Cat in an Ultramarine Scheme

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  Ick!

  They even ran a five-second close-up of a poor, starving stray kitty gnawing on some bones.

  Temple averted her face, but not before the cat’s color registered.

  Black. And big.

  The whiskers were an unusual pure white.

  As long and straight as kabob skewers. Uh-oh.

  Temple programmed her recorder and slipped into the kitchen to pour a glass of red wine. No, white. She might see something startling enough to cause a spill on her off-white couch. Forewarned was forearmed. Or four-armed.

  Why would her Midnight Louie be making the evening news munching on bones? He had a perfectly fine full bowl of Free-to-Be-Feline dry, vitamin-packed, politically correct cat food in his kitchen bowl at this very minute. “Full” was the key word.

  Oh.

  The nightly news had perfected the art of tease. Between every boring roundup they flashed footage of a black feline muzzle and sharp white fangs snapping at the jagged ends of what sure looked like bones. Temple gulped wine.

  During commercial breaks, she checked every cat hiding spot in the two-bedroom unit and shouted from the tiny balcony. No Louie anywhere. Had the trespassing cats on the news been taken into custody?

  She opened and checked every last kitchen cupboard and refilled her glass with red wine.

  The sacred sports and weather sections were coming up. If the cat story didn’t run soon, it would never run. Had she missed it during a commercial break?

  An insect brushed her arm. No! Louie’s white whiskers.

  He had just lofted over the sofa back to sit beside her. Must have come in the guest-bathroom window she always left ajar.

  “Louie! You had me going. Where have you been?”

  But his green eyes weren’t turned toward her. They were focused intently on the TV screen. His whiskers twitched as he settled into his haunches.

  “Now here’s a gristly tale,” the female half of the anchor team intoned with relish, “better fitting Halloween than spring break. Animal lovers attending the Temple Bar Days annual festival at the Arizona area of Lake Mead called animal control to round up a couple of feral cats scavenging for food dangerously near the lake’s sadly lowered edge and not far from the defunct Three O’Clock Louie’s former lakeside restaurant. The foraging felines eluded capture, but the animal-control people found they had been snacking on a gruesome discovery.”

  The camera pulled back to show crime-scene tape circling the littered lake bottom, then zoomed in on an odd formation.

  “Yes, witnesses said the object of the cats’ interest appeared to be a pair of snapped off human leg bones mired in rock. Arizona police authorities are mum about the find, but the area is only an hour’s drive from Las Vegas, and the remains have been sent to the city coroner’s facility. Could stray cats have unearthed the remains of some early Vegas crime figure who had been given the concrete booties treatment and dumped in Lake Mead decades ago? Crime historians must be scratching their heads and searching their archives. Meanwhile, the carnivorous kitties made their getaway and are still at large.”

  “Carnivorous!” Temple accused her seating partner, then imbibed more wine and reconsidered. “Of course all cats are carnivorous. They said ‘cannibal’ first! That’s all wrong. I am so mortified. I recognized your white whiskers instantly, of course. You are grounded, my lad. No more open window for you.”

  Louie yawned.

  “I’m going right now to slam it shut. See!”

  He rolled over onto his substantial side to flash his fangs as he nibbled at a clawed toe.

  Temple did as she had promised and returned triumphant.

  “Did you hear that? Shut. Two. Cannibal cats, plural. So who was your accomplice? The other cat?”

  Louie remained mum. And way too calm.

  Temple sighed. “Three O’Clock Louie. Of course. Why the heck and how did you get way out there? Arizona, for Pete’s sake. I suppose gnawing on human bones can’t be considered cannibal for a cat. Oh.”

  She punched the cell phone’s auto-dial to try Matt at his Chicago hotel number. “Our fiancé is going to be so disappointed in you, Louie. Old bones. Criminal bones. Gangster bones. What a news hook. Wonder who it is. Was.

  “Bet the Glory Hole guys might have a clue, but who would even remember them to ask? This is a Temple Barr exclusive. Where the heck is Three O’Clock now, huh? You didn’t just leave your compadre to the coyotes and animal control, did you? No, of course not. He’s probably wherever that gang of feral cats that hung around here for a while went. And are you sharing that info with your loyal bed partner? Noooo. Just you wait. You are confined to quarters, mister, but I am going to be out on the town and on this first thing in the morning like a . . . carnivorous cat.”

