No passion was more terrible than that of an artist who has given all and been betrayed. Temple had seen normally rational theater people ready to kill a klutzy critic for an undeserved insensitive review—could writers be any less intolerant of meddling with their words?
Temple shivered in her hot, limp sheets, under the lazy breeze of the ceiling fan’s Plexiglas blades. It clicked ever so slightly as it turned, sounding like the snap of distantly chewed gum.
The night was warm—Temple tried to keep utility bills down by running the air conditioner on “tepid” after the sun went down—and somehow sexy. God, but she missed Max sometimes! He’d left enough of his things behind to haunt Temple: a foot-wide swath of his clothes now huddled in the dark against the closet’s most inaccessible wall. In the linen closet, a box of magician’s implements—handcuffs, trick boxes and lurid chiffon scarves—gathered dust and would convince any stranger who stumbled across it that Temple favored kinky sexual practices. Speaking of which, Temple hadn’t yet had the heart to sweep the Vangelis CD’s off the bedroom shelves—Max had liked to make long, lingering love to those slow, swelling organlike chords....
Molina’s questions had evoked a new, terrifying scenario today. Max was gone because he was dead? No. Not Max. He was definitely not a victim—of anything, including too nice a conscience. Whatever Molina thought, Temple’s ego was not so in need of soothing that it would console her to know that Max had left—had left her—because he literally couldn’t come back.
That led Temple into her favorite bedtime fantasy. Max coming back. What Max would say, how he could possibly explain—and if anyone could, Max could. What Temple would say. What Max would do. What Temple would do. Oh, holy... Shalimar!
Lord. She’d forgotten the cat box, such as it was, in the bathroom. Had to get rid of that. In the morning. Which should soon be here. Great, another night down the tubes.
And then—what? A sound. A... soft, rasping sound. At her window. Noticing too much might get dangerous. The latches in this place were a joke. Nobody’d been worried about personal security in the fifties; besides, Superman—the comfortable old George Reeves rerun one—could always fly to the black-and-white TV rescue.
She listened. Silence. And then that determined brush, a motion repeated again and again. Deliberately. Against the shell of Temple’s apartment. Brush, brush, brush. No trees or branches lay against the windows or walls. Las Vegas had zip for trees or bushes unless they were expensively watered, and Electra could only afford to nurse the greenery around the pool.
Temple’s bare feet touched the bedroom floor. The wood parquet did nothing to cool their burning soles. She moved softly through the familiar demidark, wishing for a weapon, wishing for Max, who’d always been a two-edged sword.
In the living room, the handsome rank of French doors leading to the patio looked like nothing but glass and frame and flimsy struts. Had she even locked the doors for the night? Sometimes she felt so safe, she forgot.
Brush, brush, brush.
Stop.
Nothing.
She had moved. She had been heard.
Her breathing resumed. She could hear her lungs expanding. Brush, brush, brush. Too regular to be inanimate.
Maybe it was Max. Coming back. Be just like him, a surreptitious entry in the night. Surprise.
Brush, brush, brush.
Temple plucked an Art Deco-style ceramic peacock from an end table. The tail would make quite a bludgeon. She hushed toward the doors, feeling naked in her thin T-shirt, feeling cold in the warm, still room.
Brush, brush, brush.
The patio was terra incognita, a distorted landscape of folding chair and prickly pear. The sound was just outside the third door.
Temple edged nearer. She had to see.
A bit of shadow broke off from the night. She had to know. An insane—inane?—need to know.
The shadow stretched up, up, up, lengthened itself against the fragile, breakable glass. It reached the knob, a lever-type French latch. The latch vibrated to a blow. Temple lifted her plaster peacock.
The shadow yawned. Moonlight reflected from a diamond shape of tiny white shark’s teeth.
“Louie!”
Temple unlatched her patio door. The shadow fell lazily inward and commenced to scrub its furred sides on her calves.
10
A Little Night Music
You hear it here first.
I am free to come and go. And if anything is free, I take full advantage of it. I am not born and bred in Las Vegas for nothing.
