But she didn’t feel like it. Not in the least.
42
Killer Karma
I must say that Karma has mighty potent…well, karma, but it was I who roused the cat clowder, which was the only physical force present. I could see my Miss Temple sensed Karma’s invisible magnification of feline force. She may find her Inner Cat at that.
For once, I watched the action from the fringes.
When things have calmed down, I survey the situation. I showed up late because I had to give a high-five of the Front Four sheathed shivs to Ingram for leading my Miss Temple to the rendezvous while I was herding cats from the clowder to the scene. We all know how hard herding cats can be.
Ingram has headed home. He will be able to slip back into the Thrill ‘n’ Quill unnoticed when Eduardo visits to ensure Miss Maeveleen is undisturbed and closing up shop for the night. For “owners”, people sure are dim about what their cat companions are thinking and doing.
Whatever Karma conjured, it was a first-class special effect befitting the most spiritual cat breed (excepting the Egyptian Mau).
The Sacred Cats of Burma are famed for defending a Tibetan monk when their temple was raided ages ago. Only two of their kind survived in Europe after World War II, one male and one female, luckily or unluckily, depending on one’s interaction with Karma. She is of the revived Western branch of the breed, and mighty snooty about her exclusive line.
She does seem to have a smidge of astral projection talent, I confess. I suspect that Ma’s clowder was enhanced by some such Eastern out-of-body hocus pocus to produce the river of feline vengeance on Karma’s behalf.
As for the cheesy “Cat signal” using the Probe’s headlights to project a twenty-foot-high Halloween cat silhouette like the Batman signal in Gotham, I know the usual suspect for that.
What a drama queen! Females!
I realize Miss Midnight Louise, miffed because I assigned her to follow “dull” Mr. Matt, took advantage of the situation to grab the limelight as well as distract the villains at the top of the stairs. And what about Mr. Matt’s NASCAR performance, huh?
I will still have to have a word with my junior partner when all the dander settles.
Whatever or however, tonight was a fine performance by all felines involved. For me, it was also good preparation for directing the new cat food commercials. Anonymously, of course. I do not need credit. Just control.
Julio is going to explain to Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina that the captives were cut when they evicted resident vagrants and feral cats that had inhabited the abandoned building’s basement.
Good luck with that story. It will not fly any better than the recent UFOs on the Las Vegas strip rumor.
When I show up after the main action, I cannot say I relish my little doll’s saltwater on my relatively skimpy ruff, a poor thing, but my own. She should know by now I am her go-to guy, even when I do not put in a mind-rocking personal appearance.
With Mr. Matt there to hold and shelter and admonish Miss Temple for intemperate risk-taking behavior, I feel my role is—gasp—redundant. I am expecting to put up with a lot of that after the imminent nuptials.
It is at times, perhaps, the better part to be an invisible influence, which Karma well knows.
Miss Electra is repeatedly kissing Mr. Matt’s cheek, calling him “my hero”, and assuring him that her old Probe crashed upon her newly acquired stairs is of no account. In fact, both needed replacing and she will now save a bundle in demolition and hauling charges.
He is managing to accept her gratitude while hanging on even tighter to my Miss Temple. She is fretting about what Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina will say. Or ask. Ask her and ask him.
Such sweetness and light gives me a tummy ache, so I withdraw unnoticed back to the fringes. Ma Barker and I sit together in the shadows, watching the mopping-up operations, which consist of patrol officers taking Nemo, Adcock, and Zydeco away.
The third man slipped away down the back stairs, but that being such a classic film noir title, The Third Man, I am okay with letting him go, especially as I know his size, gait, and scent. I will be ready for him next time if he is so foolish as to enter my territory again.
“I am surprised, Grasshopper,” Ma muses, sounding contemplative. If you knew Ma, you would know how out of character contemplative musing is. “I am surprised you were content to merely sound the alarm and sat back to leave matters to your sponsors and my Las Vegas Cat Pack.”
“If I help my clients too much and too often and too openly, they will not take pride in their own prowess. They will not believe they have such a thing. There are times when a guy-guy must step aside and let events happen for themselves. It is not about claiming credit, it is about the outcome.”
Ma nods her scruffy head. Being a feral female is a tough—and usually not a long—life. Ma has held our gang together for longer than most, but it has taken a toll on her health and looks. Not her attitude, though.
“What do you make of that bit of folderol-spouting fluff? Karma Chameleon or whatever, some fancy purebred hokey name? She insisted on telling me I had used up eight-and-a-half of my lives and should think about retiring while I can.”
“She fancies herself some kind of prophet, but she does not know Bast would not dare call you over the river Nile onto her own turf for at least a dozen more lives.”
Ma gives a cat laugh, which sounds a bit like uncontrollable coughing to humans, who rush over and try to give us the Heimlich maneuver. So much for having a sense of humor.
“One thing I might consider,” Ma says, looking sideways at me with her yellow eyes.
“Yeah?”
“I might let those UFO abductors catch me some night, with a full dish of sardines.”
“Ma! Why?”
I know they are actually Trap, Neuter, Return do-gooders hoping to end the overpopulation and species cleansing afflicting our kind since forever, but I am not sure Ma cottons to the concept of “neuter”.
“Sardines are hard to come by, and I am hoping to get what you did from a similar kidnapping,” she confides out of the side of her mouth.
“What? A vasectomy?” I am horrified.
“Silly boy. Of course not, but I will have to get one of those unnecessary hysterectomy things humans go on about. I am hoping to get a tummy tuck thrown in, as you did. That improved your profile a lot.” She winks. Or her one eyelid is habitually a little haywire.
There is no way to explain to Ma that only human miscommunication saved my, uh, assets. So I was not neutered, not by a long shot. I see I am going to have to somehow maneuver Ma into the hands of B-movie actress Savannah Ashleigh’s equally dense plastic surgeon. That will be a very demanding operation in more ways than one.
To say the least.
So I do not say anything further. That is always an option and, with Ma, often the best one.
43
License to Lose
Temple sat back on her bare heels on Electra’s Chinese rug. She’d neatened the papers Electra had flung every which way in a desperate search for anything that might placate Karma’s catnappers.