra zed murderers and homicide Lieu tenant Molina's unending skepticism?
Or did she just have an uncanny talent for landing dead c enter of the scene of the crime?
She unlocked the Storm and gingerly pulled open the hot metal latch. Inside, the car was a shell of sweltering plastic surfaces and a genuine-fabric hot seat.
Temple stared at the collapsible cardboard shading her windshield: the Pink Panther in full feline stalk on both sides, coming and going. Somehow, a cat show couldn't c ompete with the five- course exhilaration of the American Booksellers Convention and a stripper's competition, both with a generous helping of murder on the side.
W ho'd want to kill a cat other than some deranged pit bull?
Chapter 6
Bad Karma
I cannot say that I am relieved when Miss Temple Barr and Miss Electra Lark exit arguing into the hall, leaving me in the penthouse, in the dark.
For one thing, my legendary skills at seeing in the dark are more than somewhat exaggerated. I am not one to pooh-pooh the notion that I possess heroic powers, but l must admit that there is enough wall-to-wall whatsitz in these rooms to make me long tor my look-alike, the black cat with the Eveready flashlight batteries. I could use some technological assistance.
Not having any at the moment, I opt for the next best thing: a bright idea. I jump up on a table studded with knickknacks, managing to land---by some miracle--straddling two scorpion paperweights and a lava lamp cord. Once at window height, I paw among the mini-blinds until I have bent a couple out of shape. A boomerang-shaped sliver of daylight slices the dimness like a machete.
I turn and regard all that I can see: the room I occupy, which appears to be accoutered for dining, and portions of adjacent spaces. Opposite me is the familiar dead gaze of a television screen on empty--only this one is inset into a blond box I have never seen the likes of before. And atop the television case sits a large green glass ball, held aloft by a sculpture that resembles a conga line of cockroaches.
I breathe a sigh of relief. Yes, even Midnight Louie has his anxieties. I was worried about meeting some mega size dude on his own territory, without a clue, in the dark. But now l spy the faint reflection off other glass balls here and there and realize that Miss Electra Lark is merely partial to shiny globelike objects, rather than keeping a secret menagerie of dogs--or, worse, demons.
I arch athletically down to the floor. Actually, it would have been an athletic arch had the lava lamp cord not snagged in my foot. l resemble an arch myself--just call my maneuver the St. Louie Arch--as I twist in midair lo extricate myself. Naturally, I do, barely pulling the lamp along the table more than three inches, and pounce lightly to tepid parquet.
Now that I am safely ensconced and at my leisure, and have a window-slit to see by, I decide to take a peek around. Obviously, Miss Electra Lark is a collector of sorts, and I am always interested in what people stock upon. Miss Electra Lark seems to have a taste for furniture styles that I have not seen since visiting the Ghost Suite at the Crystal Phoenix. Which dates--untouched- from the 1940s. I writhe in and out among various overstuffed pieces attired in fabric patterns so loud they sing the "Hallelujah Chorus."
Ceramic ashtrays almost as noisy squat on every tabletop, some with rhinestones embedded in their tree-form shapes. Bauhaus this is not. A pole lamp upholds a corner of the room, its various light bulbs wearing shades of maroon, forest green and chartreuse. This last chartreuse is an attractive color when it is on little green apples and in the eyes of a lovely lady of the feline persuasion, but on lamps it is a disaster.
I settle down in the middle of the room under a chrome dinette set whose chairs are upholstered in pearlized gray plastic while I mop my fevered brow. Actually, my brow cannot get fevered, since dudes of my ilk do not sweat, even under the most extreme pressure. But I am certain that I can get brain fever, at least, from exposure to such assertive furnishings. No wonder Miss Electra
Lark does not want anybody to see her place; I would not either, it I lived in a vintage junkyard . . . come to think of it, at times (bad times). I have.
At least that baleful slime-green eye is not upon me anymore. It must have been a reflection of the lava lamp in a chrome chair leg or one of the dozens of crystal balls scattered around the joint.
I tidy my whiskers. which look best when they are a snappy pure white against my best black suit coat, and make sure my tail has not snagged any dust that I may have inadvertently picked up on my unexpected slide across the tabletop. Midnight Louie does not descend to domestic duties, even by accident. The word "house," when attached to the word "work" or "cat." is not in my vocabulary, no more than that most obscene of terms. "pet."
I am gazing about the premises, wondering where to wander next, when I spot another orb of green, this one near floor level. No doubt this is the eternal gleam of some common household machine, such as a VCR, to show that it is on and ready to perform at the flick of a button, unlike myself.
On the other hand, it could be the eye of some uncommon household familiar. and given Miss Electra Lark's apparent fondness for the trappings of the occult, my speculations could run riot.