As fond as I am of Mr. Nicky Fontana and his lithesome wife, Miss Van von Rhine, they are prone to understatement under stress. I have been free to come and go since I was a pup, figuratively speaking, and my dear mama batted my face and nudged me in the direction of the refuse containers behind The Sands.
Lest you think my dear mama was lacking in maternal sentiment, you should know that I was one of seven and we all got the heave-ho early in life. That is because our dear mama was something of a femme fatale and had no access to population control devices in those days when I was born.
So I have been slipping in and out of where I should and should definitely not be since I was knee-high to a police dog—and the police dog none the wiser.
Miss Temple Barr's delicate French-style latch is kit’s play to me, especially with the door unlocked and a terracotta pot to stand on. Speaking of which—kids, that is, in the human form, not the goat edition—that is why I show up here again.
In the long, jostling ride back to the Crystal Phoenix in Mr. Nicky Fontana’s custom-painted Corvette convertible, I am held in close communion with my two friends. It dawns on me that despite the scent of desert rose upon the Las Vegas breeze, Miss Van von Rhine’s ever-present aura of Opium and Mr. Nicky Fontana’s devotion to Russian Leather, a distinct odor of Essence de Diaper Pail yet pervades this formerly loving (to me) couple.
Anyone who might think that some soft spot in my ticker has led me back to Miss Temple Barr in her hour of need should keep in mind that Midnight Louie is a fall guy for neither man nor woman, and nothing human. ¿Comprende?
I simply see that my previous carte blanche run at the Crystal Phoenix must yet be shared with that abominable yowling, crawling intruder, and this is not to be tolerated. I require persons about me with the same level of intelligence, not to mention manual dexterity.
There can be no attempt to dissuade me with any argument that the Abomination “will grow up.” It is well documented with such creatures that this "growing up” takes an insufferable amount of time—not to mention money. I may have nine lives, but I am advanced enough along my longevity graph to avoid wasting any of them in fruitless endeavors.
I must admit that my reception at the Circle Ritz is all that I hoped for.
“Ah, Louie,” Miss Temple Barr murmurs in dulcet, rapt tones, much as Leslie Caron must have chirped off camera to my (some say) handsome human soul mate, Louis (pronounced “Louie”) Jourdan, in the movie Gigi in their fifties heydays.
Miss Temple Barr clasps me to her bosom. She fondles my head and cradles my weary body—it is a long trot from the Crystal Phoenix to the Circle Ritz.
She wafts me to the kitchen and casts slightly stale refrigerated tuna before my nostrils. She reconsiders and opens a fresh can of room-temperature sockeye salmon. This chick has possibilities.
She strokes me from dome to Gehenna and back again. I am one purrin' kitten. Also, lately I have been pondering the advantages of acquiring a retirement condo far from the Strip’s hurly-burly (mostly burly, when one considers the local “muscle").
Anyone can see it is clearly to my advantage to take an interest in the doings of Miss Temple Barr. I do not wish to gain an undeserved reputation for becoming a sentimental slob in my old age, but I am, as the top dogs at the Crystal Phoenix say not eight hours earlier, free to come and go.
And I foresee that matters of a mysterious nature will come and go around Miss Temple Barr for
some time. She is, if I may be allowed to say so, as curious as a cat, but shockingly näive and in desperate need of seasoned guidance. Like mine.
And she smells good.
11
Catastrophe . . .
Temple awoke to find the black cat sleeping on her feet. This gesture of affection was wasted in the hot afterglow of a long, tossing Las Vegas summer night.
Midnight Louie, however welcome back, was hot, hairy and heavy, about eighteen pounds. Come to think of it, Temple had only to add a zero to Louie’s avoirdupois and she’d have a pretty good description of the nocturnal presence of the Mystifying Max.
“Bastard!” Temple growled at the morning and Louie, following this undeleted expletive with an unexplained shiver.
“Guess what I’m going to do at work today,” she told the cat, extracting her feet from its warm underbelly. “I’m going to find out more about Pennyroyal Press and the late Chester Royal—just for the heck of it.”
