Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

I mention this to Miss Midnight Louise when I drop by the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino to look her up.

I had slipped back into the Gangsters limo when we passengers were unloaded at the Circle Ritz. The lovebirds were distracted by “discussing” Miss Temple’s Unsanctioned Midnight Adventure. When I followed Ernesto into the driver’s compartment, he and Julio just shrugged at my presence. They know me well from my Crystal Phoenix days of old and have learned to accept that my druthers are the equal of theirs.

“We would not want to continue in the middle of that lovers’ spat either, Louie,” Julio said, chuckling.

And there I am back on my chauffeured way to the Crystal Phoenix and Miss Midnight Louise, as planned. I was unofficial house detective there before she showed up—from who-knows-what no-name littering and dismal alley—so I have no trouble locating her office in the lavish indoor flowering greenery surrounding the Crystal Court eatery.

I am thankful Louise scorned my old outdoor stand beside the hotel pool’s canna lily and koi pond for office use. I can visit it to commune with my old pals, the koi, and see if they require any services, like population control, I might be happy to provide.

“What,” Miss Midnight Louise inquires, “has bestirred you to make the long hike from the Circle Ritz to here?”

“Hike, hah ! I was chauffeured here, but I am seeking a companion for a long hike back to the Circle Ritz.”

“You are as out of luck as any empty-pocket gambler, Daddy-o. Why should I wear out pad leather on your impulsive say-so. An elderly screen queen traveling with a pair of afghan hounds has just checked in, and I must ensure her high-strung canines do not disturb the other guests.”

This is when I bring up the queen/queen conundrum.

“Well, that is off-topic to both our jobs. The definitions of ‘queen’ have nothing to do with our firm, Midnight Investigations, Inc.”

“I beg to differ. I am keeping in mind that whereas crime scene tape prevents all curious humans from crossing invisible thresholds, we as a species have a particular free pass.”

“I have responsibilities. I cannot go gadding about just because you have found some Crime Scene tape to violate.”

“Ah, well. I suppose I will have to clear Miss Electra Lark of murder by myself. I work better alone anyway.”

I have already turned away, and would have been out of hearing range, except that I have spotted a bit of Shrimp Diablo a guest has dropped on the floor. Such culinary carelessness is not tolerated at the Crystal Phoenix, and would not be allowed to lie undealt with for a second during my administration.

While I am tsk ing over this sad state of affairs, Louise catches up to me, snags the tidbit with one front shiv and pops it into her mouth. “What do you mean ‘clear’ Miss Electra. I was not aware that she was cloudy.”

“What? I cannot understand you when you talk with your mouth full. And Miss Electra is indeed under a cloud, a cloud of suspicion. Of murder.”

“Ridiculous,” she comments. I am not sure to what precisely she is referring. Usually it is me. “Of course we must observe the crime scene, but we need not walk. I just saw a Fontana brother passing… There is sure to be another around.”

She bounds off, expertly threading through milling tourist feet and ducking behind hotel floral displays and luggage carts until we near the main entrance. There we slip out on a trolley, hidden behind piles of leather-scented luggage ripe for a thorough and joint shiv sharpening. I even leave my initials on one. Customizing indicates the finest brands.

We go public at the curb, where Miss Louise blatantly sits at the valet’s desk, curling her long black train around her dainty front feet. Normally, I prefer to come and go undercover, but now am forced to join her. Luckily, people are concentrating on wrestling tips and baggage and we go unnoticed.

When a low black sports car pulls up, Louise trots across to the closed passenger door. “Come, Louie,” she calls me (like a dog). I follow with a feline slink in time to see a Fontana brother unpretzel his long, pale-attired legs and stand. It is the Crystal Phoenix Hotel boss man himself, Mr. Nicky Fontana.

Miss Midnight Louise looks up at him, and blinks her round gold eyes. I back her up with an unblinking green stare.

“What is this?” Mr. Nicky asks.

The driver comes around and turns out to be Mr. Julio Fontana. My Miss Temple seems to have some difficulty telling the ten suave brothers apart, but it is no problem for me and Louise. Every human has a different scent, including traces of recent meals. Umm. Sea bass in a white wine and herbed butter sauce. I could do without the white wine, but it is nice to see adult litter-brothers socialize—whether in Ma Barker’s clowder by the police substation or on two legs along the Strip.

“Louie and Louise,” Julio says. “Seeing them making the scene together would sure get Carmen Molina’s hackles up. Have you had a recent murder at the hotel?” He chuckles.

“None, thank God,” Mr. Nicky says.

“Are you sure?”

Mr. Nicky is looking a little worried, but not too worried to jibe his brother. “And…’Carmen’ Molina, huh? She does not give out that first name for public consumption, bro. Is the Iron Maiden of the Vegas police force moving from Mexican to Italian cuisine?”

“Not drastically, but she is definitely weary of black cats cluttering up her crime scenes. Why are these two together? The big guy usually hangs at the Circle Ritz.”

“And our dainty house cat does not leave the premises.”

(Little does he know.)

We listen to the brotherly byplay and keep mum. We are the strong, silent types.

Unlike dogs, we do not have to yip, gurgle, scratch, whine or paw to make our druthers known. We just stare straight at them until the people figure it out. Maybe it is some secret power known only to Bast, but if we wait long enough, and stare long enough, we will get what we need or want.

“You know,” Julio says, nervously jiggling his car keys. “Maybe I better get Midnight Louie back to the Circle Ritz.”

Midnight Louise finally stirs. She nestles her shoulder against mine— ugh , and blinks her short black lashes.

“She wants to go with?” Julio asks his brother. “I thought she was fixed.”

“Sure is, so no harm done. Just make sure you bring her back after the visit.”

“So I am chauffeuring a cat? Crazier things have happened in Vegas.”

“And stayed in Vegas,” Mr. Nicky adds. “I wonder what got into these two? They nailed a pickpocket at the hotel recently, so we better let them do what they seem to want.”

Louise and I have minded our manners and ridden on the Tesla Roadster’s black floor carpeting, not the leather seats, in case a claw should snag. When released in the Circle Ritz parking lot, we scamper for the surrounding oleander bushes, leaving Julio scratching his head as Miss Electra, happening to exit her own car, jumps as if she had just seen a ghost. (The electric-powered Tesla arrives as silently as a stalking lion and tends to startle people, which the Fontana brothers appear to enjoy doing.)