cat in a crimson haze

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Temple saw that Van's massaging hands were raising goose bumps on her arms, and hastened to undo the damage that she had done: letting new light shine on an old environment.

  "I didn't know they had colored bathroom fixtures in the forties," she yelled to Van from the bedroom blinds.

  "The rich did, and Jersey Joe Jackson was filthy with lucre when he built the Joshua Tree.

  The bust came later," Van caroled back. "Please hurry!"

  Temple was just as glad to have another human being present as she returned the bedroom to its eerie, perpetually dimmed state. She charged into the living room to shut the blinds there.

  "What is this blond cabinet, a radio?"

  "Early t-t-television." Van's teeth were chattering now. "Don't you feel the c-c-cold?"

  "No, I'm running around too fast. Television." She remembered the blond model in Electra's penthouse. ''Jersey Joe was fond of the latest technology."

  She hesitated at the corset lamp shade, then turned off the light. Fascinating as the Ghost Suite was, the living faced deadlines of a less final nature, such as an imminent Gridiron show.

  The room returned to the twilight that had swallowed it for decades. At the desk. Temple paused before turning off the last light.

  "What did hang here?"

  Van was truly upset, Temple saw. It was cruel to keep her here another instant. Temple needed an answer to every anomaly. Sometimes she could be cruel.

  "An old blown-up photograph! Black and white. Of the desart. That's where Solitaire Smith found the map to the Glory Hole Gang's hoard of buried silver dollars ... in the frame backing.

  Now let's go!"

  Temple grabbed Louie in one arm--ooh, he was heavier than her tote bag, and that was going some, clutched the key in her other hand, and headed for the door, Van in front of her.

  As she turned to give the room one last glance, she saw a glint of something at the drapes.

  Perhaps the hallway light reflected on the high points of the satin pleats.

  "Shut it!" Van begged, backing into the hall.

  Temple obediently dropped Louie to the floor and drew the door shut. A breeze--cool and sharp, rather than musty, fanned her as the door closed. She used the key to lock it, then tried the knob.

  "As tight as King Tut's tomb--oops, sorry again."

  Van, now as pale as the ash-blond furniture within the rooms, was recovering herself against the far wall.

  "Did you see anything odd?" she asked.

  "Only the hall light reflecting off the drapes."

  "The hall light isn't that strong."

  "Van, you don't really believe that the ghost of Jersey Joe Jackson is inside there?"

  "I've seen it. Him. I've seen him pass through that door. Let's leave!"

  Temple hurried her down the passage, taking Van's arm and finding it ice-cold. Funny, there had been no air-conditioning in the rooms.

  She turned to see if Louie was following.

  He was still sitting in front of the Ghost Suite, busily grooming his coat as if he were at home on his own--her own--bed.

  If there had been anything outre to sense, Temple told herself firmly, one would think a black cat would be the first to know.

  But Louie just sat there, twisting to lick the hair on his spine, which had lifted into a series of dinosaur notches all the way to the base of his tail.

  He would have to work quite a bit on the tail, too. Temple noticed. Swollen to twice its size, it was a kissing cousin to a radiator brush.

  Must be an awful lot of static electricity in the Ghost Suite...she thought. Um-hmm.

  Chapter 31

  Kung Phooey

  Here it is, the dawn of the day of my little doll's greatest triumph, the Gridiron show. I should be present in my always-elegant black tie and tail.

  As luck would have it, and as is usual of late, my personal matters are interfering with my professional prowess.

  I cannot claim that I planned on attending this Gridiron dinner and show. Satire is not my strong suit. Still, I planned to be about the premises for moral support and even had intended to show my puss at the Circle Ritz when Miss Temple Barr was dressing for the grand event.

  She needs me to press her best duds when they are laid out on the bed prior to donning, though she has a cute habit of pretending to protest my help. Then, too, I am adept at weaving in and out of her legs and leaving my calling cards--tiny black hairs--on her pantyhose, usually a pale color that will benefit from some dash and contrast. I also help Miss Temple locate her missing evening bag by lying on it until she notices me, shoos me away and discovers the absent purse right under my nose.

