Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In A Crimson Haze

Around him sandy desert paths wound through a wilderness of cactus. The land was gently rolling, giving the illusion of mini-hills and valleys. Though groups of people wandered the sere landscape with him, at times he was alone. At other times, their chatter and their presence, as benign as that of squirrels, would confront him with the existence of the everyday.

He did not quite have to eat locusts, but he was as far removed from reality here as anywhere in Las Vegas. And, like the others who enjoyed this private garden of thorns, he gained admittance for nothing.

The Ethel M. Chocolate Factory was located on 2 Cactus Garden Drive south of Tropicana, Filing through the front doors for a tour of the pristine premises brought an instant release from the frenetic pressure to have expensive fun on the Strip. The people here were engaged in the benign business of making life sweet. If you wanted to buy their sweetness, gift-wrapped by the pound, they would oblige. They would give you one taste-bud-smothering sample for nothing.

An extra attraction was the extensive cactus and botanical gardens out back, a low-pressure invitation to gawk at nature in an unnatural consolidation of its wonders.

Tours of the gardens were ''self-directed." That meant you could get lost here, and no one would notice.

Matt wandered the familiar paths, marveling at nature's stubborn survivability. Most cactus blooms lasted only a day, but hundreds sprouted. Cacti were the camels of the plant world, able to hoard water in the burning summer. They could survive the winter night's chill temperature plunge. These plain, often ugly growths' dead-green color seemed more a matter of camouflage than beauty, yet they could flash those spectacular, one-day-wonder blossoms. They wore their own crown of thorns, stabbing anything that blundered into their midst to the quick with inches-long quills.

Today, each plant reminded Matt of Peter Burns. The cactus was twisted and thorny, yet superbly adapted to its hard-scrabble environment for those very reasons, just like Burns. Matt could see how, encountering a diatribe like the one Peter Burns had unleashed on him, priests in the old days would attempt to exorcize such perverse blasphemy. Nowadays, they more often needed to exorcise themselves.

Seeing Burns had reminded Matt of the past, of a deeper and older injustice he needed to pursue. There was another man he needed to confront, for his own sake, the man who was his sole reason for relocating to Las Vegas in the first place. Matt knew why the business of earning his daily bread, of finding shelter had postponed his mission. Meeting Temple and getting drawn into her dangerous quandaries was another, unanticipated detour. Temple herself, and her attractions, had become a formidable distraction. . . . Maybe he had welcomed diversion from his real, ugly and difficult goal. Maybe vengeance was the Lord's alone. And maybe the long-gone man he sought was a mirage like so many other things in this city, this dry, hot indifferent desert.

Matt sighed. With his fair coloring, he shouldn't linger in such unfiltered sunlight. But he liked the heat, the searing sun. It was cleansing and uncompromising. It would bleach the freshest bones as pale as the fangs of T.S. Eliot's three white leopards. It would, in the end, atone for everything.

His mind, prickled by the thorny past, returned to the immediate problem. Burns would be no help with Hernandez, as Matt had expected, but he had needed to try. He would have to find other avenues. Molina was out; she was too closely connected to Our Lady of Guadalupe and would instantly suspect more than he wanted her to. So were other law enforcement representatives; they had their own rules to follow, as religious orders did, and did not discern any fine line between crime and punishment. Temple was out as well; she was too curious. But she had mentioned somebody once. . . .

Matt waited until a nearby clot of tourists--men, women and children in wrinkled cotton bermuda shorts and t-shirts advertising an array of Strip attractions--passed through the small shop on their way out.

Then he followed.

No one was in the cool, narrow white room with the glass case displaying a bevy of chocolates like a toothsome Sleeping Beauty of Sweetness.

The ladies behind the counter, their hair shrouded by white plastic caps, reminded Matt of certain nursing orders of nuns. Order: that is what one found at Ethel M's, and a pristine environment that did not feel prissy.

Food for the soul. Matt bought two boxes while the women stole glances at him, giggling, as if he were a movie star that they did not quite recognize.

He did not quite recognize himself either.

Chapter 4

Midnight Louie Saves His Soul

The moment my ears hear the name "Crystal Phoenix" they stand to attention.

The fact of the matter is, I am none too enamored of the Circle Ritz crowd at the moment--

not that I have any quarrel with my delightful roommate, Miss Temple Barr, other than the nightly battle for prime snoozing space.

I have mentioned other, less amenable tenants now among the roster of Circle Ritz occupants. I suspect that one is bombarding me with the feline equivalent of "good vibes."

Often when snoozing I sense a purring not purely on this plane. The perpetrator of this psychic static, I suspect, is that high-flutin' feline priestess on the penthouse level, the ever-omniscient (at least in her own mind, which has apparently been handed down for generations through a process she calls reincarnation) Karma. No wonder she is so reclusive: I would not advertise my presence either if my little gray cells were mostly cast-offs from defunct users.

As for the vexing matter of the young lady only one floor above me, Caviar, originally known as Midnight Louise, I suspect that between the do-gooder vibes from above and my own conscience, I am in danger of making an unnecessary confession that could be hazardous to my health. So far I have managed to keep the shell-pink interiors of her dainty little ears free from any whisper of my moniker, Midnight Louie.

It seems that I have paternal tendencies, at least genetically.

However, this little doll that Miss Temple rescued from a Humane Society cage in a weak moment sports a savage temper that is particularly directed to the absconding bounder that fathered her. Given her snazzy ebony color scheme and comparative youth, the odds are likely that I indeed did have some brush or other with her mother. In fact, I may remember mama--an ebony lady long-hair down on her luck who crossed my path an even unluckier year or so ago.

So I could be slapped with a paternity suit--and a lot more, like four slashing shivs attached to an agile paw-- were Miss Caviar to discover my real name.

Therefore, I live in fear of being found out, a position I am used to inflicting on others, particularly evil-doers. The claw pinches when it is on the other paw.

Also, I have a lingering dissatisfaction with my role in certain recent religious ceremonies. True, I have spent some time of late around and about Our Lady of Guadalupe church and convent. This was purely in the performance of my usual duties--tracking down wrongdoers and murderers, protecting my naive roommate and saving the skins of cats everywhere. It was not in the nature of a religious conversion.

So suddenly there I am, thrust once again into the portable cell and imported against my will into an environment that is not to my taste: a convocation of all creatures great and small, including far too many immature humans for my taste.

Amid the parrot and goat droppings, the bray of the occasional donkey and the barking and yapping of an overpopulation of dogs, I am confined and subjected to unrelenting cacophony.

I have not seen anything yet. Soon I am summarily hauled from my cage, by Miss Temple Barr yet, who owes me a good deal, if not several first-class meals for professional and personal services, and held up to public ridicule.