Douglas, Nelson - 2Golden garland

Prologue

This Star is Not in the Sky

Have you ever noticed that those who practice the mantic arts are not happy unless they are telling you about it?

In fact, they are happiest when they are telling you about you. Whether you want to hear it or not. Especially when you most particularly do not want to hear it.

This is my very situation with Karma, our landlady's more than somewhat strange resident cat. I do not deny that Karma has a certain "talent," I simply am not sure that it is psychic. True, our recent Halloween adventure at the haunted-house attraction did seem to produce a presence that could have been Karma. Still, I am not ready to agree that the will-o'-the-wisp of light that I saw on those occasions was some incendiary projection of a Birman cat with pretensions to prognostication.

I have been thinking long and deep on the situation (that is what I am really doing whenever I appear to be "resting") and I have concluded that the dancing dollop of candle power I saw could have as easily been a spark from the pipe of the English gent who turned up in the Ghost Parade. That Doyly dude in tweeds and overgrown eyebrows with the checkered cap. The British do like their patterns.

Their preferences in that direction even run to calico and tiger-stripe cats. I of course am like Jackie O when it comes to fashion taste: I never wear patterns. Being born with a superb coat of shiny black hair that needs only an occasional shake and the lightest of licks now and then is another advantage. In case my moniker of Midnight Louie has not tipped you off or you have been in Tibet for the first half of the nineties, my appearance is a symphony in subtle black, with the white in my whiskers and the truly elegant green of my eyes keeping the rich simplicity of my daily garb from being a tad dull. Not that an undercover operator like myself would not stoop even to dullness to guarantee a low profile when I am investigating a case.

But I am off duty now for the holidays, and enjoying the simple life: loafing about the Circle Ritz apartment I share with my little doll, Miss Temple Barr. Not that she is any good at loafing; she is too young, in human years, to appreciate the pursuit. No, she is all bustle on her three-inch shivs--those high heels she prongs around on. I must admit that she is a bit deflated since the death of Darren Cooke. It was ruled a suicide, but I can tell that Miss Temple is not happy with that likelihood. I can only describe her as moping. In fact, she is so unnaturally sober and quiet these days that I would welcome a nocturnal admission of Mr. Mystifying Max. He is a magician whether he works at it or no, and likes to make surprise appearances, usually in the dead of night.

Ordinarily, I do not cotton to interlopers, and Mr. Max Kinsella is a territorial guy on top of it. I doubt that we would get along if forced to associate for any period of time. Miss Temple Barr is my roomie now, since Mr. Mystifying ran off like a scalded alley cat with no notice or explanation a year ago. What you leave is mine, if I want it. And I have nothing to complain about in the accommodations Miss Temple Barr has put at my disposal. The bathroom window is always ajar, a narrow, burglarproof invitation to the open road. (Though with Las Vegas's growing resident population and almost fifty mil of tourists ankling through day in and day out, open roads are pretty hard to find around town.) My bowl is always piled high with the latest tempting garnishes to the plain Jane Free-to-be-Feline health food lurking--untouched--beneath. And I have an emergency facility under the bathroom sink should I care to get clay litter under my nails, instead of the sandy desert dirt of Las Vegas.

Since I am recuperating from some minor surgery incurred in my last case, I am not minded to hop out the window for a night on the town. (Luckily, thanks to a bizarre twist of fate and despite extreme attempts to pare me down to the size of these petty, ultra politically correct times, I am still the same larger-than-life macho dude you know and love.) And Miss Temple Barr is out for the evening. I hope that she is out with Mr. Matt Devine. Him I could put up with, if he did not hog the covers. Unfortunately, I do not believe that even Miss Temple has explored Mr. Matt's sleeping habits. These humans are annoyingly slow with their mating rituals!

I understand the need for maturity and caution nowadays, as felines are subject to AIDS also, but I could give Mr. Matt Devine a tip or two about courting the female of any species. First, you show up and refuse to go away. Then you put up with the customary repeated brush-offs. Persistence is the name of the dating game. Finally, you wait until she is not looking and jump her, sinking your fangs into her neck . .. well, maybe human dudes can forget the fangs unless the lady is partial to vampires. I must admit that it is all over in a few seconds, which is why we feline dudes try again . . . and again . . . and again. Persistence wins lady fair every time, although she may yowl and slap your face when it is all over. Dames!

I am musing on the dating game when I hear one of the several French doors to the patio rattling. We are on the second floor and safe from all but the most agile cat burglar. Still, I am home alone and all my senses go on alert. In my invalid condition I am not ready for fisticuffs. Might pull out my stitches in a delicate area.

So I wait and watch, ready to make some really nasty noises if an unauthorized party breaks in. I am not worried that it might be Mr. Max Kinsella; he never announces his imminent arrival with any vulgar noises. Actually, we have a lot in common when you come to think of it--black hair, a way with the ladies, slightly felonious intent and a possessive nature--which is probably why I cannot stand the guy.

While I wait I speculate on who, or what, might be broaching my retreat. This is how to keep an active mind even when the body is in full sloth. I have ruled out: the seasonal overnight delivery service with Christmas presents for Miss Temple; the pizza guy; the big ole palm tree outside dropping one of its leaves with an anticlimactic shudder like a stripper doffing her last pastie.

Now I hear a not inconsiderable weight launched at the door. Or kicking the door. The force was applied very low to the ground. A door-stomping burglar. This could be serious. Guys with no regard for the delicate fretwork of a fifties-vintage glass-and-wood French door would do anything, including stomping the petals off the begonias on poor Miss Temple's patio. I recall when my little doll was assaulted in a parking garage by some thugs the size of Godzilla. Are they paying my lovely mistress a midnight call? They will get more Midnight than they planned on.

I snick out all four sets of shivs, hearing the satisfying rip of surgically sharp nails into the canvas covering of Miss Temple's sofa. My recuperation has meant that I have not been wearing my feline edge down to a dull nub with street wanderings. I am twenty pounds of thorny, snarling, growling pussycat, and if I am not quite as formidable as Kahlua, the magician's panther, I am a close second. I prepare to leap high when the door is broached, and go for the eyes.

Finally the door pops ajar. I know how rickety those old locks are from my own surreptitious comings and goings.

I leap into the air like a heavyweight butterfly, prepared to sting like a manta ray, a big black winged shape at one with the darkness, yet darker still than night, and out for blood ... the Hooded Claw!

It is an imposing attack, and it is launched at empty air. Nothing. Nada to a Chihuahua. Nil. The Big Nothing. Nowhere.