Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

“No gentleman involved,” Electra shot back.

“Anyway, these people got the money to get their way. They are made of money down to their undies, I’d bet.”

“How much did they offer?”

“That’s private,” Jay said. “And so’s my room. I’m thinking you and your pint-size deputy better leave.”

He shuffled forward, a wall of high and wide, but not handsome, bulk. Electra retreated in revulsion, pushing Temple into the doorway.

“You…cheap, thieving jerk,” Electra accused as she backed away into the noisy night. “Some people aren’t fit to occupy space on the planet. How much did they pay you? I want my money from our deal.”

“None of your beeswax, hon.” Jay grabbed the door edge to shut them out.

“You can’t run away from me. I know people you don’t want to mess with in Vegas,” Electra fussed. “You’ll be sorry—”

“I’m betting my people are nastier than your people, Electra,” Jay said as he slammed the door closed in her face.

Behind her, Temple teetered on the edge of the concrete walkway, even though her sneaker soles were flatter than a morning-after wallet.

Electra backed right into her. “Sorry, hon! Hon . He called me ‘hon’, can you believe it?”

Temple edged around to Electra’s side. “We better leave.”

They stepped forward into a waiting circle of women. Black, white, Asian women, and one maybe-woman, all on six-inch hooker heels.

“That old guy cold cock you, sistas?” asked a black woman in a blonde wig.

“It’s all right,” Electra said. “I have some persuasive bill collectors.” She pulled a bit of gun butt out of her shoulder bag.

“Some kink you must have on,” another Sister of the Night commented. “What is it, grade-school girl and nun clown?”

Temple just wanted to be away from there. “You got it. We are a sister act,” she said, citing some TV show icons of the past forty years. “ The Flying Nun and Betty White. Red-hot act. We have a tight schedule. Gotta go.” She grabbed Electra’s elbow and propelled them both toward the car.

“Weird. Must be doing well with that,” a last comment drifted after them.

“Oh, my Lord,” Temple said as she buckled her passenger seatbelt. “That was a weird, useless outing. I thought for a moment you were going to pull out your gat and shoot him.”

Electra’s profile was grim as she turned the Probe under a streetlight and into the traffic flow. “That was a useless ex-spouse. What a louse. What a coward.”

“Maybe,” Temple said. “Maybe not.”

“You’re standing up for him?”

“No. I’m saying maybe he’s been dealing with some local Big Bad Wolf worth being scared of. I don’t like the vibe I’m getting off the people associated with this strip club project.”

“Me neither. It sounds like they’re putting pressure on Jay Edgar, but, believe me, baby. Nobody can do that better than I can, and I have just begun to fight.”

14

Ride and Seek

When I spot Miss Electra Lark pulling out her old Probe car from behind the storage shed that houses Mr. Max’s Hesketh Vampire motorcycle, all the Sensing Something Strange hairs on my hackles rise.

I then spy my own Miss Temple exiting the Circle Ritz wearing sunglasses after dark, stopping to perch on the top step while our esteemed landlady gets her car. Why is Miss Electra not driving her usual Elvis Blue Suede Shoes edition Volkswagen Beetle?

I race over to the oleanders ringing the parking lot. A certain stand of the hedge they form always harbors a guard cat or two from Ma Barker’s clowder. I have ensured this handy presence by dragging down excess bounty from my despised stock of Free-to-Be-Feline for the feral community. My act of charity was almost outed last night by the mysterious intruder.

This is an excellent exchange program. Inside, I get kudos and head pats from Miss Temple for “doing so much better on eating your healthy food”. Outside I get shoulder rubs for providing gourmet inside-cat food to the feral crew.

This is known in international diplomatic circles as a win-win situation.

Luckily, my business partner and aspiring daughter, Miss Midnight Louise, happens to be on Free-to-Be Feline patrol tonight. She eats up that trendy tasteless kibble that resembles rabbit turds. I keep silent on the matter, since it is handy to have her in my debt, but I would like to believe that no blood relative of mine would eat that stuff if not forced.

“Quick, Louise!” I say. “I need some impromptu tailing.”

Her pointed little face with the harvest-moon-golden eyes pokes through a makeshift bonnet of spiky green oleander leaves. I must admit she is enough of a looker to be a relative, but I am not copping to that rap. They can sue guys for illegal littering these days, you know.

“Is Mr. Max back?” she asks eagerly.

“We have just determined he is gone, so no.” He is her favorite tailing assignment, but she has been put on the Mr. Matt Devine detail in recent weeks and is none to happy about it, given the nightly round trip to outlying radio station WCOO .

“And,” I add, “no silver Jaguar detail for you tonight, Mr. Matt is already at the radio station. Miss Electra’s getting out the old Probe. Something Is Up.”

Miss Louise boxes her airy eyebrow hairs. “That is a very rough ride. Perhaps they are just going out for a Dairy Queen.”

“Whatever! I want you undercover and with them. Hurry. You’ll have only a minute to eel into the backseat when Miss Temple enters the front one.”

“At least she does so slowly, so as not to scuff her precious shoes. Although they are oddly ordinary sneakers tonight. Now that is suspicious.”

“You cannot judge her on that. Poor people! They are forced to cover their very insufficient lower feet. They do not have our elegant retractable shiv design. At least my Miss Temple paints her pathetic toenails a vibrant Predator Red to make up for it.”

Louise has tired of me defending my roomie. Her black coat melts into the asphalt as she hastens away, avoiding overhead lights. She is lurking beside the doorstep as the white Probe appears and stops.

Miss Temple enters the passenger seat, and slams it shut more speedily than is her wont. I cringe.

Yet when the Probe pulls away, Miss Midnight Louise is nowhere in sight, not even a hair of her luxurious rear member caught against the white car door.

What a relief! I would never hear the end of it if her precious “train” had suffered a fender bender. And so to bed.

With the flurry of Miss Temple and Mr. Matt leaving to catch a plane early the next morning, I do not expect a report from Louise for a while.

After they depart, I am enjoying a morning snooze from my undercover position beneath the oleander bushes, imagining my lost love, the Divine Yvette, cosseting my ears and purring pretty little French nothings into them. You might wonder how a French purr differs from a plain American one. There is a world of difference, believe you me.

“ Phffft .” I awake spitting. Miss Midnight Louise is looming over me, cleaning her toe hairs right under my nose. I sneeze again. “You will never pass as French with that kind of public grooming,” I warn her.