Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

His gel-slicked hair reflected the motion in the wall-cast videos as he nodded into the unlit direction of the proposed Chunnel of Crime.

As they walked forward, out of the elevator-cocktail area, work lights hanging above them glowed into life as they passed.

That caught the eyes on the cocktail carousel, where Nicky’s brothers were content to sit and sip and flirt with the waitresses dressed in pointy, short, and skimpy, patented Rat Pack sixties style. The Glory Hole Gang, though, couldn’t resist exploring the unknown dark for possible treasure. They deserted their drinks and came clattering after the disappearing party of four. So far, the lower depths of Gangsters were just that: a crude basement tunnel hacked from limestone.

“Love the ambience,” Nicky said. “Raw, real. We’d want to keep the earthy stone walls, dirt floor, dim lights, the sense of a primitive flouting of the supposed order and law above. Bathtub gin. Sin.”

“Nicky,” Van asked, “have you been tunneling through from the Phoenix already?”

“Ah, call it an investigative sampling,” he answered.

“Call it chutzpah,” Van said tartly. “So …”

She turned to the Glory Hole Gang, who’d regarded her with elaborate and even fearful courtesy since the introductions at the Crystal Phoenix. “… Am I to understand you five would look favorably upon reinventing Lake Mead’s popular Three O’Clock Louie’s restaurant as Three O’Clock’s Speakeasy subterranean bar and restaurant down here?”

“Ah …” Spuds, the short-order cook, rubbed his palms on his jeans’ side seams. “Yes, ma’am. All that deep frying is hard on the epidermis. I would be beholden if I could try a more varied and European, but kitschy, cuisine. I am a big fan of Julia Child and Wolfgang Puck. Something, uh, high-end, I mean. And fun.”

He winked, looking like Long John Silver in chef’s clothing.

Van blinked.

She turned to Temple. “Am I right in believing that your PR genes are eating all this up?”

Temple went with the flow. She rubbed her palms together, flexing her fingers and flashing her long, strong natural fingernails, painted Hyper Hussy Red, which was a bit toned down from her Scarlett-Woman toenail color.

“Yes, ma’am,” she decreed. “I could make this concept pop on YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, and every surviving newspaper online. Baaad is good. I’m thinking a downloadable temporary-tattoo page.”

Van’s delicate brows frowned ever so slightly. “Why the tunnel and riding the rails?”

Nicky, as usual, had an answer. “The average tourist can’t afford to rent a Gangsters limo for the whole evening. This way they invest in a kicky new-old drink and get a shot of speed and nostalgia in one bolt.”

“What about ventilation? Regulations? You’re talking an underground fast rail operation, no matter how short the distance.”

“We can handle it, Van,” Nicky urged. “We have the underground, Jackson Action Haunted Mine Ride okayed on the Crystal Phoenix end, and the rails are already laid. That’s why I brought in Santiago. He’s first and foremost a renowned and innovative architect. We’re lucky he’s interested in our rather limited project.”

“Nonsense, Nicky,” Santiago objected. “Las Vegas is a petri dish for architects. A playground. Anything goes.”

“Say,” Wild Blue Pike exclaimed as a new work light revealed more tunnel, “this sure reminds me of our mining days working the Silver Spoon out near Rabbit Hole Spring, don’t it, boys? This tunnel safe?”

“Of course.” Santiago was offended. “Everything above us and to the side has been shored up by steel struts. These ‘walls’ you see are concrete and stone aggregate, troweled on like hand-sculpted walls in houses. It only seems to be natural stone.”

“Waal, this don’t seem all that natural,” Cranky said, approaching a section.

He pulled a metal measuring tape off his worn leather belt and rapped it on the ersatz stone.

A small hollow knock sounded.

A Rat in Time Saves Nine Lives

Needless to say, I am always “all ears.”

And I am not alone. At the moment.

Miss Midnight Louise and I have been exploring the tunnel from the Crystal Phoenix side. “Spelunking,” I believe they call it.

I call it “looking for Elvis.”

Of course, I do not tell Missy Louise that. She is most skeptical on the subject of Elvis. She would better believe me if I said that Michael Jackson had appeared to me in the tunnel created a few seasons back. Actually, since that was named the “Jersey Joe Jackson Action Attraction,” I would not be surprised if the King of Pop had popped in to visit the King en route to rock ’n’ roll heaven.

I must say I am glad that a major concert career is not in my past or my future. It seems to be a fatal job choice.

This subterranean rendezvous was Miss Midnight Louise’s idea. She hissed the suggestion in my ear during the brouhaha of the Midnight family reunion at the police substation, whilst my parents (her grandparents) were squaring off.

“I have been eavesdropping in the Crystal Phoenix executive offices,” Louise informs me as we amble along in the almost-dark, following the steel tracks of the defunct Haunted Mine Ride portion of the attraction.

I spot a faint glow far ahead of us, but I do not wish to mention any lights at the ends of tunnels, because (1) it is a cliché, and I am nothing if not original, and (2) that has become a phrase synonymous with moving on to another existential plane, like death, and I do not intend to use my battle-sharp shivs for plucking a harp quite yet.

“Eavesdropping is admirable,” I admit, “and one of our species’ finest skills. The human observer sees us as flicking our ears against the incursions of vermin, when their banal maunderings are the object of our interest.”

“It is not very banal around the Crystal Phoenix of late,” Louise says dryly. “Not with Mr. Nicky and Miss Temple around to cook up new promotional schemes. Miss Van von Rhine and I have our mitts full keeping the lid on.”

“Never fear. I am here to supervise now.”

Miss Midnight Louise favors me with the sight of her tail high-flagging it ahead of me down the Chunnel of Crime-to-Be.

I remind myself that we are possibly—even probably—related and follow her in what you might call a disinterested way and I might call a darn shame.

The overhead work lights remind me of a night game of baseball or some other entertainment where human and feline interests meet. I must say the human recreational propensity for chasing balls of all sizes, from tiny golf ball to big basketball, is one of their most endearing qualities.

Even as I muse, Miss Midnight Louise can be seen to stop suddenly ahead.

She crouches and freezes.

I trot to catch up to her, but just as I arrive she bounds away.

I am too old to fall for this game!

I bound after her to the section of wall where she has landed.

Alas, by the time I hit the wall, she has bounded on, and I bounce off rough concrete like a Ping-Pong ball. Not the kind of sport I had in mind—me being the thing that is smacked, whacked, and dribbled.

(In fact, a bit of unleashed drool from the impact is now meandering down the hairs of my chinny chin chin.)

I pause to hastily tidy my moustache, shocked to see Miss Midnight Louise shooting along the base of the wall some thirty feet away. Luckily, she stops to start digging frantically, so I am able to come abreast of her.

Will I deliver a verbal thrashing!

Before I can get my growl wound up, I hear heavy footsteps approaching.

“Dig, you old fool!” Miss Midnight Louise admonishes me, when the snit should be on the other mitt. “They will never get the idea unless we ham it up like crazy.”