So here I am, on a dog-day afternoon in August, lounging in the shade of the canna lily stand behind the Circle Ritz condominiums, doing what comes naturally: watching others work while I snooze.
My delightful roommate, Miss Temple Barr, is occupied by the pool with Mr. Matt Devine. For once, these two are sensible enough to stand in the shadow of the lone palm tree that dusts the ocean-blue Las Vegas sky while clouds swirl above like schools of succulent albino carp.
In fact, this pair is sensibly attired in what look like dust sheets you put on unwanted furniture in abandoned houses, possibly haunted. Normally my little doll takes care of her innate stature problem by balancing on three-inch heels, but today she is—for the first time in my acquaintance with her—out of doors and barefoot.
She does not act happy about this fact, moving her weight from one narrow tootsie to the other until she reminds me of those shilly-shallying hot-pink neon birds perched atop the front of the Flamingo Hilton in an avian chorus line. I must admit that I prefer a short woman. She has less far to stoop to extend affectionate greetings and thus does it more frequently.
Also, being petite, she is less inclined to try to do what I abhor: pick me up. I am not your run-of-the-mill pickup. As for Miss Temple Barr, she finds her own lack of stature a shortcoming, so to speak. Me, I say you see a lot more interesting things closer to the ground and can smell out a rat—human or literal—in no time flat. Why do you think Sherlock Holmes was always scrabbling around on his hands and knees looking for clues? Trying to overcome his height handicap, of course, not to mention a genetic predisposition to insufficiency of the sniffer.
Right now the ground at Miss Temple and Mr. Matt's end of the pool is not good clue territory, being covered by thick mats, which in turn are covered in an irritatingly bright blue vinyl. I can smell the chemical perfume of pure plastic from here.
Obviously, Mr. Matt Devine is about to give Miss Temple Barr a lesson in the ancient and Asian arts of self-defense.
This I cannot object to, despite the sloppy dress code and the vinyl mattresses defacing my view and foiling my olfactory skills. My little doll could use some beefing up in the self-confidence concession.
Because of the intimate relationship I share with Miss Temple Barr, I have seen her sit bold upright in the night, ever since two dudes with ball bearings for knuckles did a number on her in the Goliath Hotel parking ramp a couple of weeks ago.
As I say, I will be snoozing with my usual concentration when she will lift up from the bed linens like a corpse about to take an unauthorized stroll in a horror movie. I awake at the slightest disturbance of the sheets, and cannot recline on wrinkles, being as sensitive in this regard as a princess to a pea.
At such times, I smell the slight tang of human sweat, which overpowers even the English lavender-scented dusting powder Miss Temple uses after her bath. (Unlike superior species, she must actually immerse herself in large quantities of water to keep clean, hence the need for powder afterward, so her clothes do not stick to her skin. I am a practicing nudist myself, and have never heard any complaints, especially from discriminating ladies of my kind—and others.)
"Oh, Louie," Miss Temple Barr will say a moment after jerking out of her slumber. She sounds glad to see me there, which she should be. When it comes to protection, I am nothing to sneeze at.
She curls her lacquered claws into the roll of muscle at the back of my neck, which has me positively purring. Unlike a lot of ladies these benighted days, Miss Temple Barr has long, strong nails that she does not hesitate to paint in a carnivorous red color. This is not the least of her attractions for me, although her equal propensity for being up to her matching lipstick in crime and punishment is also encouraging. I love a mystery almost as much as I do a massage.
In fact, my own set of claws came In handy in apprehending the Stripper Killer at the Goliath Hotel Rhinestone G-string Contest—incidentally saving my little doll from a dreaded death-by-Spandex.
A small Las Vegas Scoop item in Crawford Buchanan’s “Broadside” column described my latest foray into criminal apprehension—the criminal being the one who was apprehensive, not me. As usual, Buchanan put my feat in the most degrading light
"An alley cat around Las Vegas leaped into literal action last Friday when the Goliath Hotel serial Stripper Strangler went after local PR flack Temple Barr. The cat, an overweight, solid-black layabout named Midnight Louie, fell from atop a costume cabinet where it was sleeping just as the Strangler was about to tie the luscious Miss Barr's neck into a double-Windsor knot. The snoozing puss proved unlucky for the killer when its claws, extended during the plunge, accidentally raked the perp. Talk about a timely pussy foot. Must have been Friday the Thirteenth somewhere.”
Crawford Buchanan can mangle the truth faster than the Goliath killer could strangle a stripper. My plunging to the rescue of my delightful roommate was no accident: I was buying time until Lieutenant C.R. Molina could rush in with the cavalry from down the hall.
Of course, I am used to feats of derring-do, thanks to my back-alley days, now long behind me. Miss Temple Barr, on the other hand, is a tiny thing, though spirited. I fear that the shock of a severe beating followed by the Attack of the Stripper Strangler would make even the heroine of a Roger Corman movie a trifle overwrought.
She now keeps a flashlight beside her bed. This is a sinister implement, sheathed in a black, rubbery material, that would serve well as a weapon in addition to lighting up the darkness. It also stinks. If only human attackers were as sensitive to smell as I am, they would be knocked out
Every time my little doll has one of these midnight misadventures, she performs the same routine. First she sinks her fingers into my warm fur, if I am there, which I usually am these days—or nights, rather. I do have an escape clause: the open bathroom window. Miss Temple Barr’s rooms are on the second floor and the window is small, so no felon larger than a midget is able to enter, although I can both enter and exit with the ease of a garter snake. Nowadays the domestic life suits my more laid-back style. I rarely take a nighttime stroll unless I have business of a crime-fighting or personal nature abroad.
Anyway, Miss Temple takes up her high-tech flashlight and I see the back of her Garfield T-shirt as she makes a tour of the premises, particularly of the French doors leading to the patio.
She returns, often with a granola cookie. This I keep strictly between her and me: a lady’s nighttime habits are no one’s business but her own. I must admit that I do not relish crumbs in the bed, especially when they are the sort I do not personally find consumable, but I understand my little doll's need for comfort after her attack, and at least she has not yet imported any crumbs of another sort entirely to her—and my—California king-size bed. There is only one King of the Hill here and the name is Midnight Louie.
Of course, it is because of a dude before my time that Miss Temple was so rudely interrogated by the pair of hoods in the Goliath garage. His name at least I approve of: the Mystifying Max. His game was okay also: magician. What was wrong with him was that he vanished—permanently, and without bothering to tell Miss Temple. I would not do such a thing to a little doll like her unless I was road kill, which I fear is one of the theories that is bothering my lovely roommate about her missing ex-significant other.