Cat in an Alphabet Soup

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  She’d just about had it with being left totally in the dark.

  20

  Midnight Louie, Dead Matter

  It is hot as hell in this joint, but then I have not seen the Afterlife yet, thank Bast.

  (Bast is reputed to be the head deity of cats since Ramses hot-rodded up and down the Nile in a two-tone chariot. Talk about your low-riders.)

  I do not ordinarily put my faith in supernatural agencies, especially since those ancient Egyptians used to mummify my forebears—no way to treat a gent of any species. Longevity in a form resembling dried parsley flakes does not appeal to my sense of dignity, not to mention my joie de vivre.

  However, my sense of dignity has been sorely tried for the past thirty-some hours. Although I am in solitary, there is not enough room in this cell for a fellow to dip his lips in a water bowl without having his posterior doing a bump and grind over the sanitation facility. Sleep—although who could under a death sentence?—is possible only if I knot my limbs into the kind of position I have not assumed since I was a kitten and did not know better, or was a young tom and did—but did it anyway.

  My rear extremity, once my pride and joy, is developing a decided kink, not to mention a basket weave pattern from being pressed against these metal-grid walls. Oh, if I had the wings of a bird—I would eat them.

  Certainly it would be tastier than the gray-brown swill that is dolloped into my bowl twice daily. There is not enough of this stuff to keep a mid-size hamster going, but I will not touch it anyway. This may be why I am falsely accused of growling by passing attendants who hear the involuntary complaints of my stomach.

  I use every opportunity to figure an angle out of here. At least yesterday some would-be animal adopters were trotted through. These folks are mostly in search of kittens, however. We of an enviable maturity attract the occasional window-shopper, but it seems I am considered a hard case and a bad risk for adoption.

  For one thing, they carp about my age, which is none of their business. Secondly, they lament the fact that I have not had a certain distasteful procedure performed upon my person. When I hear of this, I shudder, which encourages the onlookers to conclude that I am suffering from some loathsome disease. In fact, the attention I attract is when an attendant points to me and says “This one sure is big. Ever seen one that big?”

  “No, indeed, we have not,” say the happy browsers. “Sure must eat a lot.”

  Not for long.

  Baker and Taylor get their share of curiosity seekers. Although they have the desired (by some) surgical history, they also suffer from maturity, with funny ears to boot. So I get to keep an eye on them day and night. This is not a pleasant task.

  For one thing, they communicate in the most awful mishmash I have ever heard. It makes the caterwaulings of Nostradamus, my Brooklyn-born bookie, sound euphonious. (This euphonious means musical and has something to do with the symphony, I believe.)

  ‘‘Weel, Baker,” I hear Taylor gabble in his Aberdeen burr, “we dinna hae much time left. This wee burrow is less commodious than the fine castle prepared fair us at the ABA.”

  “Och,” flutes Baker, “ 'tis true. At least we canna complain that we air not thegither to the last. A shame that our namesake company maun be so wasteful of its funds for naught.”

  And so on. The dialogue puts me in mind of a road company Brigadoon, not my idea of entertainment for my last wee hours on earth. However, I put my paltry time to good use and manage to extract some verra interestin’ news from the twit-eared twa from the Highlands, no thinks to them. I begin to plan a breakout for us all.

  Then, as the sun pumps out its hottest wattage preparatory to taking its last bow and disappearing behind the mountains, an intruder enters our torpid quarters. It is the attendant I call Jug-ears, accompanied by a well-padded doll of no particular pulchritude but with a kind face. I would have at one time (yesterday) described her as enjoying her middle years, but have become sensitive about such labels.

  "I cannot believe it,” this indeterminate-age doll trills to Jug-ears. “I have been wanting a pair of cats for my shop—more businesses should have on-site cats; it amuses customers, controls varmints and saves the cats from a life of crime upon the streets. But to think that you have the very kind I want—”

  “Right ’cher." Jug-ears stops before Baker and Taylor. "They are growed, though.”

  "Oh, I could not handle kittens in my place. These darling fellows are perfect! I cannot believe someone just dropped off a pair of purebred Scottish folds."

