Cat in an Orange Twist

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Wong was not involved,” Amelia objected.

  “You travel internationally, you ship your lines of furniture and accessories. You appear at furniture markets and expos. You have a personal entourage so large that its members barely register as anything other than functionaries. It would take only one rotten orange in the crate to turn a blessing into an opportunity for crime.”

  “Who would you accuse?” Amelia demanded.

  “It would just be a guess, but maybe the police can dig up some evidence.”

  As the uneasy faces massed behind Wong frowned in unison, they heard the sound of ripping fabric.

  Louie had bestirred himself again and was taking it out on a suede sofa side.

  Kenny and Benny whined in tandem. Louie strutted forth again, pausing to insinuate himself repeatedly around Amelia Wong’s slim, fishnet-hosed calves.

  Fishnet hose! Probably Christian Dior. Temple held her breath that Louie would not snag them.

  But he had meatier prey in mind, and in an instant was leaping up at a burlap-fabric sport coat behind Amelia Wong, claws fanned full out.

  “Ah, jeez,” came a nasal complaint. Louie lunged and fell while his victim backed up, never able to step back far enough to avoid the next onslaught of felix domesticus.

  In less than a minute, while everyone watched, paralyzed, Louie had torn the unconstructed pocket loose and punctured the small sack of white powder therein.

  “Carl!” Amelia Wong’s shock said everything.

  Fontana brothers swarmed on cue, surrounding Nordic guilt with Latin vengeance.

  “It’s not my fault, Amelia,” Carl said. “My life is the integration of mind, body, and soul, like yours. They hooked me in Hong Kong on a buying trip, deliberately, to use me and your organization.”

  Amelia Wong was not impressed. “If you had truly integrated mind, body, and soul, you wouldn’t have been vulnerable to these toxic foreign substances. But I will hire defense attorneys for you, Carl. Addiction is so destructive. Seeing the MADD efforts has made me much more aware of that, fortunately for you.”

  Amelia Wong’s support made Carl slump in his captors’ custody. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I knew better. I was just . . . weak. I was so strong physically, and then, they gave me this powder, and I felt so much stronger. The weak came later, too late.”

  “Now,” someone asked with gritted teeth, “can you call Molina?”

  Temple turned to Rafi Nadir with a smile. Mark Ainsworth was in his firm custody. Raf wanted only one more thing: to hand the May-lords murderer over to his ex-squeeze. In person.

  Temple upholstered her cell phone from its red pseudocroc leather case and pushed a button to let the good times roll.

  Model PI

  “So,” says Miss Midnight Louise the moment I amble onto the asphalt surrounding Maylords. “You call this a collar?”

  She has been glued to the repaired display windows for the last hour or two, after patrolling the exterior for the last twenty-four hours. I observed her presence, but was busy breaking a major case within.

  In a partnership, the work must be divided. Equally. And I am clearly the inside man for the Maylords job, as I had explained to her long and loud earlier.

  This obvious fact does not quiet Miss Midnight Louise, but then what would?

  “I have to pace around and around this twelve-acre store in the gritty wind and sun looking for phantom drug drops while you loll around on high-end furniture—its high end, not yours—in the air-conditioned inside waiting for your roommate to figure things out?”

  “You forget, Louise, that I was there as indisputable triggerman. I literally nailed both perps. Actually, two perps and a stooge. All without uttering a word, or a growl, actually.”

  “You were asleep at the switch, Pops. Miss Temple did all the work in laying out the precedents. You just shredded a few tailoring fabrics.”

  “I doubt the human olfactory abilities would have sniffed out the betraying cocaine among the Wong flunkies.”

  “A blind kitten could have sniffed that stuff, not to mention ripped that pocket free. Burlap, Daddy-o? Just the most loose-weaved fabric on the tailoring horizon. Kit’s play.”

  “You are showing quite an unexpected fashion sense, Louise. The savvy operative can afford to overlook no field of knowledge. Consider Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I have, Shredlock Homes! Why is Miss Temple letting Mr. Rafi Nadir get the credit for the collar?”

