Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Alien X-Ray

I would have said, “Well, la-ti-dah to you too,” except that I realize Karma is fading with the lamplight into a mere hint of gold body and white toes, with the blue peepers still bold and beautiful.

“You are addressing my astral projection, poor boy, and if you wish to keep displaying your ignorance, you may do so in person when you return home.”

And out the baby blues go, leaving me talking to myself on a deserted sidewalk as signs of suburban life stir all around me, from front doors opening to collect newspapers, to dogs being let out to water the grass and bark, to garage doors starting to grumble open.

Speaking of grumbling, that is how I leave the deserted scene of our mass clawdown with Kathleen O’Connor, wishing all a speedy recovery and good karma. As for Kitty the Cutdown, I hope the bedbugs get her.

Chapter 53

Two Close for Comfort

Matt dreamed he was swimming in an infinity pool that wasn’t an optical illusion, but a river of water that went on and on forever, a lane of illuminated artificially turquoise water, his exact body temperature.

But his head wasn’t turning from side to side to breathe, and something was biting at his side, a grim, slim fish. Barracuda.

He surfaced, blinking water out of his eyes, feeling the dozens of teeth still stinging, yet the sensation was blurring into an ache rather than a sharp pain.

“That was some sleeping pill,” a familiar voice to his left said.

Matt turned his head in the water and saw a bizarre face. The man wore a helmet of bound gauze, like a mummy. His head was propped on one elbow. High and dry. In bed.

Matt realized his swim trunks were some sort of … apron?… wrapping him, and he was in a bed too.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” Max Kinsella said. “Love the concentric circles on the gown, though. Mine has little dancing triangles on it.”

Matt struggled to sit up, but stopped when the pain in his side intensified. He remembered the sound of a firecracker exploding somewhere on his torso. Oh, yeah. Shot.

“Hospital?” he asked Kinsella.

“Just for observation, but your repair job was a bit longer and rougher than mine.”

“When is it?” Matt asked.

“About seven P.M. of the day after the night before.”

“Temple’s all right?”

Kinsella hesitated.

“She’s all right?” Matt had to know right now.

“Better than us, physically. A wee bit agitated otherwise.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“She flew by to soothe your sleeping brow and leave this.” Max elevated a couple pieces of typing paper.

Matt couldn’t focus for a few fuzzy seconds. Max’s long, muscled freakishly bare left arm handed the paper across the chasm between the beds.

“They put us in the same room?” Matt asked, finding the fact irritating.

Kinsella nodded to a curtain on his left. “The same ward. We have a ruptured appendix and bleeding ulcer down the line.”

Matt found himself still frowning. “What are these papers?”

“Printout of a digital story on the Vegas newspaper site. It won’t hit print until tomorrow. You’ll want to study your lines.”

“My lines?”

“Just read it. I predict you and Temple will set a wedding date pronto.”

“What?” Matt, still woozy, realized the bandages made it look like Kinsella had an inverted white cereal bowl on his head. Ludicrous. He bit his lip to smother a grin. “And what happened to you?”

“I had a gun-butt contusion—a love tap from Kathleen—a bit bigger than a quarter on the back of my temple. They decided they had to shave off a section of hair the size of a grapefruit in order to slap a few stitches and some iodine on it.”

“The Mystifying Max without half his mane? Excuse me for finding that funny.”

Kinsella nodded at Matt’s sheet-swaddled torso. “You now have matching scars from Kitty the Cutter, left and right. I guess we could say you’re well balanced.”

Matt shrugged and noticed something over Kinsella’s hospital-gowned shoulder. Something as red as blood.

“Roses?”

“Wild Irish roses, thorns not removed.” Kinsella made a wry face. “Many condolences to you. It looks like I’ve successfully diverted Kathleen’s attentions back to me. The card is signed with crimson nail enamel, ‘Forever.’”

“Man, I wouldn’t wish that woman’s attentions on a serial killer.”

“Maybe you’ve softened her up some.”

Matt shook his head, and then was sorry for jolting it. “Doubt it. I did get down to the first stratum of her psychosis. I think she hates you for getting there first.”

“Figures.” Kinsella had always been calm about things that would drive Matt crazy.

“How’d she get the drop on you before we arrived?” Matt wondered.

“Embarrassing. Still some cotton wool between my ears from the amnesia, I guess. Slowed my reaction time. Speaking of embarrassing, you’d better read that stuff.”

Matt shifted and spotted a whole line of floral offerings on the narrow ledge of his window. “It’s been too short a time for flowers—”

“Oh, word got out fast on the Temple Barr Telegraph, and Teleflora.… Read ’em and weep.” Kinsella nodded again at the papers.

Before Matt could do either task—read or weep—a nurse in scrubs covered with colorful teddy bears whisked around the corner bearing two identical and stunning floral arrangements of purple irises and yellow tulips.

“More for you, Mr. Kinsella,” she chirruped, “and for Mr. Devine.”

When Matt eyed her inquiringly, she caroled out the name of the donor so the whole ward could hear. “From Tony Valentine. Lovely surname.”

She was gone and Matt was scratching his head, which he could do, because it wasn’t swathed with a ridiculous hat of gauze.

“That’s my agent,” he told Kinsella. “Why’s he sending you flowers?”

“I told you. Read the story. Temple said it was the best she could do on instant notice.”

“What would Temple have to do with it—?” His glance fell on the larger-type headline on the pages. GOSSIP-A-GO-GO. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. She had to explain the assault scene not only to the police but the media. She’s the mistress of spin, no doubt about it. We’ll have a hard time living up to her inspired improvisation.”

Matt pushed himself up against the pillows, winced and sighed simultaneously, and began to read. “Oh my God!” He glanced at Max. “That wasn’t swearing; it was a religious ejaculation.”

“Good thing I’m familiar with Catholic terminology, or I’d have taken your explanation for something else.”

“Enough with the jokes, Kinsella. Did you see what this two-bit entertainment columnist is saying?”

“All too clearly.”

“Good grief.” Matt began reading snippets aloud in disbelief. “‘Attempted robbery at semi-retired magician’s house reveals an intriguing new entertainment deal in the works. Is the “hot new couple” in town Max Kinsella, aka the Mystifying Max, and syndicated radio shrink Matt Devine? What kind of act could they dream up? Magic and mind-reading? Sounds promising. These two local celebrities are a reverse Siegfried and Roy, with the brunet of the duo lean and mean and the blond warm and fuzzy.’”

“Gag,” Matt said, for the first and hopefully last time in his life.

“Swearing for real is far more satisfying than sounding like a teenager,” Kinsella said.

“Shut up. ‘The Odd Coupling—’ No!”

“Yes. It gets worse.”

“‘… could have betrayed a big secret on the showbiz front. According to well-known publicist Temple Barr, who reps both men, Matt Devine suffered a flesh wound when caught in the crossfire after a robber broke into Kinsella’s Las Vegas home near dawn yesterday.’