Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A White Tie And Tails

He stopped and moved back to the coin boxes. One was made of beautifully grained cocobolo wood, as wands often were. Not a seam showed in its curved dimensions, but a ring of ivory inset on the top was carved in the shape of a worm Ouroboros, the snake biting its tail and a symbol of eternity that matched the ring Kathleen O’Connor had forced Matt Devine to wear for a time.

The image was commonly known to people with a mystical bent. This could be meaningless, but it had belonged to Jefferson Mangel, who perhaps had been a man who knew too much.

The Plexiglas cover wasn’t locked. It had an “invisible” sliding seam on one side. Max had the cocobolo wood box in his hands in an instant, and the other four coin boxes in that section respaced to hide its absence. He could return the piece as easily.

The wood warmed in his hands. His fingertips felt no opening, but there had to be one. Time to play with it later. It slipped into his pants pocket.

Could there be something interesting in the ranks of posters displayed carpet-sample fashion? Max flipped through the giant aluminum frames like pages in a book, viewing show placards that pictured magicians from the Frenchman Robert-Houdin, to the Austrian he’d inspired, Houdini, to Blackstone to David Copperfield and to … the Mystifying Max. He started slightly as he came face-to-face with himself.

All magicians, except the Cloaked Conjuror, aspired to that Bela Lugosi as Dracula hypnotic stare, but Max was surprised in ambush by the dramatically intent expression. His green-eyed black-panther stare would do Midnight Louie proud.

Flashback.

He is standing, seeing his blue eyes in the mirror and then, blink, the green contact lenses glide into place on his vitreous humour, the glistening fluid of his eyes. He becomes the Mystifying Max … and also a few degrees closer to a disguise that will keep Max Kinsella a wholly separate entity, at least in international intrigue circles.

His own gall surprises him. By doing a show in Las Vegas in any guise he’d been taking a hell of a risk.

Why had he done the Vegas bit? Garry had retired here, of course. He must have gotten an offer he couldn’t refuse from the Goliath. Only for a year, but it must have been renewable. And … as his memory clicked into operation, the eyes on his poster shifted from feline green to a tantalizing blue gray, not quite either. Temple Barr’s eyes.

Max shut his eyelids as memory replayed himself talking, selling, cajoling. She’d come here to Vegas because of his upcoming gig. Because of him. Leaving her home city, her career. That was a major commitment. Had he ever experienced anything but specific traumas of the distant past? Was he as brave as Temple Barr? Or just obsessed?

Max paged past his own frozen image. The Mystifying Max was history. Even if he remembered all his old stage moves and illusions, his compromised physique would probably be unable to duplicate them.

The next poster had him staring into Harry Houdini’s truly mesmerizing vividly black gaze. That man had enough visceral charisma and drive to power a planet. The storied “escapologist” was pictured nearly naked, hunched over like an ape-man, metal cuffs and chains hanging from every muscle and sinew. He’d accomplished incredible feats of working in freezing water to free himself, of hanging upside down like a bat. The illusions may all have stemmed from the same secret magical routines of his predecessors, but the marketing chutzpah and electrifying stage presence were individual.

Max searched himself and found no remembered driving motive. Revenge for Gandolph’s death? That tragic recent incident in Belfast had been a last impotent cannon shot in a cause long left behind by a more tortured contemporary history. It wouldn’t have happened if Garry hadn’t been so loyal in tracking down Max’s obsession with a past he didn’t even have the good grace to remember.

Maybe it was good to have no one to hate, but it was more than bad to have no one to love.

Max flipped back to his false-eyed image.

He did not know the man.

Chapter 44

Midnight at the Oasis

“You may wonder,” Miss Midnight Louise says, sashaying back and forth in front of the Dumpster behind the police substation, “why I have called you all together this afternoon.”

There is indeed a convocation of cats crowded around the closed Dumpster, domestic shorthairs and longhairs, big, small, chubby, lean, striped, spotted, calicos, tabbies, tortoiseshells, black-and-white tuxedos, solid whites, and, naturally, the royal color, solid black.

Of course, cats do not come with birth certificates unless they are purebreds, so you could say three generations of the Midnight clan are present, if you believe Miss Midnight Louise’s claim that I am her long-lost daddy.

“Why indeed has your caterwauling awakened us?” Ma Barker grumbles under her Happy Meal breath as her forepaws box the sleep from her eyes. “This is the hottest part of the day and I need my afternoon beauty sleep.”

I try not to choke audibly on that last statement. Ma Barker, as leader of the clan of Las Vegas cats called a clowder, bears many honorable scars from fierce territorial battles, but she is no beauty and proud of it.

She and I have the family eyes, hers more at half-mast, but both green. Miss Louise, however, sports eyes of old gold, and her hair is not thick and full for battle in the wrestling ring, but long and fluffy. If she is a descendant of mine, I believe one of my showgirl flings is responsible.

Miss Midnight Louise is, however, quite a tenacious little dame, like my Miss Temple, and there is no underestimating her.

“Listen up,” she is saying now, passing among the troops with razor-sharp nails cocked as she gives some of the nodding-off nap crowd NCIS back-of-the neck slaps.

“I have been on solo stakeout,” she continues, giving me the cold gold stare she wields so well, so you feel like you have been whipped with a guilt stick. “I have covered not only a major undercover mover in Las Vegas, Mr. Max Kinsella, whom some of those among us do not feel is a worthy subject of interest—”

“I get it, Louise,” I howl. “Forget all this pointing paws stuff. I did underestimate what was going on when Mr. Max disappeared at the Neon Nightmare a couple months ago, but he is back and getting his black on, and that is old news now.”

She leaps to confront me with a bound, growling in my face. “He is back and about to make major fresh news.” Louise turns to rouse her minions. “And this emergency intervention involves another location I have been surveying on my own, the Oasis Hotel and its Lusty Ladies and Laddies sea battle attraction.”

A hiss stirs the assembly. Louise has made a tactical error. We of the feline family do not, as a rule, like water.

I spot my opening and seize it, stepping in front of her. “Excuse me. The junior partner of the firm has done some fine legwork—and you gentlemen will all agree she has the legs for it.…” I am not surprised to raise a hiss from among the clowder females. “Just pulling your legs, ladies, to get your attention.

“Obviously,” I go on, “we need a special ops team on this matter Miss Louise has brought to our attention. Midnight Investigations, Inc., offers services in all areas of crime prevention and detection, but we are a two, er, individual operation. Occasionally, we need to expand our arena of operations into a major public presence.

“So.” I look around at every yellow, green, yellow green, and even blue eye. “I am calling the Cat Pack back into action.”