  “Too old for most folks,” says Jug-ears, who by my reckoning is fifty if he is a day. “We get lots of adult purebreds. Not cute anymore. Say, we are about to close. Can you hurry it up?”

  “How long did you say they have been here?”

  Jug-ears grins viciously, but she does not seem to notice. “Almost sixty hours. They was ready for the needle.”

  "Do you know who brought them?”

  Shrug. Jug-ears is not eloquent. "Name is in the book up front. You want me to unlock the cage or what?”

  “Of course I will take them. It is incredible; they look just like the Baker and Taylor on the posters. Of course, they are purebreds, so you would expect them to all look alike. The real Baker and Taylor could not be here, of all places.”

  “Ma’am, we gotta close. Got work to do back here.”

  Here, I swear, the man turns to gloat in my direction, even though my sixty hours have a good thirty to run. I can count. For the first time I notice that he has a squint and a hunchback. And a mouse-dropping-size wart on his chin. With a long black hair growing out of it.

  “Can you carry one?” the woman asks. She has a warm, kindly face, as I say before, and cradles Baker upon her warm, kindly bosom.

  Jug-ears takes Taylor and shuffles to the door.

  “I am absolutely delighted,” the woman croons, patting Baker’s runty ears as she leaves. "I run the mystery bookstore in town. You will never know how appropriate to the shop these two are. I am so glad that I took time off from the ABA to come in. That stuffed Baker and Taylor exhibit convinced me I could not live without more cats.”

  Off they go, my motive for being in this predicament. I find myself in the same state of disbelief as Miss Maeveleen Pearl, for it is obviously she, the capo of the Thrill 'n' Quill Bookstore, who has rescued B and T from their imminent demise on the business end of a hypodermic.

  Some might think that B and T's salvation is worth my forthcoming personal sacrifice. I do not. My bacon now rides solely on the ability of Miss Temple Barr to think of looking for me in this den of death and dogs. Only the thought of another's misfortune is enough to cheer me up for a fleeting instant.

  That snooty Ingram will not be pleased to share a shop with Baker and Taylor.

  21

  Alone at Last

  ABA attendees were streaming from the convention center’s front entry as if five-thirty p.m. were a Cinderella deadline when Temple cruised the Storm past the Rotunda’s flying-saucer-shaped dome. She always expected the robotic Gort from The Day the Earth Stood Still to issue from the entrance, but only ordinary earthlings ever did. She had to credit the ABA-goers for being a well-ordered, obedient crowd—with the single, startling exception of murder.

  Even the rear employee parking lot was a checkerboard of empty spaces. The Storm’s air-conditioning fan whooshed full blast as Temple pulled into a slot, blowing the short red curls off her damp forehead.

  Bud Dubbs bustled out the back door into the 100-plus, his seersucker sport coat hooked over a finger.

  “ Where’ve you been, Temple? That Lieutenant Molina called for you several times.”

  “I’ve been trailing the elusive Baker and Taylor. Any message from an Eightball O’Rourke? What about Midnight Louie, anybody see him?”

  Bud did a dime stop and a double take. “Not that I know of. Eightball O’Rourke? You playing the horses these days? Valerie might have taken a message from O’Rourke. Forget that stray cat. Check yo
ur desk. God, it’s hot. See you tomorrow.”

  Bud dived into the front seat of his Celica and punched on his air conditioner.

  An uncommon quiet inhabited the center’s back halls. Most of the exhibitors must have cut out on the stroke of five-thirty, too. Temple quickened her pace. The security people wanted as few staff as possible around after closing. If she didn’t decamp by six, there’d be only one exit door that wasn’t on the alarm system, and that would be guarded.

  Bud had been right; Temple’s desk was pocked with yellow memo forms. “While you were out—” they told her, she had missed calls from everyone but Midnight Louie, it seemed... P. E. O’Rourke, Lieutenant Molina, Emily Adcock, Lorna Fennick.

  She tried O’Rourke first, and got only a ringing phone. After she hung up, Temple stared at her cluttered desk. From under the fresh messages Pennyroyal Press’s metallic-copper folder winked like an evil eye.

