However, I feel obligated to escort my esteemed roommate on this difficult day. I am doing all I can to distract her from the impending reunion with her former roommate, Mr. Max Kinsella. If I must throw a few papers around, or a tantrum, I will.
I will even show my mug on the front passenger seat of Miss Temple’s red Miata. Usually I hitch a ride on the dark carpeting of backseats, unseen and inhaling a lot of foot odor and the scent of all the ugly things a human shoe can stomp on. Unlike we of the superior breed, humans never clean their soles but reuse them unwashed again and again.
On the bright side, this filthy habit does make the human kind much easier to track.
“Why, Louie,” Miss Temple says as I slip in the open driver’s side door and hop onto the passenger seat. “You want to ride shotgun?”
After an exasperated look and a check of the large dial of her wristwatch, she caves. “If this were an airport run, I’d kick you off the leather seat, but it’s only the Crystal Phoenix, and I suppose you want to arrive at your old place in style. Remember. Velvet paws. No claws on the leather upholstery, not even if I have to brake suddenly. The floor carpeting is all right, though.”
I do like the way my Miss Temple acts as if I am totally conversation-worthy, although I would never deign to talk back to humans.
I blink my agreement to her terms and prepare to enjoy what some of the commonest dogs do—a spin in the car.
Las Vegas is offering a warm spring day, so my Miss Temple has donned lots of lightly scented sunscreen that helps ban any offensive human odors. She is a red-cream kind of kitten with sun-sensitive face and body leather.
Of course, my glistening black coat shines like wet tar in the sunshine and even under the Crystal Phoenix’s front canopy of mirror and tiny crystal lights when we shortly arrive there, sans sudden braking.
I jump out when the doorman opens my side and wait politely for Miss Temple to precede me within while tourists gawk. They do not know my long history here as hotel cat and unofficial house detective before I linked up with Miss Temple and the Circle Ritz bunch.
Before we can enter I am upstaged, however.
Out of the row of brass and glass doors rushes one Fontana brother.
Just one. What a disappointment! There are ten in all, and Nicky, the youngest, owns the Crystal Phoenix. Out comes Aldo, the eldest. The fickle tourist cameras turn toward his five-star looks and high-style, pale-mango Italian suit and the petite redhead on his arm who embraces my Miss Temple and does kissy-cheeks.
Those of my breed do not deign to do kissy-cheeks. It would disarrange our magnificent, delicate vibrissae, aka whiskers. We do sniffy noses. Wait! That is not as off-putting as it sounds.
“Temple,” the former Miss Kit Carlson, her maternal aunt, says. “We are just back from abroad and were heading to the Circle Ritz to see you.”
I stare rebukingly at the new Mrs. Aldo Fontana until the searing burn of my regard forces her to look down.
“To see you and Midnight Louie, of course,” she corrects herself.
By now, Aldo is doing the kissy-cheek thing with Miss Temple. Continental, I am told, but it strikes me as unsanitary.
“How was Italy?” Miss Temple inquires, it being impolite to baldly ask how these post-wedding flings called “honeymoons” went, which is, of course, what everyone really wants to know.
“Divine,” Miss Kit replies.
I do not abide by human conventions. I do not care if Miss Kit Carlson is married; she is still a Miss Kit to me. Missus is such a déclassé word.
“How are things going here with you?” Miss Kit adds with an amiable smile.
“You would not believe,” my Miss Temple answers. “Meanwhile, I’m late; I am late for a very insignificant date. May we catch up later, please?”
“Of course,” Miss Kit says. She is a thirty-year-older version of Miss Temple, and her prime state of preservation for an old dame should cheer up my now-distracted roomie.
I am not about to miss a word that these two exchange about the Current Crises, for they are more gal-pals than aunt and niece. Since Miss Temple has only older brothers in Minnesota, it is fortunate she has a hip, ex-Manhattanite aunt on the scene to help me provide aid and comfort in the coming end of days.
We bustle inside. That is, my Miss Temple bustles, slinging greetings to bellmen and other passing hotel staff. I follow her in slink mode so she will not have to answer awkward questions about my ability to heel like a dog if I so choose.
My breed is not expected to trot docilely along, and Bast forbid that I should let my breed down. Besides, I know that Miss Temple is headed for the Crystal Court, so I race to install myself discreetly before her arrival. She will think that I have headed to the rear pool area to drool over the nearby koi pond.
Soon my baby greens are peering through the indoor greenery to the cocktail table for two where Miss Savannah Ashleigh has arranged herself.
Being five-foot-nothing, Miss Temple favors high heels, but they are usually the classy three-inch designer kind. Miss Savannah goes for what are called “hooker shoes,” high-rises of four or even five inches. She also wears inflated blond hair (extensions) and inflated lip and chest parts (collagen).
I can understand the human urge to supplement their scanty hair, but not to emphasize skin devoid of fur.
I examine the bulky purse thankfully concealing the Ashleigh footwear at the moment. A pair of small shiny black eyes peeks out. Or is that “Pekes” out? I know the fickle actress has forsaken her Persian cat beauties for mere pip-squeak canines these days. Recalling my recent undercover gig as a “purse pussy,” I am in sudden sympathy with the pathetic pooch. The front paws and full head are now visible, and it is too small for even the tiniest Chihuahua.
I pad over to inspect and sniff. Dear Predatory, Bountiful Bast! It is vermin of some kind! Barely have I realized its, ah, composition, than it slithers out of the designer bag, runs out of sight behind me, and hitches a ride on my terminal member.
Spinning, I discover it is clinging there with all four tiny paws, like a quartet of staplers. I cannot whip around fast enough to dislodge the furry little imp, and I am soon dizzy and in danger of making an exhibition of myself, which is the last thing an undercover operative wants to do.
On my final spin I lose the unwanted “tail” and spot its face once again peeking out from the side pocket of the blasted bag. Surely such a savage little thing is not housebroken. The mind boggles at what it must be doing in Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s purse all day.
Behind me I hear the crisp approach of Miss Temple’s Stuart Weitzman petite-platform ankle-strap shoes. Rats! I need to dive back under cover. Rats? Why would Miss Savannah Ashleigh have a pet rat? One that is not even an attractive laboratory-white but plain dumpster-brown?
I had been planning to make a sentimental journey back to my old PI office near the poolside canna lilies out back—back by Chef Song’s koi pond. Now, I must guard Miss Temple’s platform-and-ankle-strap from some street vermin playing footsie with her.
I settle onto my haunches for a long eavesdropping session, when a low hiss at my rear tells me we are not alone.
“I thought I smelled a rat,” says Miss Midnight Louise, all narrowed gold irises and fluffed black fur, nosing her obnoxious way alongside me so close you could not slip a piece of onionskin paper between us, “but it is just you.”
“Most amusing. If you will keep an eye on Miss Savannah Ashleigh’s bag, you will spot a real rat.”
“No! Has purse poochery come down to this? At least, the underground link to Gangsters has been certified rat-free by the health department, and the Neon Nightmare access has been cemented shut.”
“That case and the secret tunnel may be closed, but more crime in the making is brewing somewhere. Just keep watching and listening.”
Something more than mere vermin is afoot, and it has peroxided hair and mighty high arches.