Finally the room's peripheral down lights came on and the huge built-in television screen went black for the last time.
"Most instructive," said the lead client, whose first name was Gerald.
The foursome now wore sticky name labels pasted to their left chests. Temple wondered why people always affixed such labels right where their hands would rest over their hearts when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance in school.
She was too exhausted to worry about what the verdict was, and suspected that none of them would know until Monday.
Chapter 14
"... A Creature Was Stirring"
Nothing is more annoying than home movies. Even if you happen to be one of the stars.
Luckily, I have established myself as a free spirit, thanks to Miss Temple's innovative carrier. I never thought I would come to appreciate that embarrassing sling of purple nylon straps attached to a drawstring baggie, or looking like a couch potato. It simply does not befit a media star in the making.
However, it is a snap to get in and out of when no one is looking. And no one is looking when they can see the likes of myself on the silver screen. (All right, it is a black screen until it is turned on. But my personal style is silver screen. Just give me a cravat and a pencil-thin mustache and I would be Ronald Colman. All right. I have a pencil-thin mustache already. It just does not show to good advantage amidst all this hair.)
I must say that the Sublime Solange does show to good advantage on camera. The Divine Yvette is most cast down by this reversal of fortune. I, however, have obligations to the entire project and cannot show favoritism. Besides, has she never seen A Star Is Born? As one goes up, another may go down. I hope that this is not the case between Miss Savannah Ashleigh and my little doll. I do all I can to provoke Miss Ashleigh to unleash her most vixenish characteristics.
But she is so relentlessly competitive that I fear she has done Miss Temple irreparable harm.
Then, again, perhaps my little doll should consider toning down her hair color. And her figure is not of the Rubenesque proportions the Sublime Solange illustrates so well. I am not too sure who this Rubens was. Perhaps he invented the sandwich of that name, which I understand can really pile on the pounds, containing as it does so many healthful items from the four major human food groups: fatty protein (corned beef), salty vegetable (sauerkraut), fatty dressing (Thousand Island), bread (which is for the birds), and fat fat (whatever else you put on it).
Now that I am as good as a spokescat on matters nutritional, I believe I should not hold back in criticizing the human diet. Nutrition, after all, is a cross-species issue.
But a dude can only take so much self-adulation, so I paw open the conference door so narrowly that no one notices, and slip out into the well-lit hall. I am never at ease until I know the lay of whatever landscape I inhabit. I begin to sniff around discreetly.
What I notice first off is that this is not a place that welcomes any but human visitors. The only interesting scents I detect are Miss Temple's shoes, the airborne essence of three felines, two of them female, and it does not take a genius to figure out that these individuals are all present and accounted for and in the conference room.
So I amble down the hall, hearing the halfhearted buzz of distant employees whose immediate supervisors are otherwise and other where occupied. Since I know what areas are sure to be mostly unoccupied, I head to the back and the windows. Sure enough. The hallways widen, the carpet thickens, the piped-in Muzak gets tonier.
I nudge open a wide door of some exotic wood and find myself in a handsome outer office. I push onward and inward to forbidden territory. The dude's desk is the size of a Ping-Pong table, but much classier. The wood-paneled walls smell of lemon wax, which does nothing for my taste buds. I am not a citrus kind of guy and thank Bast that I was not born in Florida. I can just see my old man lolling on some boat called the Bastet Royal Flush, snagging marlin and sailfish with one mitt while dolls in thong collars come calling with sickening regularity. My old man is more than somewhat old-fashioned.
I, however, embrace the coming millennium. I am all for high technology and cyberspace cruising. I have been known to tap-dance on a keyboard or two in my day. So I hop atop the desk and take a gander at the screen. I have glimpsed screens with glowing letters the color of my eyes, and Miss Temple had a Karma-blue background on her computer screen, with white letters. But then she got a new one and it all comes up plain old black on white, which is not a bad combination once you think of it. And this is the kind of screen I see here with rows of black letters.
Now I can read the writing on the wall, and this office has the same boring bank of wooden plaques with gold lettering and framed certificates as the other executive offices. Why does having a big office make dudes think they must tack up every piece of paper they ever collected in life?
Me, if I had an office like this, I might go for trophy specimens. Like a gopher. Or maybe that record-quality blue and white koi I snagged from under Chef Song's meat cleaver at the Crystal Phoenix when I first blew into town. There are a few rats I could display, but why upset the visitors?
And of course I would have framed photos of all the glamorous tootsies in my life, feline and human.
And could I curl up on this emerald carpet and make a pretty picture! In fact, I am considering artfully allowing the Big Boss--Brent Colby, Jr.--to catch me in just such an irresistible circumstance when I hear voices down the hall and must vacate the locale lickety-split.
The other back offices are nice, but not as big. After a hurried scramble, I manage to zip into a maintenance closet someone has thoughtfully left ajar. I am hoping nobody sees me who might return me to the matinee of tedium down the hall.
I manage to paw the door almost shut, so it is coal-cellar dark within, except for a pinstripe of light. The voices are coming closer, which is the only reason I can understand what they are saying. Both speak in cautious whispers, so I cannot tell whose voices I hear, or even what gender they are.