  Bud’s advice to the contrary, she couldn’t forget about stray cats. Louie’s continuing absence had become something she simply couldn’t let go of.

  She hefted the phone book from her lowest desk drawer, grunting, and looked up the City entries. “Animal Pound” led the listings. As she dialed, she eyed her watch with a surge of panic. It was nearly six. Maybe the pound was closed.

  The phone rang time after time. Maybe someone was feeding the animals and would take a while to respond. Temple hung on, not really expecting to find Louie there, not really expecting an answer.

  “Yeah?”

  “Ah, I’m looking for a cat.”

  “We’re closed, lady. I’m just cleaning up.”

  Cleaning up? From what? The daily executions? “It’s important! This cat I’m looking for is... famous.”

  “Yeah?” The voice sounded supremely indifferent. “Look, there’s procedures. Call back tomorrow morning.”

  “It might be too late. He’s been missing for over twenty- four hours.”

  “We hold ’em three days. Lady, I gotta go.”

  “Wait! Maybe you noticed him. He’s a big black cat—I mean, really big, like almost twenty pounds.”

  “Yeah, could be.”

  “You have him!”

  “Maybe. It’s not my job—”

  “When can I get him?”

  “Tomorrow, I told you.”

  “But what if—”

  “We got a lot of cats here; you lost him. You take your chances.”

  Temple got suddenly desperate. “Listen, he’s a material witness. If I get the police—”

  “We’re not a police agency. We got our own rules. I gotta go.”

  “You’re not... killing any animals tonight?”

  “Lady, we kill ’em when their time’s up, when we get the time to do it. I don’t know anything. You’re wasting my time. Look, I’ll be here until seven. I’ll let you take a look-see if you get here before I leave. But that’s it.”

  The line buzzed dead.

  Temple’s mouth was grim. News stories about “pets” being killed by mistake at the pound floated in her mind’s eye. She had to know that Louie was safe, but she had too damn many vital things to take care of here to go gallivanting across town in rush hour. She riffled through the memos to find Molina’s number. She might be able to tell the homicide detective a thing or two about the Royal murder, but first she wanted a squad car to go to the so-called animal shelter and make sure that Midnight Louie wasn’t there and wasn’t being executed... and if Molina wouldn’t do it, Temple would go herself, murder case be damned—! Temple found Molina’s number, right on top of another message—typed—that was much more urgent.

  “GOT THE DOUGH, IF YOU WANT THOSE CATS, COME TO THE BAKER & TAYLOR SETUP AT 6:30 P.M. TONIGHT. YOU BETTER BE ALONE.”

  When had this arrived? Temple wondered. Had someone slipped it among her messages after everyone had left? How did the first one arrive, for that matter? Someone here, at the ABA, had left it, that was obvious.

  Temple’s heart was pounding. She had to leave, to make sure that Louie was not at the shelter, or that he was safe there. Yet her first obligation was to her job, to keep the ABA free of unnecessary bad press. Rescuing Baker and Taylor had become part of that agenda. Why was the kidnapper using her for a conduit again? Keeping her occupied, away from the Royal case, maybe. Keeping her from rescuing Midnight Louie, certainly.

  Temple eyed her watch as dubiously as she would an egg timer. She’d never been a fan of deadlines. Six-thirty was forty minutes away. She dialed the center security office. No answer, as expected. Cyrus Dent went home at five like everybody else. Sure, guards patrolled, but not many. Conventions hired local private security forces to police their exhibitions. The building itself was another matter, and nobody much messed with a convention center except passing graffiti artists.

  So there were guards around, but where in the vast building? And she could dash out to check on Louie, but what if she didn’t get back in time to collect Baker and Taylor? Kidnappers were notoriously impatient. Once the guards had let her out after hours, they wouldn’t waltz her back in, not without explanations and interference... and that could foul up the return of Baker and Taylor.

  But Louie! Temple worried more about him than Baker and Taylor. If the kidnapper was returning them, they were fine. It made sense to bring them back to the scene of the crime; the napper knew the exhibit area, or he’d never have nipped them so successfully in the first place.

