Carole Douglas - Cat in a Zebra Zoot Suit

The mystified threesome lay grunting, some from tiny fiery surface wounds inflicted by the claw-driven bounds the recent mass exodus of a few feral and many ghostly cats over their epidermis.

Was this Nine Lives moment a hallucination? Temple wondered. He r hallucination? Was she getting psychic as well as punchy?

Then the martial arts guy doffed the ugly cap, and grinned.

“Matt,” Temple said, even more mystified. “How did you end up here?”

Everything in this murky scene was abruptly stage-lit as several twin orbs of bright light breeched the open doors and entered to hover eerily around the stalled white Probe, the black of night behind them. Then the blurred and light-bleached figures swarmed past the beached Probe as they too charged the stairs.

Were the debunked Las Vegas strip UFOs, laid to rest in the recent Area 54 affair, actually real and these newcomers the floating armada’s crews? No. Temple remembered shiny black Tesla sport cars were electric and arrived as silently as gliding alien ships…or certain Vegas “Family” members turned into circling vultures.

Arriving Fontana brothers cooed Italian who-knows-what endearments as they dusted the ladies off, which was a bonus for suffering the night’s terrors, and promised soothing limo rides to police headquarters.

They promised the same rides (without the soothing) as they helped Matt secure Nemo and his downed and dazed underlings. The brothers produced cool, matte-black steel handcuffs that matched the Family Fontana Berettas. They bound the cat-napping crew in uncomfortable, contorted positions on the dusty, gritty floor while Julio speed-dialed Lieutenant C. R. Molina.

Matt pulled Temple, then Electra and Diane, away from the dusty, gritty floor.

Temple grabbed Matt’s hand and said one word. “Louie.”

He turned to the table, then carefully righted and lifted the cage thrown to the floor in the assault.

Inside was…not Louie, but a serene cream-colored, long-haired cat with snow-white paws and a light brown mask that emphasized unearthly blue, blue eyes.

“Karma!” Electra bit her lip, her own eyes luminous with tears. She opened the cage door to stroke the silky fur. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“Temple,” Matt said softly, only to her, “I thought I’d lost you. That can never happen again.”

His sentiment was wordlessly echoed by a velvety phantom brush around her ankles. She didn’t need to look down. You-know-who had shown up at last.

So, say…Temple was a modern woman. Modern women deserve modern men. She could safely swoon now, knowing her boys, Matt and Louie, were safe. And knowing she’d take out anyone who’d threaten the life and loves she’d built for herself.

But she didn’t feel like it. Not in the least.

42

Killer Karma

I must say that Karma has mighty potent…well, karma, but it was I who roused the cat clowder, which was the only physical force present. I could see my Miss Temple sensed Karma’s invisible magnification of feline force. She may find her Inner Cat at that.

For once, I watched the action from the fringes.

When things have calmed down, I survey the situation. I showed up late because I had to give a high-five of the Front Four sheathed shivs to Ingram for leading my Miss Temple to the rendezvous while I was herding cats from the clowder to the scene. We all know how hard herding cats can be.

Ingram has headed home. He will be able to slip back into the Thrill ‘n’ Quill unnoticed when Eduardo visits to ensure Miss Maeveleen is undisturbed and closing up shop for the night. For “owners”, people sure are dim about what their cat companions are thinking and doing.

Whatever Karma conjured, it was a first-class special effect befitting the most spiritual cat breed (excepting the Egyptian Mau).

The Sacred Cats of Burma are famed for defending a Tibetan monk when their temple was raided ages ago. Only two of their kind survived in Europe after World War II, one male and one female, luckily or unluckily, depending on one’s interaction with Karma. She is of the revived Western branch of the breed, and mighty snooty about her exclusive line.

She does seem to have a smidge of astral projection talent, I confess. I suspect that Ma’s clowder was enhanced by some such Eastern out-of-body hocus pocus to produce the river of feline vengeance on Karma’s behalf.

As for the cheesy “Cat signal” using the Probe’s headlights to project a twenty-foot-high Halloween cat silhouette like the Batman signal in Gotham, I know the usual suspect for that.

What a drama queen! Females!

I realize Miss Midnight Louise, miffed because I assigned her to follow “dull” Mr. Matt, took advantage of the situation to grab the limelight as well as distract the villains at the top of the stairs. And what about Mr. Matt’s NASCAR performance, huh?

I will still have to have a word with my junior partner when all the dander settles.

Whatever or however, tonight was a fine performance by all felines involved. For me, it was also good preparation for directing the new cat food commercials. Anonymously, of course. I do not need credit. Just control.

Julio is going to explain to Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina that the captives were cut when they evicted resident vagrants and feral cats that had inhabited the abandoned building’s basement.

Good luck with that story. It will not fly any better than the recent UFOs on the Las Vegas strip rumor.

When I show up after the main action, I cannot say I relish my little doll’s saltwater on my relatively skimpy ruff, a poor thing, but my own. She should know by now I am her go-to guy, even when I do not put in a mind-rocking personal appearance.

With Mr. Matt there to hold and shelter and admonish Miss Temple for intemperate risk-taking behavior, I feel my role is— gasp —redundant. I am expecting to put up with a lot of that after the imminent nuptials.

It is at times, perhaps, the better part to be an invisible influence, which Karma well knows.

Miss Electra is repeatedly kissing Mr. Matt’s cheek, calling him “my hero”, and assuring him that her old Probe crashed upon her newly acquired stairs is of no account. In fact, both needed replacing and she will now save a bundle in demolition and hauling charges.

He is managing to accept her gratitude while hanging on even tighter to my Miss Temple. She is fretting about what Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina will say. Or ask. Ask her and ask him.

Such sweetness and light gives me a tummy ache, so I withdraw unnoticed back to the fringes. Ma Barker and I sit together in the shadows, watching the mopping-up operations, which consist of patrol officers taking Nemo, Adcock, and Zydeco away.

The third man slipped away down the back stairs, but that being such a classic film noir title, The Third Man , I am okay with letting him go, especially as I know his size, gait, and scent. I will be ready for him next time if he is so foolish as to enter my territory again.

“I am surprised, Grasshopper,” Ma muses, sounding contemplative. If you knew Ma, you would know how out of character contemplative musing is. “I am surprised you were content to merely sound the alarm and sat back to leave matters to your sponsors and my Las Vegas Cat Pack.”