"Will they not miss you in the conference room meeting?" I hear one voice ask.
"Not in the dark," is the sardonic answer. "You sure that no one saw you come in today either?"
"Not even a mouse," says the other person with a chuckle. "As you suggested, it is going to be a big surprise. I can hardly wait for the unveiling afterward, when the others figure out who I really am. Will that blow them away!"
"Please! That phrase might bring back some bad memories."
"All my memories are bad ones, which is why it is so great we ran into each other again. Nothin' like old friends gettin' together and talking over old times. I bet some of us have forgotten more than we remember. Except me. I may not have a pot to piss in, 'scuse that phrase, but my memory's A-one. Hey, I even recognized you first. Imagine that, running into each other by coincidence in a great big city like New York. I bet that now that has happened, you will be seeing me again. And again. That is the way it goes. And I, uh, appreciate your doing something extra special for the Christmas kitty. You were always a big-spender... especially when the money was not yours."
"Whatever, whatever. We do not want your cover blown now. Better duck out of sight for the duration. Then you can hit the scene on cue. Got a glow-in-the-dark watch?"
"Hell, I think I still glow in the dark from the old days. Orange. Okay, I am outta here. See you later. I can hardly wait to see the others' expressions, afterwards."
"I guess you could say you are bringing them some extra holiday presence."
"Presence, spelled like presence? Pretty good. You were always clever. Well, why sure I am gonna give 'em the Christmas surprise of their lives. I am supposed to be a jolly old soul."
At that point, somebody laughs, not a nice laugh at all.
I sigh in my closet, waiting for the parting rustles to subside. That is when I realize that I have been so intent on hearing this conversation (for I am nothing if not curious, to a fault), that I have been derelict in scouting out my refuge.
In fact, I realize that the background sound that was making my ears twitch now and then in annoyance was not the distant drone of some heating unit, but was a soft, rhythmic subsonic hiss like . . . breathing. Whoops! I am not alone. Something is in here. With me. In the dark. Making not a peep, like it does not wish to be detected either.
Too bad I do not have one of those bowser-quality snouts that can scent anything from garbage to Garbo at fifty feet. My sniffer is pretty sharp on a certain range of odors, mostly animal and vegetable, but I am not a tracker by profession. If I cannot tell who is my closet-mate, I am also not sure what is confined with me.
I hear the rustle of motion behind me. The odors of turpentine and lemon oil clothe the intruder in a miasma of mystery. This could be a tiny little Manhattan house mouse, for all I know, or Jurassic Alligator.
I am trying to decide if it is worth my while to find out which when an aluminum pail comes sweeping down over me like a bell, doubling the darkness and caging me with an overbearing scent of Mr. Clean.
I loathe any kind of involuntary confinement, so I bolt out from under the descending metal prison at the last instant. I head for the spaghetti-thin line of light where the door do-si-dos with the door-jamb. In my haste, I manage to go dancing in the dark with one of those old-fashioned string dust mops that is all cotton-twist tendrils dripping oil and allergens. I am about to sneeze, and the floppy mop part is hanging over my head like a wig.
I hate being in the dark.
So I lose the dust mop and bust the door open without looking back to see what creature is stirring behind me. I also loose a big sneeze as I head back toward the home movies, where I know what I'm keeping company with in the dark, feeling as if a herd of demonic reindeer were behind me. Down the hall, I dart into the first ajar door, under the mistaken impression I will be greeted by my own lovely mug up close and personal on a big-screen TV.
Have I taken a wrong turn!
I am in a conference room, all right, but every light in the place is blazing and a lot more that do not normally belong here, even though this is New York City and they do a lot of things that are not normal here all year long. Some people think that my hometown is a bit unreal, but they have never explored the outer limits of this toddling town, let me tell you.
Anyway, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a sleigh and eight tiny reindeer?
They are hanging high on the wall, just under the ceiling, and Rudolph's nose is blinking like a big red stoplight. (I wonder if Rudolph is any relation to that chef, Reuben?) Beneath this poster paint stands this awesome 3-D chimney, all red brick and dripping cottony snow from the top as if it had the sniffles.
I think fondly of the chimney through which I made my dramatic but sooty entrance at the Halloween seance to revive Houdini. Perhaps I can manage such a trick tonight. That would impress Solange, the ad people and The Client. Maybe even Miss Temple, but I doubt it. She does not seem to be surprised by anything I do any more.
Just call me the Mystifying Mr. Midnight.
I trot over to investigate the scene of my next transportation triumph.
I pass a real live Christmas tree in one corner, smelling like pine room deodorizer. It is decked with golden garlands and little glass . . . well, I will be a monkey's uncle, but only if one of my relatives has gotten into something kinky! Tiny glass cats hang all over the tree, dangling from golden cords around their translucent necks. I edge over to investigate, and recognize statues of Bast, upright, with her front legs straight as columns and a twenty-four-carat gilt ring glimmering in one ear. I shiver a hair. Actually, several hairs. I could stand a little less Bast in my life of late.
But I am immediately distracted by a swath of wrapped presents under the tree. Dozens and dozens. Here and there I scent the real smell of Christmas . . . exotic, imported catnip!