  And, Temple mumbled to herself, since when had there been an annual festival on Lake Mead with her name on it?

  For a PR person to miss her own publicity was really humiliating.

  Media Draw

  Welcome home to the conquering hero.

  I guess not!

  Here I have been through a fatiguing trek to Arizona, for Bast’s sake, not to mention my roommate’s namesake place and event on Lake Mead, and I am scolded and locked in like a juvenile delinquent.

  It would not sting so much had I not gotten a similar dose of dissing and moaning at my last stop before this.

  The locked window does not curl my whiskers.

  My Miss Temple flatters herself that I need her arms and two opposable thumbs to fly this coop whenever I please. The living-room row of French doors has horizontal pulls and latches that a kitten could open with its milk teeth.

  The lamented, but perhaps not late, Mr. Max Kinsella had often warned Miss Temple about the doors’ flimsy security, but she had relied too much on my crime-fighting presence to take him seriously.

  So I can blow this joint anytime I wish. It simply suits me to make like a couch potato and rest my burning pads for a while. Also, to run the watershed events of the past several hours through my weary brain.

  Of course it was up to me to mastermind and pull off the “cannibal cats” routine. Three O’Clock had neither the imagination nor inclination to bestir himself, once I’d gotten myself out to Lake Mead and eyeballed his “find,” his “case,” his dubious “murder victim.”

  Say it turned out to be Jimmy Hoffa. Now that would make multimedia news.

  I have no such expectations, but I know that if I can rouse human interest in this odd piece of found art I can get us air-conditioned transport back to civilization. Obviously, the old dude cannot hoof it, or even move fast enough to hitch it.

  My plan is risky, but the best ones always are. I mentally replay my favorite moments.

  First, I pick up my sandy toes and trot to the neighboring hash house that is still solvent. The closer I get, the more succulent is the sniff of rare hamburger and well-done anchovies on pizza. My kind of buffet table.

  Right now, though, I am only pretending an interest in the quick-fried cuisine. I am trawling for a sucker, preferably a kid or a middle-aged lady. Dudes are useless for my purpose.

  I glance back to mark the spot I want to aim at by the black lump of Three O’Clock’s form. The sun is getting hot, and I do not want him to cook more than the ground beef here.

  My nimble mitts quickly spar with my cheeks, giving my snappy white whiskers a tangled and bedraggled look, then I roll over in the sand several times before hitting the asphalt surrounding the café. Yowsa! Hot on the bare tootsies.

  I suppose I could say I then “hotfoot” into the restaurant “like a scalded cat.”

  No. I am too cagey for that. I duck under the nearest vehicle, where the tarmac is shady and cool. By darting from shade to shade, I am able to approach the exterior tables that afford a nice view of the sandy lonesome that used to be lakefront.

  Perfect.

  I scoot under the first family-of-five table I can spot. Even more perfect! There I peruse four sets of legs and a
child’s seat with kicking tiny tennies barely below chair-seat level.

  The sweet sound of kiddie fussing whines above my head. Below I see two sets of large ugly tennies and two sets that barely reach the floor, one accessorized with Hello Kitty pink anklets.

  I manage not to toss my cookies at the sight of this supercute kitty face swinging in duplicate so close to mine.

  I brush my furry puss on the slender bare leg between anklet and shorts.

  A small face ducks under the table level, as if searching for something dropped. The mouth makes a silent elongated O.

  It disappears, and a French fry plops down beside me. The grease smell almost knocks me over, and the big dollop of attached tomato ketchup could make an Italian greyhound nauseous. I pull back my whiskers and harf and garf the fry down, even though it is death to my cholesterol count.

  Another follows. This one I grab and retreat out of reach to eat in patented Hungry Stray Kitty behavior, which says: You feed and I will eat but Touch Not the Cat.

  By then the smallest foot set is beating its heels on the chair legs and screaming up a storm. I must say not even a Siamese cat can compete with a human toddler for range and screech effect when howling.