  Temple’s watch showed thirty minutes left to six-thirty. The phone rang.

  She stared at it for a moment. Who’d be calling after hours? The catnapper? Molina?

  When she lifted the receiver, she heard an open line. It forced her to say “Hello?”

  “Miss Barr?”

  She didn’t recognize the male voice. “Yes?”

  “Eightball O’Rourke. Got some dope on who picked up the ransom.”

  “I’d been wondering where you were.”

  “Out trying to nail down the identity of who’s got your friend’s money. It’s taking me longer than I expected.”

  “You’ll be paid for it,” Temple reassured him, wondering how much her American Express card would cover. “What happened?”

  “The package stayed there for a while. Then a party comes along that acts nervous. Sure enough, one bend and the bait is gone. The trail led to the Last Vegas Hilton.”

  “You saw the person who picked up the money? That’s worth every penny! Who?”

  “That’s the trouble. The Las Vegas Hilton is the third-largest hotel in the world. It ain’t easy getting a make on one person scooting through their doors.”

  “But you saw the person.”

  “They was wearing disguising clothing.”

  “How disguising can it be?”

  “Hat, sunglasses. You’d be surprised how hard it is to identify somebody by their clothes.”

  “Not Electra,” Temple mumbled.

  “What’s wrong with your electricity?”

  “Nothing. So you don’t know exactly who picked up the money, just that it was picked up.”

  “Yeah. I been leaning on the Hilton staff, but so far no one can identify her.”

  “Her?”

  “A woman, yeah. Big hat, big gauzy scarf, big dress, not a little woman like you, kinda... big. A chubby, middle-aged woman.”

  “Do you know how many women in Las Vegas fit that description?” Temple demanded, mentally making her own private list. Lorna Fennick, Mavis Davis, Rowena Novak. Electra Lark, for that matter.

  “So I’m working on it. Unless you want me to stop.”

  “No. I guess the kitty can underwrite a few more hours of detection.” The word “kitty” reminded Temple of her immediate dilemma.

  “By the way,” she said, deciding to tell Eightball that Baker and Taylor would be back by six-thirty. Eightball could check on Louie while Temple was stuck here waiting for the B & T express to arrive!

  The line died without so much as a drone.

  Temple stared
at the receiver incredulously. Did Eightball just hang up once he figured the conversation was over, or had someone... cut... them off? She held down the disconnect button, then let it up again. Dead silence. How would someone pull the plug on a phone system? Where was the switchboard? Just how well did the catnapper know the building?

  Better than you, Temple told herself. This was her first convention center job; most of the massive structure remained a mystery to her. She sat back; her stomach felt like a hollow-core door. It was not a pleasant sensation.

  At six twenty-five Temple rose from her chair. She dared not show up early for her appointment with Baker and Taylor. Catching the catnapper in the act of restoration would be dangerous.

  She hefted her tote bag over her shoulder and moved briskly out of the office. The high-rise heels of her shoes, a snappy pair of Weitzman sandals with multicolored straps, snapped on the hard-surface floor like firecrackers at her steps.

  No sense in discretion at this late date, she told herself.

  A few fluorescents shone high in the East Exhibition Hall rafters; otherwise, the exhibition floor was darkened. Booths and displays resembled huge, hunkering bears—regularly spaced but rough-silhouetted. Unpredictable.

  The zebra-striped carousel figure leaped out of the darkness as she passed and the wan light tangled in its glitter-strewn mane.

  Temple didn’t scream but her heart was pounding faster than her shoes. What if she got there and Baker and Taylor weren’t there? What if the catnapper had defaulted?

  Or if she arrived and the catnapper was still there? Or if the catnapper was the murderer? Well, why not? She could think of no reason why he—she—should be, but Royal had been stabbed with a knitting needle—a woman’s weapon. Now a woman had picked up the ransom money.

  Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and bears. Baker and Taylor and—uh! Temple breathed again. She backed away from a life-size cutout of Mel Gibson that promoted a series of Mad Max novels. She remembered now. Only an apocalyptic cardboard man.