Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

This will require a leap down, an amble among freestanding bookshelves, and a leap up.

“A picture is worth a thousand words, Louie,” Ingram snickers.

So I make the trek and confront the strangest getup I have ever seen on a feline standing upright like a man. It makes my flaming flamingo fedora pale by comparison, from the flat wide-brimmed hat to the long coat with big shoulder pads over pantaloons starting under the forelimbs and bagging down until tight at the ankles. This literal “hep cat” is swinging a watch chain so long it could lasso a llama. This is the zoot-suit getup worn by the dudes I saw cavorting during my basement dream state.

I take all this in and return to Ingram without incident.

“Well?” he demands.

“I have seen people thusly costumed in films on the Retro TV channels. What is with the watch chain so long you could trip on it?”

“They were named after us, Louie. ‘Cat chains.’ Every hip young man wanted to be a ‘cool cat’. Some hipsters wore real gold chains. The poorer sort used the pull chains from water closet appliances.”

“You mean toilets? That does not sound ‘cool’, but crass.”

“I am amazed that even you, Louie, would find your sensibilities challenged by that. Anyway, the government banned the Zoot Suit.”

“That is unAmerican!”

“You are ignorant. You, as a black cat, should remember how your type was subjected to chromatic cleansing in the witch-hunt days.”

“I am well aware of four centuries of rabid persecution and burning. It is amazing any of us are left, and we still are left behind at shelters when it comes to adoption time, because the ignorant still superstitiously avoid black cats. So the ignorance is all on the side of homo sapiens, thank you very much.” I shudder. “Who gave this human species the right to rule the world?”

Ingram blinks his eyes but does not answer. He does however, continue his lecture. Since this is what I do not pay him for, I listen.

“The jazz music scene of the twenties mingled black and white musicians, defying segregation laws. Cab Calloway, the black jazz singer, wore flamboyant Zoot Suits onstage. When swing dance came along, the Zoot Suit was the day’s street fashion, like baggy shorts and T-shirts are today among teens.

“In 1942, the war effort banned excessive fabric, so wearing them became “unpatriotic”. Zoot Suit riots in Los Angeles were started by sailors in port taking swings at the hep cats as “unpatriotic”. Zoot Suiters were beaten and stripped and Zoot Suits burned.”

“Like a book-burning?” I ask, aghast. “The getup is laughable, but so are all human clothes. Except my Miss Temple’s,” I add loyally.

“The riots lasted ten days, Louie. Yet the Zoot Suit lives on. You were a cool cat in a Zoot Suit was the saying.”

“Yeah, and sometimes dead meat too, given the chromatic cleansing against my particular coat color during the witch hunts in Europe and America.”

Ingram produces a weary sigh. “At any rate, violence also closed the Zoot Suit Choo-Choo club. While the Mob liked its own sharp-lapelled, pin-striped suits and snappy fedoras, they saw troubles with Zoot Suit Choo-Choo attracting other ethnic guys who might organize. One hipster got hung there, by his toilet tank pull chain, and the club closed.”

“Hanged?” This nugget of unexpected information sets me back on my tail. “Who and why?”

“I do not know.”

“You do not know?”

“It is just a footnote in Las Vegas history.”

“Not to the guy who was hanged. Where can I get information on this for Miss Temple?”

Ingram yawns. “My afternoon nap time nears. Lure her into the store and get her to buy a book on Las Vegas history.” His eyes are half shut. I curl the tips of my shivs into his shoulder and shake it.

“ Me-owie !” he complains. “Do that again, Louie, and I will never enlighten you in future.”

“How did you learn of this Zoot Suit Choo-Choo place?”

“In a book, of course.”

“Which book?”

“I forget, and if I do not get my nap, I may even forget everything I know the next time you come in scraping for clues and unpaid research assistance.” This time his peepers close down completely.

I sit there, perplexed. First I must attract Miss Maeveleen’s attention so I can be released to the wild. Then I must find some way to lead Miss Temple to Zoot Suits, the Zoot Suit Choo-Choo nightclub and an obscure seventy-year-old murder on the same premises where the former Mr. Electra Lark has bought the farm in the same fashion.

There are times I have been forced to resort to charades to convey important news and clues to Miss Temple, but this whole Zoot Suit puzzle takes the cupcake.

33

Thrill and Quill

When Temple heard Electra’s voice on her phone just before noon, she felt her stomach swoop a bit. What now?

“We’ve got to have lunch,” Electra said.

“Lunch…okay.”

“I know this is sudden, Temple, and you have work to do, but it could be important.”

“That’s one of the perks of working from home, Electra. I can always make time for a friend.” Temple reflected that was also a problem sometimes, as playing hooky often seemed more fun than fingers to the keyboard. “Anything new from the cops I should know about?”

“No, not them, thank goodness, but I told Maeveleen Pearl the good news that I inherited that that pile of desert sand under that abandoned building.”

“Maeveleen Pearl. The name’s familiar.”

“She owns the Thrill ‘n’ Quill bookstore that relocated to my mini-shop street, which is soon to be elevated to an urban village, if you have your way and I’m not in the federal pen.”

“Electra, don’t worry. Everybody’s working to clear you.”

Midnight Louie had appeared from nowhere and was rubbing back and forth on Temple’s bare calves, which was pleasant but tickled.

“Clearing me is taking a lot of work,” Electra remarked, “which isn’t encouraging. Anyway, we can meet on the site and lunch at a charming little catering café not far away.”

“What’s it called?”

“The Magic Muffin.”

“Just what we need for the village.” Temple had a second thought. “Uh, it doesn’t sell marijuana, does it?”

Louie stretched his forepaws up her legs, as if trying to reach the cell phone at her ear, or to listen in.

“What a thought!” Electra laughed. “No, pot is not legal here in Nevada, though everything else is. Even medical marijuana is tightly controlled.”

“Let’s you and me walk to the Thrill ‘n’ Quill together,” Temple suggested. “I’d love to see the bookstore when we pick up Maeveleen. I’ll meet you at the wedding chapel side in an hour.”

As she ended the call, Temple looked around.

Louie had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared and cozied up.