  I look up from burping after downing the second fry to see my Hello Kitty friend crouching on the wooden boards, a grease-stained napkin tucked like a hobo’s kerchief into her ketchup-stained little hand. I even sniff hamburger.

  Good girl!

  No one is watching as I lure her tidbit-by-tidbit down the few steps and onto the parking lot. Now I am simply picking up the latest offering, another fry, and moving away, hunching over it, watching her approach. Just as she gets within reach, I pick up my fry and retreat.

  Nothing is as determined as a nine-year-old animal-loving kid attempting to feed a poor, starving stray kitty.

  I have her out on the Lake Mead sandlot and halfway to Three O’Clock’s position before the howling heel-kicker can take a breath for another two-minute aria.

  Of course every eye in the place has been surreptitiously glued to the screaming Mimi, and the mortified parents are totally concentrated on trying to stifle the sound without doing anything that would bring in the child-protection agencies.

  Meanwhile, they fail to notice that Daughter Dearest is decamping on the trail of a no-doubt filthy, diseased, or even rabid stray cat.

  I hate to play on my kind’s totally bad rap or the touching humanity of children, but private dicks are always being forced to cross moral lines, if you go by the books and movies.

  By the time I hear the hue and cry raised back at the restaurant veranda, Hello Kitty has forgotten feeding me and is busy watching Three O’Clock wash his whiskers beside the bizarre leg-bone setup.

  Shortly after a half dozen hysterical people have assembled, my friend Hello Kitty is snatched up, up, and away, and cell phones are put into instant service.

  My major hope is that the angered villagers do not get lethal and decide against leaving stray cats and concrete-imbedded leg bones of unknown origin to the authorities.

  Thanks to the urgent lobbying of our friend Hello Kitty Anklets, the hysterical adults are persuaded to withdraw and leave bad enough alone.

  Luckily, what is left these days of the electronic media arrives first to get the money shot: Three O’Clock and I licking our outstanding whiskers over the macabre mortal remains.

  (I had a devil of a time convincing Three O’Clock to smack his whiskers. He said that was rude and the act of a “whippersnapper.”

  I said, “No, it was the act of a whiskersnapper.”)

  My next challenge was arranging for us to snatch a ride with a TV-station van back to Vegas, undetected, and before the well-meaning animal-rescue folks took us for mere stray cats and tried to “save” us.

  Sigh.

  Now my Miss Temple has again tried to “save” me from myself by locking me in. She thinks.

  I tell you, being a superhero of your species is very frustrating work. Pleased to have finally safely stowed away Three O’Clock—for his sake and that of Greater Las Vegas—I now have a chance to rest my weary feet and mind, eat something that is not greasy, but desert-dry, like Free-to-Be-Feline, and catch a few Zs. As in Zorro! En garde, world!

  The Guggenheim of Gangsters

  Las Vegas had its “whales”—big spenders who dropped millions on the gaming tables and were treated like sultans for it.

  It also had its architectural “whales”—hotel-casinos lined up along the Strip, each one grander and more expensive than the next and inevitably sliding into “old-hat, second tier” as heaver behemoths sprang up along the eternally elastic Strip.

  Yet Vegas had always sported the more budget-minded hotel-casinos among the major glamour-pusses, and smaller outfits had also thrived just off-Strip.

  Temple was surprised the next day when Nicky collected Van from her literal ivory tower and herded her and Temple and the entire Glory Hole Gang into one of the Crystal Phoenix complimentary airport vans.

  First of all, Van didn’t normally “herd.” Secondly, Temple had never ridden in the hotel’s vans and appreciated the navy blue Ultrasuede upholstery and soft piped-in music. The regular airport round-trip was short, but Vegas traffic could be balky.

  Even here Van’s white-glove service showed.

  As did her impatience as she tapped one Italian designer pump on the immaculate navy blue carpeting.

  Temple, meanwhile, was as excited as a kid heading toward Disneyland. You could live in Vegas and never visit the Hard Rock Hotel, for instance, or even Circus Circus on the Strip. She’d only thought of Gangsters as a limo service with a cool office-cum-parking lot with hot-and-cold-running Fontana brothers running it in turn.

