Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

I do not know whether to be relieved at her error, or furious at her reasoning. Going by Caviar's youth, my assignation with her mother had transpired only a year ago. A dude does not deteriorate to such an extent in a mere year. Obviously, Caviar's opinion of yours truly differs greatly from that of her older, wiser mother.

"Where is your mother these days?" I inquire. Perhaps I should look the old girl up.

Caviar snicks out her shivs and dabbles them in the fish-filled water. I swear I can see her smile as they flounder away, slapping fins and making waves.

"I heard she got picked up by the animal control patrol, so she is either dead, or domesticated."

I shake my head. Either fate is ugly. If she is domesticated, she is also "fixed." What do they mean about practicing "safe sex" (not that I need any practice whatsoever in this department) when "no sex" is rapidly becoming the order of the day for dudes of my disposition? I hate to contemplate how long it has been since I have had an assignation of an amorous nature. In fact, I even remember my last partner, but that is because this encounter was more than mere kiss-and-skedaddle. A mental image of the Divine Yvette pussyfoots through my memory. Now there is a lady as loving as she is lovely. Next to her, Caviar is . . . dog meat. Not that I would suffer one of my next-of-kins to meet such a fate. Still, the girl needs to learn to respect her elders.

"I will find him," she says, the gold coinage of her eyes narrowing to edgewise slits of metallic hardness.

"I do not doubt it," I say hastily, since she already has. "What will you do then?"

"I will tell him what I think of him."

"That sounds most therapeutic, according to what I hear on my favorite daytime television shows, Phil and Oprah and Sally Jessy. Geraldo was a great dude, but they banished him to the evening hours because of adult subject matter when Miss Temple is watching the TV, so I never see him anymore. Miss Temple Barr has many good points, but she is utterly uninterested in educational TV. She will not even tune In 'Inside Edition' unless I get my mitts on the remote.

Then she thinks my preferences are 'cute' and changes the channel on me."

"I am not interested in your relationship with your keeper," Caviar snaps. (I mean it; she really snaps, flashing her choppers at a carp so bold to stick its kisser out of the water looking for food. This Caviar has possibilities, if she w6uld forget her obsession with finding her birth father.

I have no such hang-ups.)

"Miss Temple Barr is not my keeper, but my roommate," I correct her calmly. Age has its advantages. "And what of your new situation with Mr. Matt Devine?"

"Oh, he is quite undemanding, except for talking to me now and then and the occasional condescending head pat. At least I have managed to arrange for the same bathroom-window privileges that you enjoy."

I nod. Caviar is a street-kit, like her old man, may she never discover his identity. She can probably worm her way out of any hole as wide as her cheekbones and worm her way into any human heart around, if it takes her fancy. Mr. Matt Devine, when it comes to females of any stripe whatsoever, and even of solid color, does not stand a chance.

"So what are you doing here?" she asks me.

"Taking the sun," I say."Miss Temple Barr is conferring with the hotel owners inside. She is up for a big job here."

"At least she cracked me out of that crummy cage," Caviar says. "It is too bad you were already in residence. I am sure that I could wind your roommate around my whiskers."

"Perhaps. But everyone tends to underestimate Miss Temple Barr, from Lieutenant Molina to one or two murderers now incarcerated."

I fan the fingernails on my right mitt to admire the faint crimson glint of blood through their pearly length. I cannot understand why Miss Temple Barr paints her personal shivs with opaque lacquers that hide the quick. And lately she has been using an anemic rosy-pink tint that does nothing for me, unlike the blood-red that so becomes her and underlines her bright red coat, scant as it is.

Caviar yawns. "Well, if you hear anything of a good-looking black dude that has been seen hereabouts in the last year, let me know. I will be on my way. I have work to do."

The last jibe is not lost on me as I watch her turn tail and undulate away. What a waste! Not only the veterinary procedure, but a close relative to boot!

Neither is it lost upon me that little Miss Caviar thinks I am not good-looking enough to be her father. Kits these days! They have a lot to learn. I just hope that one of the things she learns in her explorations is not our kinship.

As for me, my father never hung around to see me get my first nose-scratch, but I bear him no distain. Dudes of our ilk do not take to domestic responsibilities. We are better off leaving the scene of the crime before we are forced to do the time in the nursery.

So I remain in my special spot, my enjoyment of thrashing carp strangely muted after my encounter with my own flesh-and-blood. Despite my Impressive size, I am not easily noticed when I sit still, and especially when I concentrate on blending with my background.

From my vantage point, I watch Chef Song, meat cleaver in hand and apron dotted with substances of a ruddy nature that encourage much speculation on my part, make his daily afternoon head count of the carp. This ritual owes itself to my frequent presence, I am proud to say. I am not so proud to say that today he gives a steely-eyed nod of satisfaction and vanishes back into the hotel.

Caviar's presence and disturbing mission has done the unthinkable: affected my appetite.

I remain indisposed, sourly watching carp cavort unchallenged, until the shadows begin to fall and I should think of heading home. Miss Temple may be worried, and I do not like to unsettle a meal ticket.

It is then that I notice two tall dudes of a nefarious nature tiptoeing through the canna lilies.

"Maybe we should behead all the carp," one suggests.

I stiffen, taking instant umbrage. I need no assistance in my hunting technique.

"That would unhinge the lady manager, I bet," the other says.

"Not to mention the early-morning guests coming out to wet their tootsies in the pool tomorrow. Hey, we could put the bodies in the whirlpool!"

"Dead fish is dead fish," the other sneers. "We do not need to mess with such dirty work yet.

We are professionals. Let us case the rest of the joint and come up with something real ugly."

"If anybody can, you can, Vito."

From my unseen post, I agree. Vito's mother came up with something really ugly a long time ago.

I want to growl to myself, but know better than to tip these bozos off to my presence.

It never fails. Apparently Miss Temple Barr has once again placed herself dead center in a scene of forthcoming skullduggery. Luckily, Midnight Louie has come home to the Crystal Phoenix just in time to save the day. Again.

It is a pity that Miss Caviar is so oblivious to my possibilities, but then so are these thugs. I will just have to earn my kit's respect by showing her what a crime fighting kingpin her old man is.

Chapter 8

Phoning Home Phony

Matt stared at his bedroom phone, the cheapest model Centel offered. The huge push-buttons and numbers made it an almost perversely ugly object. Like the cheapest casket in a funeral home showroom, this phone was designed to repel rather than attract. It was made to be rejected, to force the customer to up the ante. Everything in Las Vegas was intended to sever the sucker from his money.

The homely phone suited him. Matt's background had made him invulnerable to consumerism. So far. That background also made him invulnerable to much that was taken for granted in late-twentieth-century lifestyles.