Кэрол Дуглас: Cat In An Aqua Storm

5

Sick to Death

Temple sataloneon her patio as the sun weltered slowly in the west behind the Circle Ritz. A grillwork of anonymous, elongated shadows overlay the pool area. In the distance, the Mirage Hotel’s artificial volcano belched its preprogrammed flames with a roar that mimicked the uncivil growls of distant wild beasts.

Matt had left early, by seven-thirty, to go to his night shift at the hot line. Temple was musing on her glimpse of a hidden intensity in Matt Devine, one that pulsed behind his air of amused neutrality at her own energetic opinions.

Footsteps scraped the concrete below, so she rose to inspect the grounds. A darker shadow stirred in the pooled shade of tree and building.

“Louie!” The rebuking tone couldn’t quite conceal her relief.

The cat, hunched over something, didn’t look up.

While she frowned down at this mystery, a man’s figure stepped from the palm shadow. “It’s hard to see from all this far, but you wouldn’t be Miss Temple Barr?”

From this height, the speaker looked like an out-of-focus Charlie Chaplin.

“Who’s asking?” Temple returned.

The man squatted beside Louie, but continued to look up at Temple. “No one famous. Just Nostradamus.”

For a moment she was speechless, then recovered herself. “Excuse me, but Nostradamus was a pretty famous fellow a few centuries ago.”

“I’m a namesake forsaken,” he said. “No offense taken.” He laid something from his pocket before Louie, who gobbled it with catlike concentration.

“What are you feeding him?”

“Just some bits of leftover lunch meat. He acts as if he’s had nothing to eat.”

“ ‘Acts’ is right. That scoundrel has ignored bowls full of the best cat food money can buy: Free-to-Be-Feline.”

“It wouldn’t take a good detective,” Nostradamus said with a sage nod, “to figure out why he’s so selective.”

“Stale lunch meat can’t be good for him. Stop feeding him that junk and I’ll be down to collect him.”

She didn’t wait for an answer but headed downstairs, barefoot.

When she arrived, both cat and man were in the same position, doing the same thing: Nostradamus feeding, Louie eating.

“Corned beef!” Temple identified the dry flakes in Nostradamus’s hand at a glance even in the waning light. “Riddled with fat and sodium! I wouldn’t feed that stuff even to a human.”

“All right, lady, I’ll heed your wishes.” The man rose, stuffing the white butcher paper back into his pocket. “Louie really favors goldfishes.”

“The only thing fishy here is you,” Temple said sharply. “Why are you slinking around the grounds?”

“So help me it’s true: I’m just looking for you. A mutual friend in trouble told me to find you on the double.”

“Who would I have in common with you?”

“You’ll find your man in Crawford Buchanan.”

“Oh, he’s common, all right.” Temple bent to hoist Louie. A twenty-four-hour absence had not impaired his heft. “Come into the lobby air-conditioning, such as it is, and tell me about it.”

Once she had Louie firmly indoors, she pulled the side door closed and turned to examine the so-called Nostradamus in the lurid light of the outdated ceiling fixture high above.

She inspected a narrow, small man of indeterminate age dressed in a green plaid short-sleeved shirt with a yellow bow tie at his stringy throat.

“You’re a friend of Crawford Buchanan’s?” She sounded a bit more incredulous than she intended.

The man sighed mightily. “That’s not exactly the whole cookie. I’m really, actually just his... bookie.”

“Oh. Well, what’s the message?”

“Crawford’s sick, and gettin’ sicker.”

“He sent you here to tell me he’s got the flu?”

“Not flu. A faulty ticker.” Nostradamus pounded his concave chest and looked in danger of pushing himself over.

“Heart trouble? I didn’t know Crawford had one.”

“He wants you to visit room eight-oh-three—”

“Visit him? Me?”

“In the medical center of the university.”

“Gee,” said Temple, waffling. “Is it serious?”

“His heart or his request?”

“Both, I guess.”

“Neither one is any jest.” Nostradamus tipped his battered straw fedora with the paisley band, opened the door, and ebbed into the now-opaque darkness.

A large puddle of interior darkness—Louie—hunched uncooperatively on the pale, ice-cold marble floor and gazed at Temple with accusing green eyes.

“All right! I might have some low-fat turkey slices in the refrigerator. Come on up and you can take a vacation from Free-to-Be-Feline.”

He rose, stretched until his hindquarters and tail pointed ceilingward, then ambled down the hallway to the elevator.

Once Temple had let them both into her apartment and plied Louie with Louis Rich turkey slices (which she broke into pieces over the untouched Free-to-Be-Feline), she called the medical center. Crawford Buchanan was indeed out of intensive care and occupying room 803. He could have visitors until 9 p.m.

She should let the stinker stew in his own IVs.

Temple checked her watch—just eight—then went to make herself presentable for a visit to a sick enemy.

6

No Love Lost

Alone at last! No sooner has Miss Temple Barr torn out of the apartment on an errand of mercy than I take the opportunity of eating the sliced turkey off the top of my tasteless pile of pet food, a veritable Everest of rabbit pellets.

My next task is to find a suitable spot for intense cogitation. After exploring the familiar terrain, I find that my hasty roommate has left an emerald silk dress flung across the bed in her flurry to find attire appropriate to the hospital.

First I pat the dress into the proper formation with my mitts, a task I manage without much resorting to my crudely clipped nails from the vet’s. Then I turn around on it precisely six times. Those of my particular breed are superstitious about numbers. Perhaps it comes of having nine lives, but we tend to do things in multiples of three.

Once the garment is nicely crumpled so the night-light reflects faintly off its subtle shades of green (the virtual twin to my own eye color), I allow my footsore nineteen-plus pounds to press the material into its new, nestlike shape.

Now I can think. And I have much to contemplate. While Miss Temple Barr's obnoxious new cuisine is most off-putting, it alone is not enough to drive a dude to a binge away from home. I am long used to feeding myself quite well without the intervention of a can opener, however convenient such a labor-saving device may be. When it comes to handouts, Midnight Louie is no slouch.

Monday morning, even before Miss Temple Barr arises, I returned to cruising the streets. I am not afraid of work if it is amiable. Within my first hour away from home I collect a sixth of a Big Mac, a melted Dairy Queen in a plastic lid and four olives.

It is while wandering from way station to way station that I pass the Thrill 'n' Quill Bookstore, its windows thronging with murderous tomes and one sleeping tom of my acquaintance.

By stretching full length I can tap the plate glass right where Ingram’s pale pink nose is pressing. He starts awake as if bee-stung, ears askew and rabies tags clashing at his collar line. When he recognizes me, he shows his teeth in a less than cordial welcome.

This cuts no ice with Miss Maeveleen Pearl, proprietress of the Thrill 'n' Quill. She bustles over to let the poor sot out. “Oh, Ingram,” I hear her croon as the door opens. (Miss Maeveleen Pearl never speaks but in a syrupy tone that would glue most people’s lips together.) “Your little friend has come calling again. Isn’t that sweet? Besides, I wanted to arrange Baker and Taylor in that window anyway. There you go."