  Perhaps the Fontana boys and their cool Italian tailoring had distracted her from looking up any farther than six feet something.

  For there’d always been “some building” towering behind the enterprise, and she knew Gangsters was a hotel-casino with some intriguing attractions, but Temple had only visited it a couple of times when funnyman Darren Cooke had appeared there with tragic results in her case called “Flamingo Fedora.” So she’d never really checked it out.

  Now she was craning her neck so hard as they approached the car services’ headquarters that the seat belt threatened to decapitate her. Short women often felt more threatened than safe-guarded by vehicle seat belts. Temple was beginning to think the auto industry had it in for anyone under five feet four.

  Gangsters was another relatively “short stack” hotel, like seven-story Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall, once known as the Barbary Coast, nestled on a Strip corner dominated by towering properties. Bally’s and the Flamingo were on its east side, and Caesars Palace and the Bellagio across the Strip.

  Gangsters Hotel-Casino had capitalized on a reputation as a well-kept secret. It was only a block off the Strip and eight stories taller than just plain Bill’s.

  As Nicky and the whole Glory Hole Gang hustled to help her and Van down from the high-step-up vehicle, Temple glimpsed an edge of unlit neon sign atop the building that looked as high-profile as the Hard Rock Hotel’s iconic guitar and thrusting, neon-fretted neck.

  But first Temple needed to get her feet on the ground, and when she looked up to human height again she was greeted by a reception committee of eight Fontana brothers arrayed on either side of a suggestively red carpet, wearing not their usual sherbet-tinted summer suits, but pink pin-striped navy suits with black silk shirts accessorized with Miami Vice neon-colored ties, ranging from peach to turquoise to hot pink to cobalt, melon, and purple.

  Van bowed her flaxen-haired head, perhaps the only female on Planet Vegas immune to the conjoined attractions of the brothers Fontana. That was probably from having been married to the youngest, Nicky, and the absence of the eldest, Aldo.

  The middle of the pack seemed more like clones, but Temple had always found that the Fontana brothers’ biggest charm, their unanimity. Somehow it made their high spirits and
good looks less overwhelming.

  As they extended their welcoming, finger-spread “jazz hands” of Broadway dance ensembles to the visitors, the Glory Hole Gangsters do-si-doed down the red carpet in their battered cowboy boots, well-worn jeans, and plastic mother-of-pearl-buttoned plaid shirts.

  It was desert western versus Vegas dude.

  “Love the suits,” Eightball O’Rourke said. “I can’t give up my jeans, but I’ll do the shirt and jacket with my bolo tie.”

  Nicky had escorted Van and Temple by the simple gesture of extending both arms, so the women inspected the honor guard from vastly different points of view. Van was theme-hotel executive, dubious to her pale pink–painted toenails.

  Temple was curious down to her “Tara O’Hara Scarlett”–painted toenails just what Gangsters would reveal beyond this production-number greeting. Obviously, some remarketing renovations had already been done.

  What the interior revealed was Macho Mario Fontana, the boys’ uncle, who had dyed-in-the-DNA-authenticated mob roots, as a tour guide.

  On his pasta-enhanced rotund form, white pinstripes looked like parentheses with a stutter, but they matched the silver streaks in his Men’s Spare Club toupee.

  Temple couldn’t help thinking had his suit stripes been horizontal . . . they’d have resembled vintage prison stripes. Perfect uniforms for the parking valets. No. Bellmen. The valets would be both male and female here, Bonnie and Clyde types.

  She knew this was Nicky and Van’s job, dreaming up revamped hotel themes, but she had so many good ideas. This was her best job assignment in aeons.

  Their party turned a lot of heads. Nine of the ten Fontana brothers and their Uncle Mario would anytime, even without eight of them attired in Broadway-musical gangster suits. The Glory Hole Gangsters were older and shorter and less natty, but no less interesting. Van and Temple could toddle along ignored, which suited them, because it allowed for a sotto voce tête-à-tête, to combine both Italian and French phrases.