Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

"No, I'm running around too fast. Television." She remembered the blond model in Electra's penthouse. ''Jersey Joe was fond of the latest technology."

She hesitated at the corset lamp shade, then turned off the light. Fascinating as the Ghost Suite was, the living faced deadlines of a less final nature, such as an imminent Gridiron show.

The room returned to the twilight that had swallowed it for decades. At the desk. Temple paused before turning off the last light.

"What did hang here?"

Van was truly upset, Temple saw. It was cruel to keep her here another instant. Temple needed an answer to every anomaly. Sometimes she could be cruel.

"An old blown-up photograph! Black and white. Of the desart. That's where Solitaire Smith found the map to the Glory Hole Gang's hoard of buried silver dollars ... in the frame backing.

Now let's go!"

Temple grabbed Louie in one arm--ooh, he was heavier than her tote bag, and that was going some, clutched the key in her other hand, and headed for the door, Van in front of her.

As she turned to give the room one last glance, she saw a glint of something at the drapes.

Perhaps the hallway light reflected on the high points of the satin pleats.

"Shut it!" Van begged, backing into the hall.

Temple obediently dropped Louie to the floor and drew the door shut. A breeze--cool and sharp, rather than musty, fanned her as the door closed. She used the key to lock it, then tried the knob.

"As tight as King Tut's tomb--oops, sorry again."

Van, now as pale as the ash-blond furniture within the rooms, was recovering herself against the far wall.

"Did you see anything odd?" she asked.

"Only the hall light reflecting off the drapes."

"The hall light isn't that strong."

"Van, you don't really believe that the ghost of Jersey Joe Jackson is inside there?"

"I've seen it. Him. I've seen him pass through that door. Let's leave!"

Temple hurried her down the passage, taking Van's arm and finding it ice-cold. Funny, there had been no air-conditioning in the rooms.

She turned to see if Louie was following.

He was still sitting in front of the Ghost Suite, busily grooming his coat as if he were at home on his own--her own--bed.

If there had been anything outre to sense, Temple told herself firmly, one would think a black cat would be the first to know.

But Louie just sat there, twisting to lick the hair on his spine, which had lifted into a series of dinosaur notches all the way to the base of his tail.

He would have to work quite a bit on the tail, too. Temple noticed. Swollen to twice its size, it was a kissing cousin to a radiator brush.

Must be an awful lot of static electricity in the Ghost Suite...she thought. Um-hmm.

Chapter 31

Kung Phooey

Here it is, the dawn of the day of my little doll's greatest triumph, the Gridiron show. I should be present in my always-elegant black tie and tail.

As luck would have it, and as is usual of late, my personal matters are interfering with my professional prowess.

I cannot claim that I planned on attending this Gridiron dinner and show. Satire is not my strong suit. Still, I planned to be about the premises for moral support and even had intended to show my puss at the Circle Ritz when Miss Temple Barr was dressing for the grand event.

She needs me to press her best duds when they are laid out on the bed prior to donning, though she has a cute habit of pretending to protest my help. Then, too, I am adept at weaving in and out of her legs and leaving my calling cards--tiny black hairs--on her pantyhose, usually a pale color that will benefit from some dash and contrast. I also help Miss Temple locate her missing evening bag by lying on it until she notices me, shoos me away and discovers the absent purse right under my nose.

My many adventures down Life's meanest streets does not mean that I have lost my delicate domestic touch. Even the most macho dude will benefit from tending to the care and coddling of the human companion.

However, the day begins with a revolting event at the Crystal Phoenix that rockets me into an entirely different direction.

I am innocently enjoying the late morning sun among the canna lilies, especially since I do not detect the inhibiting presence of Miss Caviar. I am not to be left alone for long, though. v I hear a scrape of long nails on flagstone, then a disgusting snuffling sound that would serve well on the soundtrack to The Hound of the Baskervilles .

Who is sniffing around the imperial koi pond?

In a moment I have parted the calla leaves with my face to view a sight to turn a Samoyed a whiter shade of pale. The dog from the Dumpster is back and he is playing kissy-face with my carp!

I bound out on all four rollerblades. "Take a hike to Pike's Peak, scavenger, or you will be feeding goldfish, instead of vice versa! What makes you think you can intrude on Crystal Phoenix grounds?"

He backs up, belly dragging over the rough stones.

"Do not be so testy. I thought you were . . . gone."

"Why would you think such an unlikely thing?"

He whines a little and rubs his nose on the ground. I can see that Miss Caviar's lesson has made a humbler hound out of this hard case.

"I heard that you were taking a dip in Lake Mead."

"From whom?"

He sits back and hefts a hind leg, thereby showing all sorts of unmentionables, to scratch thoughtfully at his freckled chin. "Chihuahua named Chi-Chi. Hotel guest. Says the resident black pantheress overheard his mistress chattering about some new joint on Lake Mead called Three O'Clock Louie's. She jumped him a few minutes later while he was doing his business in the dog-walk and forced him to give her the whole poop on this Lake Mead location, Temple Bar. She must have outweighed the poor little blighter by a full pound. Only his mistress coming along with the doo-doo bag and scooper saved his hide. Anyway, this feline Rambette took off, vowing that this Three O'Clock place had something to do with her rotter of a father and that a floater would soon be found In Lake Mead if she had anything to say about it."

"Her . . . father? Why would she think that?"

He pauses to bite a flea on his shoulder. I begin to wish I could don latex, like the cops, when interrogating lowlife witnesses.

"Seems the joint on Lake Mead has a mascot--black dude just like you. Guess they are related. At least she seemed to think so."

"That may be," I say, letting my shivs click to the stone all at once. "But I still patrol these grounds. In future, think twice before you figure that Miss Caviar's absence gives you trespassing room. Now beat it, before I decide to make mincemeat of you."

He growls a little to show yellowed teeth, but I hold my ground. He backs away before turning tail and hieing back to the Dumpster where he belongs.

I remain, triumphant but disquieted.

This Three O'Clock Louie is nobody to me, but he is obviously about to pay for the sins of the father, merely because his name bears an almost actionable resemblance to mine. I admit that I am annoyed to learn of a dude of the same color treading so close to my own, unique moniker.

Time was when black cats were considered unlucky in this town and I alone dared to show my puss, and then some. Still, being a copycat is not a capital crime. I cannot knowingly let my own offspring commit murder of the wrong guy.

My duty lies with Miss Temple on the day of her grand night out, but this happy association is not to be. If my choice lies between Temple Barr and Temple Bar, I am forced to pursue that headstrong alleged offspring of mine. Someone must preserve this poor, unsuspecting dude from a date with the feline equivalent of a jackhammer.