In fact, the more I think of it, I could run riot. There are more things on heaven and earth, Horatio, than I care to meet in either place, or even dream of.
I pinch myself to make sure I am not in La-La-Bye Land. Sure enough, I draw blood. I have no alternative but to face off this unknown entity. I do not know the layout well enough to run, and would have to turn my back to the room while working on the French door lever. I do not intend to die with one paw jammed on a piece of foreign hardware.
What is up? I growl in a low, surl
y tone. I do not care to ask "Who is there?" just in case the eye I spy does not belong to a Who, but a What. No point in irritating a genuine What by miscalling it a Who. I figure.
My agile mind casts back on all the one-eyed beings ol my acquaintance, either first- or secondhand, including a few nasty deities from times gone by I have heard of. l mutter a plea for protection to Bast and shimmy forward on my belly over the smooth parquet floor.
I am as soft and slow-flowing as licorice syrup. Before you know it, l am up against a sola covered in cocoa-colored nubs interwoven with gold fibers. A cocoa-satin fringe undulates at my eye level, playing peek-a-boo with the one-eyed Jack, Jill or jinn lurking beneath the terminally ugly sofa. Could this be Veronica Lake's ghost I see'? I am open to any possibility.
Now is the time to make my move. l thrust my puss past the fringe, my whiskers twitching at this unpleasant contact. I repeat my interrogatory growl in a deeper tone of voice. I lash my tail back and forth behind me. I sneeze at the miasma of dust that rises both f ore a nd aft, thanks to my own efforts .
In the instant my vigilant eyes squeeze shut during my involuntary spasm ol reaction, something shifts. I am now staring into two hellish green gleams about an inch apart. Either Miss Electra Lark's VCR likes to hide under the couch and comes with dual warning lights, or something living is facing me.
"House security," I growl in my most Dobermanish voice. "Come out of there with your ears down and your mouth shut."
I hear no accommodating slither, instead, l hear a low, soft "No."
This is not a literal , "no," of course, but the message is unmistakable. l do not waste time arguing. l withdraw, then approach the sofa end. Taking a power stance, i dash at the arm with all of my nineteen pounds of macho might. The sofa lurches a few inches over the smooth wooden floor . Your average du de would not be able to do this, and I do not recommend trying this in your own home. It tends to aggravate the owners.
But this is an emergency. Con sider it a form of pest removal, even if the so-called pest could be a demonic being. I am not deterred. l rear back and launch my unbridled weight again. A screech of wood sofa legs on wood floor, an indignant and unearthly echoing yowl from beneath the sofa and--mission accomplished.
The lurker has ceased and desisted. l am now confronted by a spectral aura of bristling gold and silver. From the center of a dark face mask, two brilliant, perfectly round green eyes glare at me like twin earths it I were seeing double on the moon.
I have faced down many an evil eye in my day--feline, canine, human, even reptilian. I am not intimidated by the bigger, the meaner, the smarter or the sneakier. But now I have met my match. Never before have I encountered a stare of this magnitude, like indigo ice. I gulp and gather myself, not sure whether my best bet is to otter attack--or apology.
Even as I dither, which is most unlike me; an unseen wind lifts the aura that surrounds the surreal peepers. Something pushes me in the chest, hard. The next thing I know, I am head over tail by the pole lamp, which has kicked on at the impact. Six pools of relentless light pour down on my groggy form like interrogation-room lights from a Cagney gangster movie.
The eyes and the aura are stalking over to me on unnervingly noiseless feet. Four of them, l am alert enough to notice. That eliminates vegetable and mineral. But what kind of animal is this?
"How did you do that?" I gasp, untangling my various extremities.
"Karma," says the creature, stopping a whiskers breadth away.
I still cannot tear my gaze from the awful indigo eyes, though I notice that for all their unnatural roundness, they have a slig ht tilt, Could this bozo be a bozette'?
"Karma," I repeat, wondering i f it is some exotic form of martial art. I will have to observe Mr. Matt Devine's lessons with a more studious eye from now on. "You did not lay a glove on me," I add with a growl.
The low trill that comes from under the dark mask around the eyes is mocking. It I did not know better. I would describe it as a laugh, but demons do not laugh.
"l do wear gloves," my assailant points out in a deep, throaty voice that is oddly Tallulah. It waves two white fore extremities.
The silver-and-gold aura is settling down into a glimmering robe of soft fur. Flattened dark ears perk above the unblinking eyes. I realize, amazed, that I am staring at one of my own ilk, though I have never seen the like before.
"Karma, " I repeat, for lack of any stimulating repartee. I am not often off balance, but at the moment, my brain is screaming "Tilt!" like a broken pinball machine.