I can hardly restrain myself from snicking out my shivs and tearing into that primo stuff.
But I am applying for a job here. It would be best not to display any addictive habits until the position is in the bag. Or I am.
My eyes narrow. I know that rat Maurice has been waiting to make his move on me. I wonder if I can turn the tables on him before he even knows we are talking furniture.
At least I have a preview of the treats to come. I study the empty folding chairs, the long table lined up against a wall with an empty punch bowl on one end. Enough of the media feeding frenzy in the other conference room, folks! I have had my hour in the spotlight, and am now ready to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we vie. Again.
"Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!"
I can hardly wait to meet those naughty-but-nice girls, Dancer and Prancer and Vixen, and having Cupid in there does not hurt a bit when it comes to Christmas merriment. Then we can all get Blitzened.
But for now I slip back into the darkened conference room, where all present are gazing raptly at my onscreen pirouettes, unaware that I was not merely performing but running for my very life from a lurking assassin ... and have likely just done so again!
What they do not know will not hurt them, or my film career. What a pro I am! At both of my professions. I pussyfoot up to the familiar form, scent and foot of Miss Temple Barr. She was not loitering anonymously in any closets, and she will have no notion of my recent close encounter. When the lights come on, I will be sitting meekly beside her, ready for shoveling into whatever distasteful means of confinement and transport she finds necessary in the Big Apple.
But inside I am a free spirit.
Party on!
Chapter 15
Claus for Alarm
Deck the Halls with . . . pigtails and coveralls.
Everyone escaped the conference room at six- something that evening. Despite the massive quantities of coffee consumed, they lurched blinking like zombies from the still- dark room into the well lit halls.
While they'd been closeted within their media cocoon, the outer world of Colby, Janos and Renaldi had altered dramatically. The exiting people couldn't evade it, since they all nearly tripped over the major change in personnel. An unlikely addition.
Toddlers, tots, tykes and preteens ran, roared and raised heck up and down the halls, all dressed like Santa's elves in green and red (some rebels in green or red), imps clothed in plaids, paisleys, velvet, corduroy and velour, in holly and cat-angel Christmas prints.
Halfheartedly chasing the escapees were harried parents from knots of chatting wives or joking husbands.
Andrew Janos, obviously coveting a Golden Globe award, never stopped running his camcorder but came charging from the dark, the camera's light blaring like a steam locomotive's single warning headlight.
The din, of course, was many times the normal hubbub of hyped-up ad people stepping on each other's sentences and building molehill notions into media-campaign mountains through a round robin of creative one-upmanship.
Temple hadn't bothered donning Louie's Cat Aboard in the dark, so she toted him and it before her, no hand free to shelter her ears from the shocking howls, squeals, giggles, bleats, bellowed orders, whines and assorted, and mostly ineffective, parental pleadings.
"Duck into my office," Kendall suggested in Temple's ear. "You can change there. I don't think you or Louie would much care for the rest room at the moment."
Temple watched a young mother squat before an adorably dressed little girl, struggling to comb a tangled ponytail. The child's protesting screech would have deafened a bat, or Batman.
Temple nodded yes to the suggestion, clutched Midnight Louie as close as his girth would permit and made for Kendall's crowded office.
"Did your father really mean that the cats were not to be confined for the party?" Temple asked Kendall as they arrived at her office door. "I mean, all those strange kids wandering around. Uh, not that the kids are strange, inherently, only that they're unknown to the cats and the cats are unknown to them and someone could step on someone's toes or ta
il and someone could claw or bite someone."
"Colby, Janos and Renaldi kids don't claw or bite," Kendall said with a firm smile. "I think Dad's looking for how the cats react to crowds, unleashed. There'll be pet store openings to attend, and the spokescat has to be mellow enough to roll with the punches."
Temple eyed Midnight Louie, lolling with flattened ears in the bosom of his cradle. "Mellow" was not a word she would use to describe him.
"But... if there is an incident, and kids can tease animals without meaning to--"
"We want to know if there will be an incident. If one occurs here, our employees are less likely to sue for a cat scratch than the public at large. Better to know now. What's the matter, are you afraid that Louie will be ninja cat outside his carrier? He was a pussycat on the conference table."
"But the people sitting around it were adults, not kids."
"Don't be too sure about that," Kendall said sardonically, shutting the door.
The message was clear: the Christmas party was another "test" for the animals as well as the people. "Don't hiss, scratch or bite," Temple admonished Louie. "And don't snag my velvet dress or anybody else's."
She swished her black stretch-velvet turtleneck dress from the door hook, and changed clothes with a nervous eye on some still-lit offices in the opposite skyscraper--a cleaning guy waved. Once the dress was on, she waved back, then topped her velvet neck and shoulders with a red-beaded openwork shawl. Trust Las Vegas for the latest experiment in instant, portable glitz. Her plain black Stuart Weitzman pumps sported red Austrian-crystal lips that were either cheeky or surreal, depending on interpretation. They certainly looked Christmassy. She was afraid to trust the fully spangled Midnight Louie Austrian-crystal shoes to such a big, toe-stepping, punch-spilling crowd.
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