  My many adventures down Life's meanest streets does not mean that I have lost my delicate domestic touch. Even the most macho dude will benefit from tending to the care and coddling of the human companion.

  However, the day begins with a revolting event at the Crystal Phoenix that rockets me into an entirely different direction.

  I am innocently enjoying the late morning sun among the canna lilies, especially since I do not detect the inhibiting presence of Miss Caviar. I am not to be left alone for long, though. v I hear a scrape of long nails on flagstone, then a disgusting snuffling sound that would serve well on the soundtrack to The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  Who is sniffing around the imperial koi pond?

  In a moment I have parted the calla leaves with my face to view a sight to turn a Samoyed a whiter shade of pale. The dog from the Dumpster is back and he is playing kissy-face with my carp!

  I bound out on all four rollerblades. "Take a hike to Pike's Peak, scavenger, or you will be feeding goldfish, instead of vice versa! What makes you think you can intrude on Crystal Phoenix grounds?"

  He backs up, belly dragging over the rough stones.

  "Do not be so testy. I thought you were . . . gone."

  "Why would you think such an unlikely thing?"

  He whines a little and rubs his nose on the ground. I can see that Miss Caviar's lesson has made a humbler hound out of this hard case.

  "I heard that you were taking a dip in Lake Mead."

  "From whom?"

  He sits back and hefts a hind leg, thereby showing all sorts of unmentionables, to scratch thoughtfully at his freckled chin. "Chihuahua named Chi-Chi. Hotel guest. Says the resident black pantheress overheard his mistress chattering about some new joint on Lake Mead called Three O'Clock Louie's. She jumped him a few minutes later while he was doing his business in the dog-walk and forced him to give her the whole poop on this Lake Mead location, Temple Bar. She must have outweighed the poor little blighter by a full pound. Only his mistress coming along with the doo-doo bag and scooper saved his hide. Anyway, this feline Rambette took off, vowing that this Three O'Clock place had something to do with her rotter of a father and that a floater would soon be found In Lake Mead if she had anything to say about it."

  "Her . . . father? Why would she think that?"

  He pauses to bite a flea on his shoulder. I begin to wish I could don latex, like the cops, when interrogating lowlife witnesses.

  "Seems the joint on Lake Mead has a mascot--black dude just like you. Guess they are related. At least she seemed to think so."

  "That may be," I say, letting my shivs click to the stone all at once. "But I still patrol these grounds. In future, think twice before you figure that Miss Caviar's absence gives you trespassing room. Now beat it, before I decide to make mincemeat of you."

  He growls a little to show yellowed teeth, but I hold my ground. He backs away before turning tail and hieing back to the Dumpster where he belongs.

  I remain, triumphant but disquieted.

  This Three O'Clock Louie is nobody to me, but he is obviously about to pay for the sins of the father, merely because his name bears an almost actionable resemblance to mine. I admit that I am annoyed to learn of a dude of the same color treading so close to my own, unique moniker.

  Time was when black cats were considered unlucky in this tow
n and I alone dared to show my puss, and then some. Still, being a copycat is not a capital crime. I cannot knowingly let my own offspring commit murder of the wrong guy.

  My duty lies with Miss Temple on the day of her grand night out, but this happy association is not to be. If my choice lies between Temple Barr and Temple Bar, I am forced to pursue that headstrong alleged offspring of mine. Someone must preserve this poor, unsuspecting dude from a date with the feline equivalent of a jackhammer.

  Whoever this Three O'Clock Louie is--and the name has a splendid resonance, despite its more than somewhat imitative ring--I cannot let him take the fall for my fault, i.e., fathering Midnight Louise the Terrible.

  I know how this little black banshee learned of this establishment: via the usual methods--

  making herself invisible, keeping her ears perked and her mind percolating. I do not know how she will get herself to Lake Mead and the appropriately named landing of Temple Bar, but I have no doubt that she will accomplish this feat, and pronto. She has the genes for ingenuity.

