32
Louie Bows Out
I am, of course, not invited to the finale of the stripping competition. At nine, I am considered underage for attending such adult shenanigans.
In truth, I do not have the heart for It. The Divine Yvette has returned to her gilded cage. All right, it is pink canvas, but nonetheless a cage.
As for my prescient presence on the attempted-murder scene, I admit that it is all a sham. I haunt the premises only because of my obsession with the Divine Yvette, who finds freedom a heavy burden to bear.
Of course, my eleventh-hour dive atop the murderer's head makes me a hero in those blue-green eyes. Some may think that the imminent peril faced by my dear consort in accommodations at the Circle Ritz, Miss Temple Barr, has spurred my bold attack. Such persons are unaware that the hidden presence of the Divine Yvette is more to the point
When the lady in question peeks out of her sanctuary behind the costume rack some time later, I am still reclining on the countertop, having given the abandoned Black Russian a couple licks in the dereliction of all human personnel. I am not worried about the caffeine content. Even Miss Temple Barr has granted me the right to come in as late as I like.
Yvette lofts atop an empty chair and regards me with dewy eyes.
Even now every sentiment she expresses rings In my ears as if it were an endless yesterday. “What a hero,” she informs me with a heartfelt sigh.
I offer her a taste of the dregs of the Black Russian, but she wrinkles her perfect pink little nose. "No, Louie. I do not need any more stimulants—’’
“Alcohol is a depressant,” I growl with my usual prescience.
I can see who Is going to get depressed here already.
"I must return to my mistress.” The Divine Yvette pushes a long silver whisker back from her gleaming black lips. Her eyes grow round and sorrowful. “I must admit that these have been the most... piquant days of my life, but I am not happy on your level, Louie, trodding the common pavement until my soft pink pads grow coarse, pushed hither and yon by whomever would brush against me. I am used to a life of international travel, to seeing sights uncluttered by grime and graft. I am used to the haven of my carrier, and the attentions of my mistress.”
I have not the heart to argue. I could protect her from all she finds too crude, but she will not believe me.
“It is for the best, Louie,” she tells me, her sad eyes growing greener by the minute. “My mistress is in a career slump. With my returned presence, she may manage a comeback. I am all she has. Return me.”
It Is not as if Miss Savannah Ashleigh is about to discover a cure for cancer, much less feline leukemia. I shake my head sadly. Some might misinterpret the gesture as an attempt to dislodge a flea. The only flea in my ear is the plea of the Divine Yvette.
“Louie, Louie,” she purrs poignantly. I recall a popular party song of that title, but am in no mood for partying. “Even though I must go, you must remember this: we will always have the Goliath.”
I growl an answer. At such times, I am not articulate. Then I remember our stolen hours on the premises, the three a.m. glide on The Love Moat, the scent and sight of her opalescent powder in the almost-dark of the cavern, when we exchanged more than whispers. She was always afraid of water, of motion under her own power, of independence.
“Please,” she rumbles throatily, and what is an honorable dude to do?
I leap down to the floor In one bound, and assist her off the chair.
A light still beams in Miss Savannah Ashleigh's dressing room. The Divine Yvette minces, one fine, furred foot set in front of the other, toward the ajar door. Even I can hear the muted sobs within.
Yvette noses open the door, turns to give me one last, lingering look that would melt a snow leopard, then shoulders her way through.
I hear a gasp. A cry. “Oh, Yvette! You’re back. Momsy is so glad her baby-waby is backy-wacky!”
I stifle a gagging noise. It would be impolite to deposit a hair ball outside the Divine Yvette's door.
At the sound of a zipper being opened, I turn and walk away.
Miss Temple Barr is waiting up at the Circle Ritz. No doubt the caffeine In the Black Russian has given her the heebie-jeebies. I loft through the bathroom window, and she pounces on me with a full food dish.
“Louie!” she cries. “See! No more Free-to-Be-Feline. This is Salmon Surprise, from the Kat-sup company. And no declawing, so help me.”
She mentions nothing of the other abhorred procedure, and far be it from me to remind her. At the moment she is hanging over me like a pendulum and massaging my neck, while cooing my name. The Divine Yvette she isn't, but I have been in worse spots in my nine lives.
33
Electra City
Matt Devine stepped around to the passenger door of the aqua Storm and opened it.
Temple couldn’t “just say no” when Matt had offered to drive tonight. How could she explain knowing that he had no license? He must have had one once upon a time. He knew how to drive.
“Are you sure you want to return to the scene of the crime?” he asked.
Beams of light lanced the Saturday night Las Vegas sky, announcing the strippers’ competition to the very heavens. The colossus’s diaper was the focus of a thousand kilowatts of laser light every seventy-five seconds. A neon sign boasted Babes... Bodies... Boys.
“And miss Electra’s debut?” Temple answered. “Your landlady’s not a stripping finalist every day. I hope you don’t regret skipping your stint at ConTact tonight.”
He shook his blond head, which looked as gilded as Gypsy or June in the artificial light of the hotel entrance. “No regular client is calling now. Even though I said that knowing is worse than not knowing, I’m grateful you managed to solve who she was. I won’t have to wonder about what happened to her forever.”
“Forever,” Temple said, “is a long time.”
Matt nodded. “So is a day. Or a night. Why is Electra going through with the stripper contest?”
“She’s getting a charge out of it, what can I say? We can at least try not to laugh.”
“I’m not in a laughing mood.”
“Me, neither.”
They entered the hotel, Temple bracing herself to pass the Sultan’s Palace and The Love Moat. Then Matt started asking her about the details of the case and she forgot to brood over these emotional landmarks.
“Molina says the case is cut and dried,” Temple told him. “Wilma—Carter’s her last name—has a history of mental illness, and there’s no doubt her daughters were molested by her husband. They’ve all vanished, and she’s left holding the bag of guilt. She’ll be put away, but not in prison. It’s harder to get out of a mental hospital than a jail, these days. Would you think I was crazy if I visited her?”
“I’d think you were a twenty-four-carat human being. I envy you,” he said, as the velvet ropes parted for Temple’s VIP pass. It was the least Ike Wetzel could do, and Ike Wetzel always did the least.
“Why?”
They were soon seated in a wine-velvet-upholstered banquet. An obsequious waiter dashed up with glasses of champagne on the house.