The cat apparently approved of her resolve. He ate his seven-ounce can of spring-water-packed albacore tuna, from a fishery that abided by the new Geneva conventions for the preservation of dolphins. Then he freshened his whiskers and was waiting, sleek and expectant, by the door when Temple charged out of her bedroom dressed and ready for battle.
“Why not?” she asked nobody rather pugnaciously. “The convention center has thousands more square feet than the Crystal Phoenix, even if none of it’s that upscale. You can rule the roost—and the rats to boot. Come on.”
She was not surprised when the cat trotted out after her like a dog. Midnight Louie was obviously a feline of great enterprise and intelligence. First she stopped at Electra’s penthouse apartment one floor up to collect the surprise package that had been a-borning all night.
Electra, an insomniac who welcomed nocturnal projects, was baggy-eyed but not too worn to fail to admire Midnight Louie rubbing demandingly at her ankles. Apparently she had no objections to his presence. Readily abandoning his new fan, the cat followed Temple to the car.
After Temple had stuffed Electra’s huge paper sack in the Geo’s rear area, Louie hopped into the front passenger seat and braced his huge front paws on the dashboard like a pro. The Storm whipped through Vegas’s sparse morning traffic. Folks who’d been up until two and three in the morning weren’t out puttering around at 7:30 a.m.
When Temple and Louie slipped into the nondescript rear employee entrance to the mammoth convention center, Lloyd pushed his cap back on his balding cranium and narrowed his eyes to miniblind slits.
“Look, Lloyd. Midnight Louie’s a VIP around here now. Famous detective cat. You read it in the paper. He can come and go as he likes.”
“That official?”
“It will be as soon as I talk to Bud.”
“Humph.”
“Humph is right! If the Crystal Phoenix can have a house cat, we can have one, too. He might become a valuable convention center mascot, like Baker and Taylor. Any news of the missing duo?”
Lloyd shook his head as he inspected the contents of the huge paper bag Temple carried. His eyebrows lifted almost to the brim of his ebbing cap.
“I swear that there are no hidden explosives, Lloyd. Terrorists wouldn’t pick Vegas to make a statement and there aren’t any incendiary books out this year, except maybe the new Pee Wee Scouts kiddie title. The one a couple seasons back that told kids there was no Santa Claus raised more of a ruckus than Salman Rushdie.”
When Lloyd finally nodded her in, Temple, bag and cat obliged him.
The office was still empty, but Temple made a quick call to Cyrus Bent, the security head, and told him her needs. Within twenty minutes she was meeting him at the Baker & Taylor booths. Within five they had managed a semiofficial break-in to the cat castle. Within eight they were out of there with an empty paper bag, mission accomplished.
“I hope those people appreciate your efforts,” was Cyrus Bent’s parting sentiment. Most men in private security were like stateside leftovers celebrated in song during World War II: either too young or too old. Bent was on the old side of that statistic, which meant that he knew that good security included being secure enough to bend a rule.
“Hope so,” said Temple, saluting him as she raced down the long exhibition floor toward the offices.
Once there she showed Louie his food bowls in the storage room—a source of much interest—and a new permanent site for the previously floating workplace litter box—a source of great disdain. She left the storeroom door open as a sign of Louie’s new status.
When Valerie came in, Temple’s word processor was chuckling with rapid-fire releases. Her messages would have to wait a little longer. By the time Bud Dubbs arrived at 9 a.m., Louie had selected Crawford Buchanan’s desk as the most congenial resting spot. Buchanan scowled in at 10:30; by then Louie’s presence was fait accompli and Buchanan was in serious danger of being supplanted as the office layabout.
“Get that monster off my desk!”
“Why?” Temple asked. “Every time he switches his tail he clears off two months of outdated clutter.”
“I hate cats!”
“You would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It takes a certain discrimination to appreciate a cat like Midnight Louie. Gosh, that’s a great name—I’d wish I’d known it before the Review-Journal article ran.”
“A disgusting name, surpassed only by its possessor,” Buchanan snarled. He was in a vile mood.
Just then Emily Adcock from Baker & Taylor came charging in with an exultant look.