  “Oh, some complex human territorial dispute. You know how that is. Now. Our duties here are ended. We can repair to a nearby Dumpster for a celebratory dinner or . . . I can escort you back to my digs at the Circle Ritz. I understand there is a full bowl of Free-to-be-Feline on ice there.”

  “Free-to-be-Feline! You are speaking of the gourmet line, I presume?”

  “Uh . . . yeah. You like that stuff? Do you not indulge in Asian cuisine daily from the cleaver of Chef Song at the Crystal Phoenix?”

  “Yes, but it is not formulated for the feline epicure. Free-to-be-Feline. I must reevaluate your redheaded roommate. Apparently she has hidden depths.”

  Well, knock me over with an ostrich feather and call me Sally Rand! Miss Midnight Louise actually digs that awful, dry, army-green feline health food. Far be it from me to disillusion her. Have I got a dish for her!

  “The Circle Ritz it is, partner,” I say. “And en route I will reveal the scintillating clues and marvelous deductions that led me to shred my way to the truth.”

  She sighs, dreaming of Free-to-be-Feline.

  What a wonderful world.

  Neon Nightmares

  Rafi Nadir insisted on escorting Temple to her car.

  She objected. “Really, the danger is over.”

  “Some of those freaked-out bikers haven’t been caught yet. You’re lucky the one who nabbed you let you go.”

  Temple was too tired to argue.

  “I owe you big-time,” he said. “I bet Carmen won’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight. When she saw that you and me had bundled up the Maylords perps I thought her face would freeze off.” He chortled. “I know she hates my guts, but I can’t figure why she hates you so much. What’s not to like?”

  Temple was too exhausted to go into her whole history with Molina. She shrugged as she tapped the button to unlock her car. Rafi dove to open the door, quite the gentleman.

  “Get some rest, kid.”

  “Can’t for long. I’ve got to figure out how to handle the media now that all the ugly truths behind Maylords are out in the open.”

  “Can’t you wash your hands of this loser outfit?”

  “I took on the job of doing PR for them, and have to see it through to the bitter end.”

  “Hey, look!” Rafi was gazing down at the asphalt. “It’s that nutso cat with a taste for cocaine.”

  “Louie?” Temple leaned out to look. Not only was Louie sitting patiently on the asphalt, but he was accompanied by a smaller, fluffier black cat.

  Both sat there like statues, waiting.

  Temple got out of the car. “Well, hop on in,” she told the cats. “Must want a ride home,” she told Rafi. “I don’t have a safety setup for cats; I guess I better keep a soft-sided carrier inside just in case.”

  “I’ll be darned.” He watched the two cats hop from the asphalt into the front seat and move into the passenger seat. “They act like damn dogs. I thought cats didn’t follow orders.”

  “It was an invitation. That’s different.”

  “You know the second one?”

  “I think it’s the cat that replaced Louie at the Crystal Phoenix after I adopted him. They call her Midnight Louise.”

  Nadir just shook his head, then watched her belt herself in and take off.

  Her departing headlights reflected from a number of gleaming gold eyes in the shrubbery fringing the lot. Louise jumped down to the carpeted floor, but Louie remained in the passenger seat, bracing his front feet on the window frame and looking around with interest.

/>   Temple’s busy brain kept bouncing from the professional to the personal. Rafi was still hyped from tonight’s triumph, and Temple felt that excitement too, which is why she’d turned down his offer of a drink. It was a sad day, or night, actually, when the most available co-celebrator was Molina’s despised ex-squeeze!

  Maybe she could help rehabilitate Maylords’s image by having them do something for the feral cat colony that had so thoughtfully shredded the drug-laden furniture shipment for them. That was weird, how they took shelter in that truck and ended up ratting out the whole scheme. . . . Maybe they were like Louie, obviously attracted to the scent of cocaine, like it was sort of people catnip. She’d have to watch Louie; he was developing expensive tastes, not to mention lethal.

