Douglas, Nelson - Midnight Louie 05-Cat in a Diamond Dazzle

"Dozens," her aunt sang back. "And I'm not going to barge into a damn one of them."

"Then I'll just have to--" Temple brushed by Sammy Davis, Jr. to peer around the narrow wall separating her from the next balcony compartment. "Eightball!" she whispered hoarsely.

His startled face (Temple would have described it as a "guilty mug") peered around John Wayne's broad shoulder.

"What are you doing to Liza?" she demanded.

"Nothing."

"Then why are you up here?"

"Uh ... for the view." He leaned over the balcony wall, spotted a security guard who seemed about to look up and ducked behind John Wayne.

Temple did likewise with OY Blue Eyes. Then she scraped her back along the wall until she was at the hallway door, and slipped through it.

Kit, and Eightball, were waiting for her.

"What's Liza got on those famous feet?" she asked him Eightball's well-seamed features screwed into chagrin. "Nothin'. Guess they figure no one sees them from below."

"You were looking for shoes, weren't you?" Temple said.

He shuffled, drawing attention to the battered penny loafers on his feet, which boasted shiny new dimes.

"Can't say," he answered. His faded straw fedora turned in his hands like an anoretic Frisbee.

"Why not? It's transparent as Plexiglas! You're hunting the Stuart Weitzman prize shoes. Why?"

"Goddakleyent," he mumbled.

"Once more, with articulation," she demanded.

"Gotta client."

Temple, shocked, leaned against the wall behind her. Actually, it was the door to the balcony, which eased open under her weight. She saved herself from falling over backwards, then tilted onto the balls of her feet and came out swinging, at least verbally.

"A client? You've actually been hired to hunt for the shoes? By whom?"

"Can't say."

"Can't say?"

"Client privilege."

"Someone has hired a private detective to find the shoes and win the contest? Such a person hardly qualifies as a 'client.' That is. .. that is low! Despicable. Beneath contempt. Like hiring a pro to take tootsie rolls from a tyke." Temple paced. "Besides, who has that kind of money to throw around?

Someone who could afford to buy the shoe, that's who. Eightball, you have sold your soul for a pair of designer spikes! You are overturning the balance of power in the footwear world. You are lending your abilities and your name to the shoddiest scheme ever to come parading down the Las Vegas Strip, and that's going some! I can't believe it." Temple stopped pacing.

"A client's a client."

"Don't be so stubborn. What kind of a P.I. slinks around town eyeballing the feet on lady mannequins? Are you following me, hoping I'll lead you to them?"

He shrugged. "You might have a better instinct."

"You bet I do. And if I find you snooping in my tracks again, I'll... I'll call the police and charge you with something disgusting. Like shoe-sniffing."

Eightball put up a defensive hand. "It's just a job."

"A dirty job. The whole idea of a contest is to have fun, is for someone to find and win the shoes, not engage some hired gun."

"I ain't armed, and I'm getting damn tired of hunting high and low for a pair of fancy shoes. It's not like it's a significant assignment. And it sure ain't worth the wrath of a redhead."

A pause followed this cranky confession. Temple thought about calming down.

Kit lifted her hand palm-out, first two fingers spread to make a peace symbol. "Remember," she told Eightball, "I'm just Temple's even-tempered, fading-redhead aunt Kit."

"Eightball O'Rourke." He nodded sourly, and suspiciously. "You ain't interested in those damn shoes, are you?"

"Only as an innocent bystander. As such"--she included Temple in her glance--"I suggest we adjourn to the Crystal Phoenix. Whatever side you two are on, there are no shoes here for you to bicker over, except the ones we walked in on. Thank Thorn McAnn!"

Putting shoes into their proper place, they all walked back to the Strip and caught a cab to the Crystal Phoenix.

Chapter 17

... Seems to Whisper Louise

It is not long before the sophisticated brains, eyes, nose and vibrissae (whiskers to you less educated folk) of Midnight Louie find their way to the lower-level dressing room that has been claimed by Miss Savannah Ashleigh.

I could say that I had used my sensitive nose to trail whatever Rodeo Drive scent of the month Miss Savannah is using now, but that would be misleading. I could have done so, but did not need to, as I have a good idea of where she is to be found. This is, in fact, the same site that she commandeered on her most recent visit to the Crystal Phoenix when she had some ceremonial duties at the Rhinestone G-string competition. In fact, it is old homeaway-from-home week. Not only is the Divine Yvette present in the pink carrier that serves as her portable residence, but our reunion is marked by an event similar to our last encounter: a murder of a human person who makes a living by wearing as few clothes as the law will allow.

I am all for it. Not murder, but wearing as few clothes as the law allows.

You will notice that one does not have to tell the truly superior species to bring warm clothing: they arrive with all the outerwear that they will need--warm, durable, full-length coats of fur or hair or feathers or scales. It is only humankind that arrives on the scene wearing nothing more than a fragile layer of skin. (I can attest to just how fragile that skin is, having accidentally peeled off a fine line of it now and then.) But humans are not totally ignorant. Taking instructions from the humble spider, they have evolved numerous and complicated ways to weave, spin and construct suitable clothing.

Then, having overcome their natural inferiority complex, they move up to a level of idiocy that one would think they made up, did one not know the species intimately.

They split into two mutually exclusive camps. Some become skinophiles and can be found in nudist camps. Others, the vast majority, become skinophobes and can be found in Bible camps. I wish that they would make up their minds, but that seems to be the last thing that humankind is capable of.

A very few humans learn to exploit the druthers of the skinophiles by performing in their natural state (which skinophobes find filthy and disgusting), wearing a few skimpy accessories that skirt the laws on such actions. What is really brain-boggling is that when naked humans invent little nothings to give the lie to total nudity, they usually feel obliged to shroud the only site where they can boast a smattering of fur anyway! This is why human beings see psychiatrists and animal companions run away from home.

I myself see nothing to crow about in the unclothed human state, but feel, philosophically, that all species should continue in their natural condition. For one thing, in making an art of clothing themselves, humans have an unfortunate tendency to covet the skin, fur, scales and feathers of other species, most of which cannot give up their outerwear without losing their lives, not that most people show any remorse for their ill-gotten garb.

Ah, well, as long as I am not forced to wear pantaloons and vest, I suppose it is no skin off of my nose.

But it would most definitely be skin off of your nose if you ever tried to take my epidermis for a muff.

Luckily, muffs are history nowadays.

And, luckily, the curled muff of silver fur that is the Divine Yvette is sleeping safely in her carrier, alone. At last! I pad near the mesh window to my darling and gaze fondly on her snoozing form for several seconds. Frankly, the Divine Yvette is sweetest when she sleeps. When she is awake, she is likely to ask awkward questions, and sometimes, even show the front of her fangs (which are supematurally white and well maintained, but are fangs nevertheless).