Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Someone must have overridden the ground fault interrupter for the whole damn water attraction. Raw electrical current was flowing. The cove was a giant bathtub into which someone had thrown a hair dryer.

That had happened in dozens of low-end crime films. The unsuspecting victim lowers her/himself into the drawn bath and … the quick toss of a hair dryer or electric razor, into the water. Zapped.

Max’s madly pedaling legs swung him back over decking. The ship, built of wood as in days of old and molded plastic pieces as in the stage sets of today, couldn’t conduct electricity. Yo, ho, ho, and an oaken cask of rum. He dropped onto the deck, rolling to take the brunt of the landing, his legs scrambling for purchase on the rubberized no-slip surfaces installed for the dangerous stunts.

Rafi grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.

The last deserting “rat” was scrabbling over the ship’s side to the shore. Max could swear a small agile dark form was hot on his heels, but Midnight Louie was safely away in Chicago. Rafi grabbed his arm, distracting Max before he could be sure he’d seen anything odd.

They looked back toward the dark water on the same impulse. A sacklike form floated there. Max grabbed a prop belaying pin and threw it into the water. No reaction. It merely sank.

As he and Rafi followed the vanished thug into the tangled landscaping, alarmed voices and running footsteps were fast approaching the ship.

A high-powered flashlight beam swept Rafi. He beat Max to the draw with an expletive.

“I’m made,” he said. “The water’s dead now, but so is that guy. Get away!”

“No—”

“Go! I can explain myself being here better than I can me and you. If you ever needed a disappearing act more, it’s now.”

Max remained frozen and indecisive, out of flashlight range. The beam had steadied and fixed on Rafi. The moment felt like deserting Garry again.

“Get away!” Rafi’s low-toned snarl finally pushed Max to the bordering elephant ear plants. Their four-foot leaves could hide a Brink’s armored truck, or a rhinoceros. Pick your poison. Not ivy, he hoped. He ducked and dodged into the rubbery, flagellating dark, moving fast so no sign of shivering foliage would reveal his getaway path.

Max heard the shouts calming into talk, and then barked orders. He kept working around the hotel building’s thick greenery until he heard nothing but his own rustles and heartbeat. He emerged in the rear parking lot, looking for a low black roof amid the pumped-up SUVs and pickups.

The Volkswagen was near the second row of parking lights, halfway between two lurid pools of greenish illumination, just the way he liked his rides placed, on the down low.

Max got in, started the engine, and sat awhile before putting it in gear.

Someone had tried to kill him. Again.

This was getting monotonous.

Chapter 29

Bye-Bye Windy Kitty

At last.

We are back in the hot, dry, lizard-loving arms of McCarran Airport. No more O’Hare, or undignified inspections.

So there I am, no longer wearing leopard pattern, but wrapped up in a black-and-white and flamingo pink carrier customized by Miss Krys Zabinski for maximum embarrassment.

Personal expression is valued these days, and she does plenty of it. In fact, I am planning my own page on Facebook and expect to “tweet” my close encounters with various tweety birds early in my career, including those from that pink plastic flamingo case in my past.

But.

I do not need to be passing through major airports looking like a sissy on steroids. In fact, I am longing for the sudden-death high of a good kidnapping, though I can assure you that no thug worth his brass knuckles would lay so much as a pinkie finger on my current carrier.

“Oh, that old-style newspaper theme on your pet carrier is so fun,” strange ladies coo at me. When I say “strange,” I mean we are not formally introduced, not that they are loopy, although they very well may be.

“I bet the ‘Extra, Extra’ headline on the front means your cat is extra loving. Give us a smooch, big boy.”

“It’s actually for being ‘Extra’ heavy,” my Miss Temple (sellout!) says sweetly.

“Oh, you poor thing. You need a Chihuahua. They are light and sooo cute.”

My Miss Temple needs a Chihuahua like Ma Barker needs a Yorkie canapé.

Mr. Matt, meanwhile, handles all the luggage while looking like a brute for “letting” her cart massive me around.

I tell you, this celebrityhood is a bum rap. Everyone is so ready to be judgmental. Like I am a burden and Miss Temple is a silly lightweight and Mr. Matt is a spoiled media darling.

When it comes to spoiled media darlings around here, that will be me, the once and future king of cat food spokespersonery.

All in all, though, I am pleased with our jaunt to Chicago.

My media value was enhanced by a couple dramatic kidnappings.

I was able to get in a high-power workout while on vacation and meet a new lot of street buddies and future sources, should I elect to move my base of operations to the Windy City. Perhaps I could relocate the junior partner north instead. Miss Midnight Louise might establish an outpost for Midnight Investigations, Inc. I have not done too badly here on an extended weekend visit.

I helped uncover dastardly lingering plots from years ago that are still alive and ticking, or kicking.

Also, I have learned valuable lessons on making it through security.

Now that we are home I will get back to pursuing evil weevils like the Viper and the Weasel all the live-long day. And night.

Evil Weevils is what I privately call the bad guys and girls, both of which I am hoping to foil and eradicate like bugs on the beautiful neon desert lily that is my native town of Las Vegas.

Now that I have taken down a couple of Chicago hoods I am ready for a no-holds-barred campaign against these Synth characters who have been messing up my compadres’ lives since day one.

Life would be dull without vile forces to battle, be they fleas or felons, however.

Chapter 30

Surprise Park

Cop cars often met at the far end of fast-food joint parking lots, pulling up to each other with the noses pointed opposite ways so the cops could speak through the driver’s side windows.

That was impractical in Las Vegas, given the usual heat and the vehicle’s air-conditioning blowing in the wind and burning expensive gas.

So Max left his Volkswagen well hidden behind a tall stand of pampas grass and hiked into the picnic area of Sunrise Park.

He passed Molina’s new Prius, a classic silver color ideal for the Vegas climate, unlike the heat-absorbing and apropos black of his Beetle. Still, it was low and easy to hide, especially at night.

Unlike Sunset Park, tucked under McCarran Airport on the south side of the city, Sunrise Park was smaller, less well kept, and tucked under Nellis Air Force Base on the city’s north side.

It was twelve miles north of McCarran and eight miles from the Strip. Meeting here was as far off the hustle, bustle, and recognition factor of the Strip as you could get and still be convenient.

In the early morning, both tennis courts were occupied, although the surfaces looked rugged.

Molina was sitting on a picnic table in one of her signature khaki summer pantsuits, her buckskin loafer-clad feet planted on the built-in seat.