  She turned on the radio. Mr. Midnight was on. Matt’s voice filled the small car, sounding both soothing and compelling, which was why he had the job he did. He was advising a woman estranged from her sister. Well, gee. Temple was feeling estranged from everybody. She was dying to retell the night’s events and had no one to listen. Maybe she could phone the Midnight Hour when she got home. Hah! She could always phone Max, but he didn’t seem to be in nights much anymore, or answering.

  When she parked in the Circle Ritz lot, the cats accompanied her in and up to her unit.

  Louie headed right for the pale sofa, where he arranged himself in a sprawling yet regal pose usually reserved for purebred Persians. He looked pretty pleased with himself. Louise, and it was indeed she—Temple recognized the yellow eyes and longer hair that distinguished her from Louie—headed right for the Free-to-be-Feline bowl and dug in. Temple hadn’t heard so much crunching in the place since her knees had nixed an extreme exercise video she’d tried for a few days.

  She dialed Max, of course, and was instructed to leave a message. Of course. She knew his tape wouldn’t shut her down after thirty seconds, so she left a long, breathless report of the night’s events.

  And so to bed, as Pepys or somebody used to close out his days a couple centuries ago.

  There Temple tossed and fell asleep briefly, woke, dreamed a little, and woke again. Fragments she recalled explained why she didn’t linger in Dreamland long: She was going to the high school prom with Rafi Nadir! Then she wasn’t in a prom dress, she was in a bridesmaid dress, wearing the Louie shoes, and Molina and Matt were getting married! Then Max was doing a high-wire act at the top of the Goliath atrium and he fell twenty stories, but turned into Midnight Louie and landed on his feet. And she was fleeing in a red stretch limo with the Fontana brothers while a biker gang surrounded them and she threw a Mumm’s Champagne bottle out the window and the whole street burst into fire. . . .

  “Max, you won’t believe it!” Temple’s voice on the phone at 2:00 A.M. was triumphant, yet endearingly raspy. “Oh, I wish you could have been here!”

  So did he. Instead he’d been swinging on a star at Neon Nightmare, chasing a phantom that sometimes looked like himself.

  He almost said, “I’m performing again, Temple. In disguise, undercover, but I’ve put together a new act. Maybe we can put together a new act. . . .

  “You should have seen it! I had Rafi Nadir hand over the Maylords killer to Molina. In person! I can’t wait to tell you more.”

  I can’t wait to hear more. See more. Of you.

  “Molina was . . . well, everything I’d ever hoped for. Chagrined. Speechless. Furious. Pissed.”

  That he could picture, since he’d caused it often enough.

  “And Louie must have followed me to work at Maylords, and made himself right at home on the seating pieces. He sniffed out the insider cocaine link. Although almost everybody there was guilty in one way or another, from Kenny Maylord acing out his young brother in the business; to Benny going undercover to sabotage the operation; to Kenny letting the manager, Mark Ainsworth, put together a predatory secret-clique management structure, all based on greed. The setup produced more disgruntled employees than Caligula. The two murder victims either knew too much or inadvertently interfered with the in-house drug-smuggling operation, hence the gay bikers. They were transport. I’ll let Molina and company figure out who offed whom and why, but Simon Foster was definitely an innocent who got in the way. Poor Danny. I wonder when he’ll be up to working again? Gosh, this town has been unlucky for performers, what with the Siegfried and Roy tragedy and now Danny Dove’s new show is temporarily darkened, and you were driven out of your profession by murder at the Goliath . . . Now I’m getting depressed. Home alone by the telephone. I’ll just shut my eyes and think of Molina’s expression when she first saw Rafi Nadir again.

  “Call me back as soon as you can. Heck! Why don’t you come up and see me sometime?”

  On that mock-suggestive Mae West note, Temple’s voice was gone. It was 2:00 A.M. Max, the wee-hours wonder, was still hanging on a star at Neon Nightmare. He shut the cell phone and its voice-mail message away and stowed both on his tool belt.

  Then he swung out again over deep black nothingness.

  The beat from below bellowed in his ears. The lights stung like bees. He defied gravity, sanity.

  He couldn’t make a personal appearance at the Circle Ritz tonight, but he’d call Temple first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  Max Kinsella awoke in the dark. Five A.M.