"That is my name," the creature says. "Yours is Midnight Louie." And it looks me over with a familiar stare. "l cannot claim the honor of your acquaintance."
"To my honor and your loss, I am . . . aware of your doings." I do not like the superior tone that is drenching me, so I struggle to a dignified seated position while I secretly check my physique for damage. "Just who--or what--are you?"
"I am a resident of these rooms."
"So you say you live here." I am getting my bearings now and use my best Lieutenant Molina snarl. "How come I never heard of you?"
"You have heard me," it answers with a hoity-toity smirk.
I narrow my eyes to their most laser like green slits. " You are responsible for those strange noises l hear two floors down in Miss Temple Barr's unit now and again."
"You have good . . . ears," it concedes, and in that moment I recognize it for a she rather than a he , A He would have been trying to pin back my ears by now, with m e at such a disadvantage. A She would stroll around and rub in the indignity.
"Just what kind of critter are you?" I ask.
"You mean my breed, or my nature?"
"They are the same thing."
"Only to the uninquiring."
"Listen, lady, I got as much curiosity as the next dude. Are you going to keep on making like a sphinx, or what?"
The brilliant baby-blues blink. Slowly, like the shutter on a very expensive camera. I can almost hear the mechanical sn ick as they slide apart and the motionless, blue-marble eyes fix on me.
"I was born a Birman," she says, as ii she has transfigured into something else since then, Yeah, sure.
"Birman," I repeat, playing for time. I have heard of a Burmese, on e of those many oriental breeds, but what is a Birman? I am never one to admit ignorance when I can play tight-Iipped and get informed for free.
I examine her in t he down-lights of the pole lamp, which cast unfortunate maroon, chartreuse and forest-green shadows on her pale fur . This is one big babe. I do not know yet how she swatted me without seeming to lay a white glove on me, but I can see she's big-boned, with a broad head as round as her intimid ating eyes. Come to think of it, she reminds me of Lieutenant Molina in that department. Even her whiskers are thick. Not Lieutenant Molina's--this character Karma's.
She has a long, massive body and sturdy legs with strong claws under those polite white gloves. The rest of her is creamy golden color shading to silver in the light, but her ear s, bushy tail and facial mask are as dusky as delta twilight. That mask is creepy; all th e better to see her big, bright, wolfish indigo eyes. I decide that it is no indignity to get sideswiped by this limousine of a lady.
"Listen," I say, licking my own gloveless paw apologetically.
"l did not know you were a legitimate resident. I am sorry if I messed up your furniture arrangement. I will replace it."
"Do not bother," she says, even as I look toward the sofa to figure how far I have to shove it back into place.
It is in place. I look to Karma, who is sitting there while her fur slowly settles. She does not look hall as fierce without her battle halo, but she is still one mysterious lady.
"I suppose you managed that the same way you knocked me into pole-lamp heaven?"
"Things are not always what they seem, especially when the primal brain has brought out the beast in one."
"You calling me intemperate?"
"Only . . . p rimitive." Karma brushes a long, spidery hair abo
ve her right eye. "You have many lives to traverse, Midnight Louie," she says sadly, " Before you can commune with the higher self."
"I would rather reach the h igher shelf than the higher self . That is where all the goodies are invariably kept."
Karma shakes her head as it dislodging an unpleasant flea from her left ear. " Life --and death--are more than the temporal attainment of physical possessions or pleasures, Louie."
"Temporary attainment and physical pleasure have been just line with me so far."
"So far," sh e repeats in a vague tone. "So f ar. . .
"I will leave now, " l say firmly, rising with my usual grace and dignity.
"You may leave, but you will not outrun your fate. You d o not have that many lives left Louie, and you are not an advanced enough soul to be assured of returning in a higher form. Be careful."
"l am a higher form! And I do not worry about returning when I h ave no intention of leaving. As for advanced souls, the only good thing I ever heard of that was advanced was a paycheck."
"l see death," Karma says so calmly she might be posing a s the Dark Dude himself in the f lesh.
" In . . . person?"
"I see death in a collective mode. De ath is collecting soon. Reaping, it bends close to you, close to those near to you."
"That is nothing new," I answer with as much swagger as l can muster; after b eing wrapped around a pole lamp that is not a great deal. "Danger is my middle name."
The blue eyes widen and deepen into lapis-lazuli pits. I swallow, seeing into them as Miss Electra Lark might gaze into her many crystal balls. They are more bottomless than the house drinks on the Strip and as honeyed an d cloying as ocean-blue Curacao, straight up.
"l see death in two places, on two levels. l see danger for those around you. I see you, Midnight Louie . I see Libra in the ascendancy. Beware Libra! I see many of our kind in danger."
Cat on a Blue Monday Page 4