Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

That is to say, she is wearing her red high heels and is pulling her sunglasses out of her turquoise tote bag.

That is how I know she is in a hurry. Turquoise and red accessories? Tsk, tsk, and tangle my whiskers.

After our traumatic trip to Mr. Matt’s family and network job opportunities, not to mention unsuspected family mob connections in Chicago, I have worried about my roomie’s ability to handle everything that is in play, including a psychopath in the woodwork.

So it is out the French doors again. Then I am down the rough-barked palm tree to the ground before the Circle Ritz elevator can creak Miss Temple to the lobby.

Next, I am under the little red Miata in its cozy carport before you can say Jackie Robinson.

Click, click, click. Miss Temple was never one to shy from announcing her oncoming presence. I crouch, vibrissae (whiskers to you) vibrating with excitement. I have a mere half a second to leap out, scramble up, and squeeze into the tiny space between Miss Temple’s pushed-forward front seat and the trunk bulk head. Once placed, I blend with the black carpet.

I must protest to Mazda sometime for skimping on rumble seat room in Miatas for hitchhiking PIs of a feline nature. “Cute” is as cute does, and I look for function in a vehicle as well as cool looks. Just a little marketing tip.

You might think my Miss Temple is a bit dim not to notice that I am occasionally a third wheel, so to speak, on her expeditions. That would be underestimating my well-polished expertise as a stealth investigator. Given the prejudice against my kind running unfettered, I have been perfecting a low profile since a kit. Also, being petite, Miss Temple is a forward-charging personality and seldom looks back, which also serves me well.

I think this tendency will serve her well as she finalizes her transition from association with an alpha male who is too busy roaming and fighting to a more domesticated male who will settle down with her in a peaceful routine without, Bast forbid, any kits of any species on the horizon.

I have already conceded much in her behalf. There is eating the occasional putrid pellet of Free-to-Be-Feline health food for sissy cats. There is ceding one-quarter of the zebra-pattern comforter to offensive recreational activities of a personal nature that force me to decamp in the middle of the night. There is even occasionally using the disgusting plastic tray of grit she keeps in the second bathroom.

Despite my sacrifices, I am always ready to act as an impromptu bodyguard.

She uses the Wynn’s off-Strip entrance, which avoids the endless lobby and casino areas. I have no trouble darting from one handy place of concealment to another while following her through the tourist throngs.

People in Las Vegas rarely look down, unless it is to puke, which is why the carpeting is always a busy multicolored design for long wear.

Nowadays, the upscale places are all marble floors, which clean up more easily but echo like crazy. “Stealth” is my middle name, so I make sure I am not seen and certainly am not heard in my velvet footpad mode.

Not so with Miss Temple, whose smart high heels add to the echo. She can trot faster than a Pomeranian on those spikes. I do not know how she does it and am all admiration. I certainly could not move so fast in any direction but up with my shivs out.

When she trots all the way through the casino areas to the Terrace Pointe Café, I am stymied. All the Wynn restaurants feature an indoor-outdoor ambience. I certainly approve because I am definitely an inside-outside kind of guy.

Still, the Terrace Pointe Café forsakes any tinge of Vegas casino shadowy décor. Simply put, the light and airy spaces mean my entrance would be like an inkblot trying to pass as Wite-Out on a piece of snowy bond paper.

Manx! I must glimpse what Pied Piper has drawn my Miss Temple from our cozy nest at the Circle Ritz. With Kathleen O’Connor lurking around the home front now that Mr. Max is back in town, I am super suspicious of all new contacts these days.

I could make out like a bandit with the hotel family buffet droppings just kiddie-corner from the café, but I am not here to feed my stomach, only my curiosity, which is almost as capacious.

Cringing with shame, I opt for cover in the resort-wear shop opposite. At least they have hanging clothing areas I can conceal myself under, but it is not a locale of choice for the macho private eye. I would really rather be darting under the goods in the Ferrari–Maserati showroom at the main entrance. Ah. The fragrant drip of Italian motor oil and air of imminent Fontana brothers.

At least here in this domain where the women come and go, talking of mojitos and Michelangelo, I can keep my eyes on the restaurant entrance across the way. I can also spot the telltale style, color, and audible ring of my Miss Temple’s current heels when she leaves. When I tail her, I can get a notion of whom she has met and for what purpose.

I will not bore you by reporting all the chitchat I overhear in the next hour or so. Or the extreme prices of so-called casual wear from an outfit named Dulcie and Gabby Anna.

The continual scrape of hanger tops on rods and incoming and outgoing waves of a dozen different designer fragrances lull me into something resembling a stupor.

My eyes pop wide when I realize I have gazed unthinking on my little doll’s ankles leaving the restaurant in—she has cheated on me!—flats. Shoes that are all sole and no heel at all. No soul.

Someone in a pair of pale pants and oxford shoes was ankling along right beside her.

I throw caution to the caftans and corner like a Maserati outta the joint, immune to the ooh s and aah s my exit leaves behind me.

Alas, the pathway between the casinos is a sea of legs mingling in all directions. I need height to spot my flat-footed roommate and her mysterious escort.

Sliding and dodging among the many hairy bare legs (the Terrace Pointe Café overlooks the hotel’s main pools, which are about the size for a dozen orca whales, not to mention overweight gambling “whales”), I race to out-amble my prey.

I concoct a plan. The Wynn has a famous place where a two-story wall of glass overlooks a wall of falling water. Folks like to gather there for a quiet drink. (That is what anyone who spends four hours on the Vegas Strip requires, a quiet drink. I do not use addictive substances, but do take a wee nip now and then. I especially like mine organically grown. I know, that is very ’70s.)

Anyway, I am planning to hitch a ride to the top of the magnificent white-plastered rotunda above the cocktail joint, from where I can spy Miss Temple’s red hair and petite form with no trouble, even if she is going barefoot!

The beauty of my plan is that all the customers (I guess at the Wynn they are “clients”) are facing out into this brilliantly sunlit façade. Anyone who happens to turn and spot me will be “light-blind” for many moments, and I plan to keep moving.

My ride to the top may be as yellow or red as a priceless Italian sports car, but it is a much humbler and common domestic object.

Yes, friends, I am going to be doing the Mary Poppins act. Not with the clumsy black bumbershoot the Brits favor, but with the floating fanciful umbrellas that constantly rise up and down in the area known as Parasol Up and Parasol Down, which will in future be known as Louie Up and Louie Down.