Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Whomp.

I had not anticipated such an abrupt stop and could clearly claim whiplash, but that would be fraud. In one fluid motion I do a triple back-twist out of the basket onto the sidewalk, landing on my tippy toes, to much applause and further media commemoration. This will outdo my unadmitted sire’s recent local TV news caper finding the bodiless, booted feet in the dried-up bed portion of Lake Mead.

Several walkers rush to push the old fellow back onto the sidewalk and applaud as, like the Mississippi, he just keeps rolling along.

They then start looking around for me. Not a chance. Unlike Daddy dearest, I know when to duck the spotlight. My loyal audience assumes the worst, that I have fled to nurse my injuries. Cries of “poor kitty” grow faint in my wake as I work my way through the low landscaping under the Boulevard palms.

“Poor kitty” is right where she wants to be. I have it made in the shade once I thread through the leafy underbrush, past a lot of milling and sniffy sneakers and into the dim, ice-palace air-conditioning of my destination.

Gangsters is a boutique hotel. “Boutique” is one of those fancy French words my senior, very senior, partner likes to toss off in front of certain purebred females he is always striving, in vain, to impress. It means “small and expensive.”

In Las Vegas, it means short-storied and off-Strip. Still, a very snappy neon sign of a fedora and a gun barrel set the theme atop the nine stories.

I am not expensive, but I am small, and black like my old man, so moving around Vegas in the dark and indoors, which is almost always dark, is no trick. I head inside for the signature “fine dining experience” on the premises, which is not the kicky vintage carousel bar on the lower level, but a new top-of-the-tower eatery called Godfather’s.

Yes, this is an ultra-macho venue. You will find no restaurant named Godmother’s here. In fact, I think us Vegas girls of various species should get together and back a female-friendly hotel-casino called Chicklets. I nominate our friend Van von Rhine, lady Exec of the Crystal Phoenix Hotel, as chairman of the board.

Anyway, you work with the hand you are dealt, and my particular ace in the hole at the moment is one large black cat-dude more interested in expanding his waistline than building his sphere of influence. He makes the senior partner of Midnight Investigations, Inc., look junior.

First I have to weave through a lot of waxed legs and spit-shined evening loafers to the rotating restaurant ring with the window views of neon and natural sunsets. It might be impressive to tourists, but I usually have a floorside view.

I meander unseen among the seated lower limbs. How can fashionable femmes walk on these curved, rocking chair platforms and stiletto heels that make Miss Temple Barr’s shoe fetish look like a low-end lace-up sneaker sort of love?

The super-stiletto-shod stars can barely totter to David Letterman’s sofa to make knee-crossing a revelatory art on the scale of the now-common “wardrobe malfunction.” But here their footwear fans are now, courting bunions and surgery en masse.

All I will consent to nowadays is a discreet pedicure on an upholstered piece of overstuffed hotel furniture. I feel the Crystal Phoenix owes me that much for my services as unofficial house detective. I assiduously avoid leather as a nail-filing system, understanding that such furniture there is often high-design Italian and that my appropriating it as a scratching post would be courting extreme annoyance from the ruling Fontana family dynasty.

Meanwhile, here at the lower end of the franchise, Gangsters, I nimbly either avoid or blend in with the black-trouser-clad male and female waitstaff as I wend from table to table.

By the way, the word “waitstaff” is another favorite annoyance of mine. In the fever to eliminate the sexist terms “waiters” and “waitresses,” human society has come up with another nonsense word on the scale of “brillig.” Even Alice in Wonderland would be loath to “eat” and “drink” the many interesting concoctions of her expedition if they were presented by people called “waitstaff.” That always reminds me of a wizard standing by with a big stick.

Even as I muse, I blunder into sudden impact with a large furry lump like a muff dropped at a lady’s feet.

“Get your own table brushings,” a voice grumbles.

“You are the table brushing I am seeking.” I have finally tracked down my clan’s patriarch, Three O’Clock Louie.

“This is an order of New York steak I am staking out,” he says. “It is due hot and sizzling any minute now. Scram.”

“Too much marbleized fat for the senior citizen. Overrated. You will be wanting a well-done butterflied filet with truffle oil.”

“Yeah? Where is this mythical beast?”

“Already delivered and ripe for distraction and delectation at a table near the elevator.”

The way to a male’s brain is through his stomach. In three minutes I have a slightly seared but rare-on-the-inside Godfather’s investor away from the dining arena and poised on the brink of the way down.

“Louise,” he acknowledges me, boxing steak trimmings and shrimp crumbles from his midnight-black whiskers. “If you require my professional services, you should ask ahead of time, with a nice note.”

“I require your backup. If you respond ‘nicely,’ I will put in a good word for you with Ma Barker.”

“I need no favors from my street-gang-running ex,” he answers. “Also, I am very picky about where and with whom I exert myself these days. Borrow one of Ma Barker’s young toughs for backup.”

“No time. I need a coconspirator fast to track a possible killer.”

“Really? Crime most.… er, criminal. Junior, you know, fancies himself as the expert at that.”

“Junior is off the map. I need a wise, sage partner I can rely on.”

“And where will you be doing this ‘relying on?’”

“At the Neon Nightmare.”

“That is six blocks off the Strip and twenty down the Boulevard.”

“Trust me, Granddaddy. You are not GoDaddy. We are not off to shoot elephants, but on a mission to preserve the wildlife in Vegas, as in four-footed. You can do the walk.”

“You really need backup?”

“I do.”

“And I will do for that?”

“You will.”

“You are not wishing Junior was here?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And we are after killers of the human sort?”

“Sneaky, treacherous killers of the human sort.”

“Give me five!”

I hit him with my best shot, a five-finger exercise, feline style, but with the razor tips only out a centimeter.

“ Ouch! That is my girl.”

Chapter 4

Louie on the Fly

Leaving Las Vegas could be a hassle, but Temple hadn’t done it since visiting her aunt Kit Carlson in Manhattan for Christmas. A lot could change in five months, she mused while temporarily stalled in the McCarran Airport security line.