“You found the cats!” Valerie guessed.
“Not quite. It’s either the most astounding thing... or—” Emily Adcock focused on Temple, who had not said a word or moved a muscle—“you did it! What a wonderful idea!”
“I didn’t do it personally,” Temple said.
“It certainly takes us off the hook and makes the setup look intentional.”
“What is this wonder?” Bud Dubbs asked on his way from the coffee maker.
“You’ll all have to stop down and see it,” Emily went on. “When I came in this morning, there in the pathetic, abandoned cat display were the dearest stuffed versions of Baker and Taylor you ever saw!”
“My landlady does soft sculptures,” Temple explained. “She stayed up all night to do them.”
“But it was your idea,” Emily Adcock repeated.
“I figured that a faux Baker and Taylor were better than no Baker and Taylor.”
“A brilliant idea.” Emily smiled broadly. “I feel so much better with something on display. Now all we can do is hope the real B and T show up.”
She left looking vastly relieved.
In her wake, Buchanan fidgeted under all the good vibes flowing in Temple’s direction. He scowled at Midnight Louie, who was now grooming himself on the floor. “Could have killed two birds with one stone if you’d put this black brute into the crystal cage instead.”
They regarded him as if he had proposed barbecuing Baker and Taylor. Temple answered. “Louie doesn’t look anything at all like a Scottish fold cat. His ears are all wrong.”
“Fix ’em,” Buchanan said. “I’ve got a nail clipper with me.”
“Boo, hiss,” Valerie put in.
“I wouldn’t mess with that old boy,” Bud advised. “He looks big enough and mean enough to clip your ears before you’d lay a fingernail on him.”
Louie yawned and shut his eyes.
Temple saw a verbal opening and darted in. “Say, Bud, that story was so cute. Why not keep Louie on as a mascot through the ABA? It might focus attention off the absent cats. Okay if he hangs around?”
“As long as he doesn’t make any messes.”
Buchanan headed for the men’s room. “Great. This place’ll smell like a tuna factory in two days.”
“It does already,” Valerie said. “You guys always order tuna salad from the Pita Palace. It’s pretty ripe by the time it gets here.”
&
nbsp; Temple finally began flipping through messages from late Saturday. One was actually in an envelope. She tore it open. The last time she’d seen her letter opener was when she’d used it to cut a loaf of zucchini bread Bud’s wife had sent in. Besides, her nails were long, strong and lacquered Aruba Red. They could open nonscrew-top beer bottles and type at 105 words a minute.
The envelope was standard business issue, midget-size. An ink smudge decorated the comer where a stamp would be had it been mailed. Temple felt uneasy as she withdrew the note-size sheet of paper.
Typed letters uneven in pressure and alignment skipped across the page.
IF YOU WANT THEM CATS BACK, PUT $5,000 IN A BROWN BAG AND LEAVE IT AT 10 A.M. MONDAY BY THE THIRD GODDESS ON THE LEFT IN FRONT OF CAESARS PALACE. OTHERWISE, THEY IS STEW MEAT.
12
. . . And Apostrophe
“Would you like a drink, Temple?”
“Yes. A stiff one. I’ve got to come to grips with an extremely delicate matter after lunch.” Temple winced, recalling the urgent message she’d left for Emily Adcock to meet her at 2 p.m. Passing on the “stew meat” threat would be no fun.
Lorna Fennick grimaced sympathetically. “Me, too.”
“Now it’s catnapping.”
“Cat, not kid?”
Temple nodded as the waiter placed before her a cool white gin and tonic featuring Bombay Gin’s lethal Sapphire brand. Anything purportedly good enough for Queen Victoria’s menstrual cramps should do the job. “This is for our ears only, but Baker and Taylor lost their mascots to an ambitious animal-grabber.”
"I wondered why they made such a big deal in their ads about ‘meeting’ Baker and Taylor at the convention, then put a couple of stuffed shills in an elaborate display case. Of course, Baker & Taylor always invites booksellers to ‘meet’ their mascots at the convention, and it’s always in purely photographic form. Importing them in person was a great publicity stunt.”
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