  As the vulture flies and he often does in this desert. Temple Bar is eighty-five miles from Las Vegas proper, if ever a city of such character can be considered proper.

  Temple Bar is also in Arizona.

  It just so happens that the bottom half of Lake Mead runs through the southern border of Nevada and Arizona. Most folks know that Lake Mead is the artificial result of Hoover Damn, which plunked a long, narrow, forked body of bright blue water shaped like a double fishhook right in the middle of a knot of mountain ranges.

  What most folks do not know is that the Nevada/Arizona border runs right through it--

  through the east-to-west horizontal, hook-part of Lake Mead. This means that opposite banks, at times close enough to shout across, are in different states. The border runs from Hoover Damn in the west right; to Iceberg Canyon on the east.

  Why people would want to put something as essential as a state border right in the middle of a body of water where no one can see it boggles the feline mind. Those of our ilk know a thing or two about marking territory. Although we also employ running water to do it, we make sure that such benchmarks are on otherwise dry land, where they can be seen, and more important, smelled.

  Still, it is not for me to decipher the mysteries of human behavior in other than criminal matters. I only know that I have a long, challenging journey to Arizona ahead of me, for Temple Bar sits on the south side of Lake Mead.

  All is not lost, for I have certain contacts that I use when it is necessary to cover vast distances in a hurry and I am forced to rely on motorized transport.

  So I hike over to the Gray Line Tours building, a low, nondescript structure most notable for launching a fleet of long, looming vehicles with an exhaust system that could singe the hair off a porcelain Chow. In addition to their size and power, these buses have a sinister look due to tinted wrap-around windows. I am reminded of limousines carrying a whole convention of shady characters.

  Luckily, these buses chauffeur tourists around Las Vegas and beyond, and tourists are no more sinister than a chocolate Easter bunny.

  In fact, before I had landed a place of my own, I used to hang out here quite a bit. The exhaust fume fog greets me like an old friend, rushing to fill my ears, eyes, nose and throat.

  I amble among these idling behemoths, looking for the nine o'clock run to Lake Mead. This will ultimately get me to Temple Bar, hopefully before mayhem of the cat kind has been visited upon this Innocent Three O'Clock Louie Individual.

  "Well," notes a bus driver of my acquaintance, bending to look me over. "So you're back again. I gave you up for a grim statistic. How are you doing, Blackie?"

  (At times I have found it convenient to work under a nom de guerre, which is to say whatever someone chooses to call me. Usually such names sadly lack imagination, but have the advantage of applying to dozens of dudes.)

  "Like some lunch?" The fellow sits on the high first step to his bus and offers me a bite of summer sausage on rye.

  I wolf it down in the name of building rapport among contacts.

  My host is Red Kimball, a veteran driver whose pale thinning hair still boasts a scarlet thread or two among the gray.

  While I nibble on another piece of his sandwich, another set of Hush Puppies squeegees over.

  "Look who's back," notes another old pal, Gloria. She squats to stroke my head. "This old boy doesn't look much the worse for wear."

  "He's eating like he's been locked in a closet for a decade or two," Red says, more with admiration than pity.

  "You want to ride to the Valley of Fire with me today?" Miss Gloria inquires solicitously.

  I have trained these drivers to the notion that I relish the occasional joyride, and their clients always find my presence on board, eagerly staring out the windshield, "cute," so no one has yet reported me to the company as a stowaway. See what I mean about cultivating contacts for a rainy day?

  Not that it is about to rain today or any time soon.

  After disposing of the last crumbs on the parking lot asphalt, I scamper up the rubber treads of Red's bus. (What an obnoxious smell to encounter after lunch, but none of the odors broadcast by a bus are what a discriminating nose would call five-star.)

  "Guess the old boy wants to go to Lake Mead with me," Red concludes with admirable logic.

  He dons his visored cap and follows me up the rubber-mat road. Over the next half hour, we are joined by a straggle of tourists, all wearing short pants, short-sleeve tops, and sunglasses and cameras on cords around their necks.