  The utter dark. Too early to call Temple.

  He remembered dragging the futon into the bedroom used to store magic paraphernalia. He must have collapsed rather than slept.

  And after everything that had happened lately—martial arts chases in magic dungeons, illusions, motorcycle nightmares, bullets to the back, death and resurrection—why not?

  He rubbed a hand over his eyes, checking how he felt. Good. Very good. Very, very good.

  Oh. Right. It had been an erotic dream, the kind so vivid you woke up almost satisfied. Temple had been in it, which was gratifying. When you had erotic dreams about your significant other, it was a good sign the flame hadn’t died. Also that you’d been a good monogamous boy. . . .

  He remembered following her flashing red heels down the long dark hallways and around the abrupt corners of the nightclub called Neon Nightmare.

  Then they were lying together in an emerald green meadow, with a chorus line of sheep singing Rod McKuen’s “Jean.” He was undoing the front of Temple’s dress, a lace-up affair that Temple would never be caught dead in, even in a production of The Sound of Music. She wouldn’t be keen on the sound of sheep either. Temple was an utterly urban chick.

  The hills are alive . . . spies were poking heads up all over the glen, Boris and Natasha, and the owner of the milkmaid bodice and its inner accouterments wasn’t Temple, after all, but Kitty! Kathleen O’Connor. His first love, first everything, now lying on stainless steel in the Las Vegas medical examiner’s facility.

  The dream images lingered in his drowsing mind. Temple’s red hair had become black, her blue eyes green, like Kathleen’s.

  Max rolled over in the dark and patted the wood floor until his fingers curled over the electric cord snaking through the dark. He found the control dial and turned it.

  Light flooded his corner of the room, which was piled like an Egyptian tomb with the arcane boxes and claptrap of the magic trade.

  The bright light made Max shut his eyes for an instant, and in that black moment, the last part of his dream came back.

  “God, no!”

  His romping partner at the very end hadn’t been dead Kitty, after all. She had morphed into someone all too alive. Molina. Lt. C. R. Molina. Carmen Molina, black hair, electric blue eyes, ice-water veins.

  Max didn’t feel so good after all.

  Midnight Louie

  Uncovered

  All right.

  There are a lot of makeovers in this book, and I can see how they relate to the theme, plot, crime and punishment.

  But is there any reason to make me the object of such wholesale repositioning? Was I not a handsome bloke just as I was, pulling down my curtai
n like some crafty peeping tomcat?

  Nobody asked me if I wanted to share my solo cover status with bits and pieces of my Miss Temple. Granted her bits and pieces are tasty, but I am not one for double billing.

  I must admit that at least the new cover representation emphasizes my sleek and muscular physique. The previous artistic portrayal was a little porky in the rear area.

  And this is the first time that readers can see my keen and suspicious green eyes in living color.

  Plus my natty white whiskers.

  Maybe it is not such a bad renovation, after all.

  Call it Cat Eye for the Crooked Guy. I can be as media-hot as the next fad.

  Very best fishes,

  Midnight Louie, Esq.

  P.S. You can visit Midnight Louie on the Internet at:

  http://www.catwriter.com

  To subscribe to Midnight Louie’s Scratching Post-Intelligencer newsletter or for information on Louie’s T-shirt, write: PO Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555

  Carole Nelson Douglas

  and the Eternal Feline

  I didn’t expect you to embrace your inner Thin Man so quickly, Louie, but I’m glad you did.

  The fact is that people change through the years, and it seemed only fair to give you access to the latest cosmetic techniques. You are a valuable cover boy, you know. Can’t let your image get flabby and tired looking. Wouldn’t want the dreaded words “baby boomer” applying to your precious hide, would we?

  Besides, no representation can do your spirit justice, Louie.

  You are the eternal feline.

  Neither age nor debility can diminish your infinite variety or endless grace. You wear independence like a crown, and yet give feline fealty to your various fortunate human subjects.

  You are king and companion, Pharaoh’s footstool and occupier of the Royal Chair. (There is a Royal Chair wherever there are chairs, which luckily abide in most human residences. Where there are not chairs, there are beds.)