Carole douglas - Cat in an Indigo Mood

Chapter 61

Wheels

I must admit that I did not think much of Miss Midnight Louise's master plan.

But I did not have much time to argue, it being plain that Mr. Matt Devine was going ahead with a master plan of his own, with no regard for my carefully laid devices. The fact that he was totally ignorant of them is no excuse. People are all too often oblivious to the machinations of the superior species. In most cases, that is to our advantage.

Anyway. this hair-brain shirt-tail relation of mine has come up with a risky, arduous, and pretty impossible scheme.

Naturally, I am all for it (mainly because the snip thinks that l cannot do it at my age and weight").

So here is what we have been through.

First, she and our surprise package have to get to the Circle Ritz. Let me tell you, I take plenty of heat hearing about how hard that was. I have to admit the package looks pretty warped around the edges.

Next, we have to break into the locked shed in which is stored that awesome Hesketh Vampire motorcycle. (I call it Hesky for short. Rhymes with Pesky.) This collector's edition chromium critter is previously owned by Max Kinsella himself. (I cannot guarantee that in that instance it was "gently used.") Since then it has been in the custody of Miss Eiectra Lark, the Speed Queen landlady of the Circle Ritz. Out of the goodness of her heart (of which there is much of both: goodness and heart), she has of late lent it to Mr. Matt Devine, who came into this world (Las Vegas, that is) without wheels, a grievous lack in this flat-out, salt-flat part of the country.

So, anyway, Mademoiselle Louise and I dull our nails on the weaker members of the shed's boards until we are inside the shadowed interior. I have left a lot of shiv casings behind, but far be it from me to cavil when it might be interpreted as whining by Miss Midnight Louise!

Then we have to breech the accessory storage bags that sit to either side of Hesky's saddle.

At least they are the black-leather variety, rather than those meat-locker-style metal jobbies that could smother a hitchhiker of the furred kind.

For that is our mission: undercover hitchhikers on the road to Truth or Consequences.

I would hate to arrive asphyxiated, as l stress repeatedly to Miss Midnight Louise.

"Save your breath, Pops." she replies, not encouragingly. "You will need it."

"Where is the safety belt in this arrangement?" I ask when we have loaded our cargo, such as it is, and leaped into our saddlebags.

"Loop your tail around e strap and hold on: It is going to be a bumpy ride."

I recognize the Bette Davis line (that dame had lion-eyes), as well as the reference to early air travel. Since the Hesketh Vampire is a motor vehicle, I sincerely hope that we remain firmly on the ground.

All I can trust to is the solid driving skills of Mr. Matt Devine.

Who will be highly distracted tonight, on an undercover mission of his own.

Why could he not pilot a bicycle? It worked for E.T.

That is my last rational thought before I hear the shad padlock unlocked and the footsteps of Mr. Matt Devine approaching.

After that all is a turmoil of speed bumps, speed, noise, speed bumps, and confusion.

We arrive in one piece, which is pretty good, as there are three of us.

The next problem is breaking into the joint, and when to make our entrance.

Chapter 62

Deception, Lies and Audiotape

Matt parked and locked the Vampire, stepping away from the motorcycle and feeling the road vibration still thrumming through his frame.

That was a given effect of riding canned heat. That was the buzz motorcycle riders loved.

He could take or leave that disorienting aftershock, but something else far less physical, and therefore far more upsetting, shook his soul tonight.

He stood for a moment in the empty lot, studying the church's sharp prow of glass gleaming in the fading light. Distant gulls seemed to squeal over Lake Mead. The sun set behind the western mountains. It always disappeared before its own last rays, most evenings leaving behind it a flat, cold light that only a landscape painter could love.

How could you stand in the light and feel such a chill? Only if the thought of what you were about to try put your soul on ice.

He remembered the hectic, surreal twelve minutes he had spent on the phone with "Daisy."

Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. I'm half crazy, all on account of you.

The Gay Nineties love-ditty rang in his mind with unromantic Grim Nineties irony. He had gotten what he needed out of a frantic, addled girl about to commit delusional murder.

Could he get what he wanted to out of a clever, twisted killer who had committed delusional murder and wanted to survive it?

Just how good was Mr. Midnight at his new job?

Time to find out.

The sun's last, icy light glared off the gilded glass, cut through the stained-glass cross like an arctic laser.

******************

This time Mart regarded the bare, plain room with a different eye.

The lack of upholstery and curtains would bounce sound, add an automatic echo to every word said.

Best he sit tonight somewhere other than the usual spot. That would disrupt the circle; all people in groups commandeered a small, rote territory--the place first sat-in---and returned mindlessly there like lemmings heading for a favorite cliff into the sea.

Matt's moving would upset that natural order. Would upset the neat expectations of his target. Would be an advantage.

He claimed a sear one down from Nick, the group's unofficial center, and pictured how the others might adjust, especially Norbert, whose seat he had usurped. Norbert already felt an outcast.

Good. with Norbert unsettled at the outset, the tenor of the whole evening would be off-balance. Confession was only good for the off-balance soul that had to be honest despite itself.

Matt also knew the role he had to play. He had to seem the victim, not the perpetrator of tonight's revisionist arrangement.

He had the problem; he was not the problem.

When Nick came in, alone, Matt leaped up from his claim-jumped chair. "I'm glad you're early. I thought we could talk--"

But Jerry came in before Matt could establish anything more than his presence in someone else's seat, and a certain agitation.

"Sorry." Jerry stopped dead, his genial smile fading. "Am l interrupting something personal?"

"No," Matt said, too quickly. "Nothing personal. I'm just a little . . . upset."

"Well, that's what we're here for." Jerry smiled uncertainly, and joined Nick at the coffee um. St. Caffeine Minor, cousin to St. Nicotine the Greater. "Want some, Matt?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. Coffee. Be great."

Jerry exchanged a glance with Nick that Matt hadn't been meant to see. Then he poured two Styrofoam cups full of India-ink black liquid.

"Creamer?"

"Huh?"

By now Paul and Norbert had come in together, having linked up in the parking lot. They stopped inside the door, sensing the disorder inside.

"Creamer," Jerry repeated.

"Uh, yeah." Matt didn't have to play at being distracted. He was. "Thanks." The two newcomers' eyebrows lifted at coffee being delivered to Matt.

They served themselves. Serving another suggested crisis.

They collected their own coffee cups and took their places one chair to the left without comment, respecting the unknown that had elbowed them out of their traditional territories.

Something was up.

Damien came in last, pulling off his lined raincoat and light wool gloves. "Getting cold out there. I don't know how Matt can take that motorcycle."

He glanced at the last empty chair to the left of Nick, the deserted coffee table, Matt in the wrong place, and frowned.