  I take my usual alert pose alongside Red, forelegs braced on the dashboard, my profile pointed toward the unknown future.

  "Oh, look, Lucy! That cat looks just like the figurehead on a ship. Isn't that cute?"

  (My unerring instinct for "cute" when it will do me the most good is almost as strong as my nose for news and penchant for crime.)

  Soon our party is lurching out of the depot and onto the open road. Well, the road would be open if we did not have to navigate Las Vegas traffic until we turn onto Highway 95 and head for the wide, open shores of Lake Mead. Highway 95 whisks us through Henderson (the site of one of my more outre adventures involving a pack of coyotes) and then past such Lake Mead landmarks as Las Vegas Wash (I thought the only wash in L.V. was at the crap tables) and Boulder Beach (which will give an idea of the quality of the shoreline band hereabouts).

  The difficulty of relying on transportation other than one's own four feet is that the route may be circuitous, or even involve pesky pauses. Thus when Highway 95 hooks upward through Boulder City (it is not; a city, that is), our bus pauses on the brink of a fearful drop-off point. In this steep mountain defile that only goats can traverse with any illusion of dignity rises a sheer cliff of concrete, a towering monument to the ingenuity of man. Hoover Damn. (I believe it is so called in tribute to all the cussing the massive construction job caused. Why it is also named after a vacuum cleaner, I cannot say.)

  I am forced to remain aboard while the gaggle of tourists clatter and chatter off the bus to swarm around and into the impressive concrete-slab face of Hoover Damn. Myself, I do not give a Hoover for heights of this magnitude. Besides, the bus remains air-conditioned.

  Red doffs his cap to swipe his forehead with a Kleenex, then extends me the hospitality of the second half of his sandwich. I do not wish to appear rude, so we have a nice little picnic there on the brink of the drink, so to speak.

  After forty minutes and a chance to see a slide show about Hoover Damn on a giant screen (why they do not project the slides upon the multi-story pale facade of the damn itself I do not know), our merry crew is on its way. Through the Black Mountains to the White Hills we go, taking a sharp left to head north past Virgin Basin and then east again right to Temple Bar, which sits in the protected curve of Heron Point. Beyond us await a marina, ranger station, campground and trailer hookup facility, not to mention a restaurant, the so-called Three O'clock Louie's.

  Soon I
am stretching my legs alongside a wooden dock while tourist tennies trod over the planking to a restaurant that projects onto the lake's frilly blue waves.

  I am also watching dozens of carp school by the tourist walkway, making a solid gold, glittering carpet of scales punctuated by round, staring fish-eyes and round gaping mouths.

  It is too easy to snag carp when they are begging, and they are shameless beggars. No finesse. Just gimme, gimme, all day long. I watch them wistfully, but dare not linger. These carp have waxed fat on tourist bounty; if I pause to ingest one, I risk seriously slowing myself down.

  In the name of my rescue mission, I must travel on an empty stomach. (Although the summer sausage and rye are doing a rumba in my stomach, I only indulged in them to win Red's regard. Nothing gives a human such vicarious pleasure as overfeeding an animal.

  The moment I separate from the tourists, I make good time sniffing the surrounding terrain.

  The rocky shore of Lake Mead is seldom washed by rain, which means that scents ferment in the scalding heat for a good long time.

  Away from the gadding crowd, the shoreline is mostly deserted in more ways than one. I bear south on the sandy rocks, the morning sun massaging my left shoulder with welcome heat.

  I may need my muscles loose for the coming fray.

  The dainty Caviar, a.k.a. Midnight Louise, may be a hard case to trail. Since she has had the dread surgery to prevent offspring, she will leave no rich, siren smell in her wake. As; for this Three O'clock Louie who is so bold as to make light with my name, I am not familiar with the dude and must separate the scents of my species from others, such as fox, skunk and the aforementioned coyotes.

  But it appears that the skills of my merciless nose are not required. My ears perk to the sound of hissing and scraping.