Temple tuned out the mayhem and watched the signs of the zodiac spinning around the polestar. She realized the image at the apex of the pyramid was a blazing white horseshoe! One shod foot of the exterior nightmare actually “crashed” through the pointed roof to flash all the dancers below. It must be wearing a lucky horseshoe, of course.
Maybe seeing a lucky neon horseshoe was the same as wishing on a star. Temple was acting as a polestar herself. Standing still on the dance floor, she became a fixed point. People grooved all around, not caring what her shtick was any more than they cared whom they danced with or if they did.
Temple tried to picture a masked Max leaping on a bungee cord into this melee, pulling illusions out of his sleeves under all the signs of the zodiac. Look! There was Gemini, the twins, her birth sign. And Cancer, the crab. Then came Leo, the MGM lion. Not really, but in Vegas, was there any other lion on Earth or in the heavens? And Virgo, the virgin, a being as rare as a unicorn on the Vegas Strip. And Libra, the scales of balance and justice. Scorpio, with the curved sting of its tail lashing autumn into winter.
And then … Temple didn’t recognize the next constellation, or remember what zodiac sign came next. It didn’t offer a lot of stars but was rather peaked, like the top of Libra’s scales.
The one after it boasted a whole a rash of stars. Oh, that was the centaur shooting the arrow. Sagittarius, the archer. Capricorn, the goat, came next.
But … the hoofed centaur followed the scorpion. Temple was sure of it.
So … the constellation between Scorpio and the centaur had to be … shaped like a leaning house with a pointed roof—Ophiuchus!
Why did the Neon Nightmare include the rejected thirteenth sign of the zodiac between Scorpio the scorpion and Sagittarius the archer? Both shot stinging barbs. Ophiuchus combined man and serpent, which could sting as well.
Had Max air-danced beneath this bright and poisonous zodiac and been stung on the fly, falling to Earth and destruction?
Then where was the comet’s tail?
Why had such a spectacular death dwindled to mere memory and rumor?
Where was the body?
Playing It Koi
So here I am, at my former PI office, lurking in the canna-lily plants near the Crystal Phoenix koi pond, panting my lungs out so hard I can not even whisper “Dixie,” much less whistle it.
There was no time to hitch any rides, so I made the trip only on mitt leather, and I have worn my black soles pink. Some consider that a handsome retro color combination, but, let me tell you, it stings!
Luckily, I am too pooped to be distracted by the silken … undulating … translucent … fluttery fins on those plump piscine torsos in the nearby water attraction. Lake Mead may be a few trillion gallons shy a shoreline, but nothing will ever diminish or lower the water level in the hotel chef’s beloved koi pond.
I am hoping beyond hope for a rendezvous with Miss Midnight Louise. If she is not here, then my hasty mission to the Neon Nightmare club is doubly vital, for that is the last place I have seen her. So, by the shores of Getcha-gimme, while the koi beat their fins against the water in an odd familiar rhythm, I hear an internal mantra.
In the land of the Fontanas,
Lives the justice-maker’s daughter,
Mistress of the rising phoenix,
And the gleaming goldfish pond,
Born to run with nimble footwork,
Heart and mitt that move together,
She shall run upon my errands,
Midnight Louisa, laughing mocker …
Okay, the scansion on Miss Louise’s name does not quite work, but she is no Minnehaha, unless she is laughing at me. She would not be laughing now.
My vibrissae snap to immobile attention. I have spotted a familiar black hummock.
Midnight Louise is here on her home turf! Safe and stuffing her face. And here I was worried… .
Unfortunately, that still-crouched form is worshiping at the white-shod feet and medically white-clothed figure of Chef Song, arms folded on chest, the usual meat cleaver clutched to defend the precious foreign-named and fat goldfish from any interloper, like me.
I realize a delicate celadon green rice bowl sits between the kitchen god and worshiper, filled with fresh … shrimp or salmon perhaps, or tender slices of beef, or caviar, or octopus.
Preparing to make an end run to snag her attention, I watch the furred one sit up to perform after-meal ablutions. What, no warm, wet rolled-up towel? For shame, Chef Song!
By then the chef is turning away to gather goods to refill the bowl.
The diner strolls off into the canna lilies to finish his grooming. It is that big old lazy galoot of a purported father of mine, Three O’Clock! One would think the Glory Hole Gang’s test kitchen would suffice for his snacking.
While I eye him contemptuously, another black humped form is now worshiping at the about-to-be-refilled bowl.
Chef Song straightens. “You are hungry today, honorable cat.”
It is then I notice that he wears a pair of glasses that has slid down his nose, given all the serial kowtows he is making to my kind.
There is no chance even I would assume this latest bowl customer to be Miss Midnight Louise. She is more petite and curls her tail left when eating, and this bozo has a short, stumpy tail. I recall Ma Barker had promised to send some ninjas to patrol the Crystal Phoenix.
Pushing one’s face into a full rice bowl is not patrolling.
I can barely contain my impatience. I need to betray my position and go over to interrogate Three O’Clock without the looming, armed presence of my longtime foe, Chef Song. I am astonished he would lavish his bounty on all comers like this, when I am persona non grata.
I should snag a koi on the principle of it, while he is fawning over these street-gang strangers. The current customer also rises, flourishes his vibrissae, and ambles off to cleanse them in the canna lilies’ shade.
Before I can make a move, another black dude has appeared before the bowl, and while the now-vision-impaired chef is bent over watching the food vanish as if by magic, the dude is taking his turn. This is too much to bear.
If Chef Song cannot tell a senior citizen and a street tough from the dainty Miss Midnight Louise, he probably cannot distinguish me as his bitter enemy.
I strut into the open sunlight, stinging my footpads … ouch.
Nevertheless I march right up behind the current foodaholic. I will either join the chow line or I will bust it up.
Chef Song straightens as he spots me. With that tall, poofy white hat, he is as formidable appearing as a white Persian with its tail in full battle fluff. In other words, he and his meat cleaver do not scare me.
However, I am apparently so singular I am immediately ID’d.
“You!” he says. “You koi snatcher. You no longer resident. Get away from my private feeding station and pond or I will make minced shallots of your tail.”
Our set-to has spoiled the appetite of the latest freeloader, who hisses, spits, and runs for the canna lilies. Good. My posse is on their feet and ready to leave the luncheonette for the real scene of the action.
While Chef Song switches to uttering his own challenges in Chinese, I return full measure of hiss and spit, then show him the business end of my tail root and duck into the thick plant-stalk jungle.
Aaaah. Cool dirt between my toes, even though it will get stuck in my shivs.
“Okay, you worthless chowhounds,” I tell my now-assembled troops. “We have a mission. First, Three O’Clock, where is Midnight Louise?”
“I do not know. I just ambled over from the Glory Hole Gang’s test kitchen for some real food. Spuds Lonnigan is whipping up his specialty, potatoes, and I am not a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy. Meat, yes. Tater Tots, no.”
“You have not seen Miss Midnight Louise, either?” I ask the other two, while a singsong of imprecations continues above our heads and far, far away from our current concerns.
“Bast no, boss,” one says, with gratifying respect.