Douglas, Nelson - Cat in a Flamingo Fedora

So I duck under the wooden deck that surrounds the restaurant and go hunting my old man.

I have to admit the old man has sunk to lower levels in his retirement. No more fresh game for him. He prefers it pre-caught, precooked and delivered to his door. With the alfresco tables surrounding the indoor restaurant, enough bounty falls through the deck-boards to feed a fleet of retired salmon fishermen.

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

I find Three O'clock, attired in a lobster bib, reclining like a Roman emperor under a party of twelve, half of whom are having seafood.

"Are you not ashamed of yourself," I greet him, "lapping up fish flakes as if they were rain?"

"Sloppy eaters, I love 'em," he answers without a qualm. "How are you doing, sonny boy? I have a shrimp or two I could spare."

"I am not hungry." I hunker down beside him, beneath the hulla baloo and the hooting.

"You cannot afford to be 'not hungry,' not in that fly-by-night business you operate. So what is up?"

"Possibly my life expectancy."

This catches his attention. He actually turns his head and misses a tidbit of calamari that has snaked down between the floorboards above us. I hate to see a good piece of sushi go to waste, so snag it.

"Your life expectancy? Pish, boy. You will outlive me. But not by much. I expect retirement to be extremely beneficial."

"Maybe not. I may be the victim of foul play."

"That is what you get for messing around the mean streets. You ought to move out to the country like me. Crime is down and tourism is up. You know what that means. Free eats! It is not too bad if you stay out of the sun; can get a little hot in the summer. There is a whole crew of us out here. We call ourselves the 'Lake Mead Meows.'"

"Please! I am not about to join a retirement community. I merely came out for a little paternal advice and instead I get a Sun City infomercial."

"And what is wrong with resting after one's lifetime of labors?"

"Nothing. Only one cannot rest if one is the target of a hit man."

That gives the old man pause. That is to say, he lifts his mitt and licks his pads thoughtfully.

"A hit man? After you? Why, lad?"

I hate it when he uses that old-salt talk. His seafaring days were about one-tenth of his lifespan, but you would think he had been on the Merrimac or the Nautilus .

"I know too much," I reply.

That is an odd condition for one of our family," Three O'clock ruminates, picking shrimp remnants from his teeth. "Since when?"

"Since I attended an all-cat seance and was approached by the ghost of Maurice One."

"Maurice One. That some kind of perfume, son?"

'That was some kind of TV huckster. Big yellow tiger-stripe, out of a shelter. Promoted Yummy Tum-tum-tummy cat food."

"Very bad. That stuff is not a dolphin-safe catch. This Maurice should have bought it for lending his name to such an earth-unfriendly product. At least my salmon was dolphin-safe."

"It was not very salmon-safe to the salmon involved," I grit out between my fangs. Three O'clock is hardly one to point a paw. "The fact is, Maurice One is one dead dude, thanks to the quick thinking of his body double, Maurice Two, who shoved him into a vat of Yummy Tum-tum-tummy."

"What a way to go! Whisker-deep in seafood. That is how I would like to bow out, only I would wish to be set adrift from Temple Bar here, on a barge heaped with salmon and tuna fish, and then set afire. Will you see to it, son?"

"Pricey funerals went out with Erik the Red, Dad. If you want, I can see that your ashes are thrown off the top of the Luxor pyramid. I have Egyptian connections."

"Then why not go to your 'Egyptian connections,' if you need muscle?"

"I do not need muscle. I need spiritual guidance. I am not the Yummy Tum-tum-tummy spokescat--"

Three O'clock's big paw rests on my shoulder. "I am so glad, so n. I would hate to have to tell anybody that. Especially your Aunt Kitty."

"I am the co-spokescat for A La Cat--"

"Now that has a ring to it."

That may be. As spokescat, I get to act opposite the Divine Yvette."

"Ooo-hee, boy. That is not the sleek Persian number I have seen on the old boys' television set hawking Free-to-be-Feline in the past? What a set of whiskers! Can you get me her phone number?"

"Shut up, Dad, unless something is dropping from above, and I hope it is gull guano. I need some advice."

"Oh, I am good at that!"

'The thing is, should I off this Maurice Two before he offs me?"

"Definitely. It is justifiable homicide."

"How do you know?"

"Any homicide is justifiable to save your own skin."

"But what if he has decided that two accidents on a cat-commercial set would be suspicious? I might be exercising a termination with extreme prejudice for nothing."

"Does this Maurice Two look anything like Maurice One?"

"He is the spitting image."

"Well, then, there is no problem. I have seen this Maurice One, or Two, on the tube. I never did care for yellow-bellied tiger-stripes. You would be doing the world, and Miss Silver Persian, a favor by ridding the planet of his ugly mug."

"You are suggesting murder!"

"No, I am suggesting anticipatory self-defense. It would not be self-defense if you did not strike first. Do not be a wimp, Louie. No son of mine would hesitate to do unto before he was done unto. The next time I see you, I expect to hear that Maurice Two is no more."

With this, he boxes me in the face like some Mafia don.

What an imagination. He is living in the past. There must be a civilized way of handling the entire situation, and I plan to find it, or I will have to knock Maurice Two right off the face of the planet.

And I abhor unnecessary violence.

Chapter 5

Money Talks

Gangster's had a hundred-dollar atmosphere but Hush Money boasted a ten-dollar bill of fare.

That is the great, democratic thing about Las Vegas, Matt thought as he perused the well-illustrated menu. Food and lodging are kept family-affordable even though the atmosphere shouts Big Money.

Everyone feels like a king or a queen on a parlor maid's budget.

Now that he was face-to-face with Temple across a table, he felt strangely reluctant to bring up the reason for this meeting. Maybe that was because serious discussions about other people's problems always brought underlying personal issues of one's own to the surface.

"What are you having?" they asked each other in the same awkward rush at the identical moment.

Matt, who had been stewing about food for thought, not for the plate, cast his eye on the first likely entree. "The, ah, St. Valentine's Day Massacre ribs."

"I'm not that hungry. Or that homicidal. Guess I'll get the Ma Barker baby quail. I wonder if they serve buckshot with that."

Temple picked up the tabletop upright phone and lifted the vintage earpiece to her modern ear, giving their order directly to the kitchen.

"Everybody has a gimmick," Matt commented, restoring the menus to their slot behind an illuminated jukebox radio that looked as if it had survived the Depression.

Their nook was more of a box than a booth, so high were the dark-wood backs and sides.

Green leatherette upholstery cushioned the closed-in effect. Had the booths been horses, they would have been described as springing from Spanish Inquisition out of Gin Joint.

"Feels like an old-time confessional," Matt noted, turning the dark beer he had ordered on arriving. The waiter had worn a shabby tuxedo and a dishcloth apron splattered with tomato sauce--one hoped it was tomato sauce, anyway.

"I think it's kinda cozy." Temple sipped her white zinfandel, whose pinkish hue clashed with her don't-give-a-damn, "frankly Scarlett" red hair. "So. Do you have confessional matters to talk over?"