"Now it is time for the real experts to swing into action," I respond. "And I do mean 'swing.'
Think you can get up to the brow of that prow again pussycat?"
"Do not call me 'pussycat.' I find the term demeaning."
"De meaning was not meant to be anything personal. I believe I would be best suited to observing operations from the dock, like Lieutenant Molina."
"You mean you are too paunchy from sucking up free cat food in New York City to make like an acrobat. Do not sweat it, I will be up and at the scene of the crime in two shakes of a spaniel's tail."
She follows through on this promise before I can object to her parting remarks, none of which are true. And only humans sweat. I watch her balance on a cable as thick as Miss Temple's wrist as she uses it like a tightrope to the bridge, if a barge may be said to have a bridge. Despite my sire's oceanic adventures and current lakeside residence, I am woefully uninformed about maritime matters. Frankly, unless it is shallow and there are fish in it, or Miss Temple's damp clouds of bubbles, I do not care for water except for drinking purposes.
Midnight Louise is soon hanging by her fingernails from the stolid wooden countenance of a sea cow, which is the figurehead to which Mr. Cliff Effinger, whose ugly mug I was close enough to see unveiled, was bound for his final dip-and-ship. It seems that a blue mermaid of sorts has helped to do the dirty dude in.
Although the regular crime-scene team has been all over the area to which the body was bound, Miss Louise tries to rake up what clues she can, running her streetwise nose over all the surfaces.
She sneezes.
"Be careful that you do not catch your death of cold," I advise her from the sidelines. "Damp sea airs can be contaminated. And watch out that you do not fall into the water."
"Yes, Popsicle. I know I do not have your vast experience of drooling over the Crystal Phoenix koi pond."
She twists her petite frame until she is arranged over the sea cow's head like an oddly chic black fedora. "The cops seemed to have nailed most of the hair and fiber on the scene, including mine. But--"
"Do not be coy. Spit it out."
"I sniff the somewhat soggy traces of a foreign substance."
"What is it?"
"If I knew, it would not be a foreign substance. It reminds me very slightly of my favorite blend of catnip, which Miss Van von Rhine dispenses on an old sock of her husband's in her office when we are both working late."
"Miss Van von Rhine plies you with nip? I was never allowed to tipple on the job."
"Perhaps Chef Song's koi supply was the perquisite when you were house dick at the Crystal Phoenix. I had enough of sushi when I was on the streets, so Miss Van's offering is more than sufficient. And a little nip only sharpens my senses."
"Not to mention your tongue, I bet."
"What was that?"
"Nothing. I was just saying you were a little young for too much nip."
"Suit yourself, but do not try to dictate to me. All right, I have done this scene. Until I can identify the trace odor, there is nothing new here to report. I need to get back to the Phoenix to make my morning rounds. And I suppose your human will be waiting up for you at the Circle Ritz."
I sigh while Midnight Louise scampers back down the taut cable to my side.
"What is the typhoon for, Daddio-not? Did you expect to identify the perp in one go?"
"No. I just do not know where I will go. I am afraid that my Miss Temple is considering upheavals in my lifestyle."
"A waterbed?"
"Something even more disagreeable, I fear. But do not worry about me, I have survived turmoil before. Better get back to the job before some dog takes advantage of your absence and does a Dumpster raid."
She takes my advice for once and trots off without making the further, solicitous inquiries the female gender is noted for. What are these modern dolls coming to when they are so involved in their careers that they do not have time for being understanding of the male gender?
Then something dreadful occurs to me. Could Midnight Louise have a gentleman friend? Is that why she rushed off so eagerly? True, she is sterile, but that does not mean she could not overcome her missing hormones and at least be up for a little mush and slush.
I shudder. I am glad that I am not a victim of my gonads.
Chapter 18
Cut to the Quick
"Jesus, man. Jeee-sus, man."
Bennie's leathery skin had gone cocaine-white when Matt staggered back into ConTact.
Bennie ran for the bathroom, and came back, fists full of the crummy beige paper towels they were usually out of.
Thank God for small favors, Matt thought. Maybe prayed.
Blood soaked through the flimsy paper like water. His blood.
"Jezzzzzusss, man."
"My jacket," Matt said, for some reason concerned about blood getting on it.
Bennie worked off the left sleeve, dialing Leon, the supervisor, on the one -button dial key.
"We gotta get you to an emergency room," he was muttering half to Matt, half to his headset, which he had jammed back on, crooked.
Matt found himself noticing details like that as he watched his own actions and Bennie's panic through a numb veil of emotional anesthetic. Nothing hurt. That was the odd part. He didn't feel a thing. Just a disbelieving wonder at all the blood that was pouring out of him.
"Yeah." Bennie had connected. "We gotta close down now. Matt's been mugged in the parking lot. He's bleeding--all over the place. I can take him, yeah, if my damn bug still runs.
Right. We'll go now. If the lines are down, hey, we got an emergency here."
Bennie tore off his headset, looked at the wadded paper towels at Matt's side. "I bring the car around and come in for you. Or, hey! Nine-eleven. They come here."
Matt shook his head. "I think it's . . . slowing. Bennie, I can't go to a hospital. Do you know somebody else?"
"Alternative medicine, man? Now? You're loco. Loco, loco, loco- motive. You need help pronto."
Matt laughed weakly. "Thatsa Italian, Bennie. Pronto. Look, there must be someone in the neighborhood."
"You think I do drugs anymore? You think I'm still some sixties wild and crazy guy. Loco local? I don't know anybody. Well, maybe. Jesus, man. I'm gettin' the car, that's all I know."
Matt waited under the bright fluorescent lights, feeling as if the light itself was draining his color into a blue-white skim-milk pallor. He never knew he had so much blood in him, and so little pain.
Everything felt unreal. Kitty. Her charges. Her attack. His wound. Bennie's panic.
The building door banged open so hard he thought the glass would shatter.
Bennie helped him up and out to the Volkswagen chugging at the curb.
"It's a heap. A junker." Bennie raced around to the driver's seat and put the car into gear.
"No smooth ride. Sorry."
"Better than my motorcycle," Matt got out.
"Jesus, man."
Bennie drove like a demon through the deserted side streets. Matt was relieved to see they were heading north, into the Hispanic area. No nosy big-hospital intake rooms, no sirens and bright lights. He was scared but mostly he was scared of who/what/when/where/why. He couldn't risk the authorities finding out. Not for his own sake, but for his mother's. What was Effinger involved in, that it had come to this?
The small car forced his knees up into a semifetal position. Every jolt made more blood well over his fingers through the damp and reeking paper towels.
Finally the car stopped on a dark street lined with low houses and bristling cactus plants.
Bennie escorted him inside the house, knocking, not ringing a bell. By now Matt was wondering if he'd made a fatal mistake. If he'd killed his first man tonight all right.