Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

“Wow, Mr. Midnight,” Blackie says. “You sure know your way around exotic Las Vegas nightlife.”

What can you do with a pair of wet-behind-the-ears two-year-olds? Granted, the ear wetness is from grooming, which is commendable, but I could use some second wind here.

“Say, what is that big silver metal door?” Blackjack asks, as I skid to a stop.

“Our path to enlightenment, boys, and reunion with our clan. It is called a ‘safe,’ but it was not very for the murder victim found inside recently. See that rat hole to the side of it? Dive in there.”

“Huh? We are not hungry.”

“Look, Blackie, I do not care about the state of your stomach. You should not have been duping the Crystal Phoenix chef and gorging yourselves in Midnight Louise’s place. Now I want you two to shimmy-shimmy inside there until you get behind the safe. The rat-size tunnel widens there to boxer size.”

“Ooh, people-fighting,” Blackjack says, sparring with his front mitts.

“I meant dog-breed boxer-size. Just shut up and move.”

Both are still street-skinny, which I cannot say for myself. I hope they will push the passage a wee bit wider for me when I bring up their rears. And do not make any smart remarks bringing up my rear. I am not in the mood.

Anyway, I finally writhe my way through, leaving too many excellent side hairs along the trail. Blackjack and Blackie are waiting in the dim light of the tunnel beyond, their eyes gleaming the same eerie green I am told mine do when viewed at the right angle in the dark. I instruct them further.

“We need to be quiet once we reach the big warehouse under the Neon Nightmare. You will hear much thumping and caterwauling and chaos from the nightclub. Ignore it. We will walk secret ways known only to Bast and me.”

The luminescent greens of their eyes grow rounder. That is what I need, cowed underlings. Pity there are no humans I can call on to do the job, but this requires the small and wiry underground fighter.

Really, this mission is getting to be like herding people. Blackie and Blackjack are ever ready to go off task, speculating about the reason for the tunnel, and then oohing and aahing like tourists when we hit the huge storeroom I anticipated would underlie the Neon Nightmare.

I am not about to waste time explaining a giant neon-sign graveyard to the uninitiated.

“Start climbing, and make it snappy,” I order. “This is not a kit playground. This abandoned jungle gym for giants could be dangerous.”

Above us, the ceiling that is the Neon Nightmare floor vibrates with the thump of deep bass speakers. Occasional flashes of the nightclub fireworks penetrate the depths.

My two intrepid assistants run under a giant 3-D high heel to hide.

“Thunder and lightning, Mr. Midnight,” Blackjack whines. “Ma Barker would never let us out in it.”

“Ma Barker is not here, and I am. Would I hide behind a human woman’s footwear, no matter how large, like even Miss Lieutenant Molina size? I would not! Now get out and get moving. I need every set of shivs and fangs available.”

“Ma Barker runs our clowder, Mr. Midnight,” Blackie says. “The rules are rules, and we obey, or we get a home fixing, and I do not mean a nice hot meal.”

“Great. I have robo-mice for muscle. I guess I will have to do some home fixing myself.”

“Nooo, Mr. Midnight!”

I rush the arch where they are cowering and suddenly notice that the two sets of green-eye reflections I am rushing are now … three. And the third set has a half-moon on one side.

“Ma Barker is here,” a raspy voice announces. “B and B, get yourselves back in the open.”

“Where are the rest of the troops?” I ask. “My partner is missing.”

“Which one?” Ma asks.

“Miss Louise. I have not seen her since we did some reconnaissance here a couple days ago.”

“Not good. Where is Three O’Clock?”

“Uh …” I cannot betray my threatened gender. “He is guarding the tunnel’s other exit at the Crystal Phoenix.”

I fix Blackie and Blackjack with a fierce glare and a significant mitt gesture. They gulp and keep their mouths shut.

“What about your human partner?”

“She was headed here, bearing arms.”

“They all have arms. We all have legs. What of it?”

“No, Ma. Firearms. Well, just one.”

“Your red-cream is carrying … carrying something besides that giant tote bag of hers? Not good.”

“Have you found the secret hallways to the big club room at the top of the pyramid?” I ask.

“We were guarding the exit of this tunnel on the main floor and nearly putting our hearing out,” she answers.

“Up above is where I last saw Miss Midnight Louise. That is where the suspect club called the Synth meets.”

“Then that is where we will go,” Ma says. “Onward Blackie and Blackjack, to join Blackbeard and Blacktop, then it is up, up, and away to the roof on this crazy pointy-topped joint.”

Ma Barker as Santa Claus? Please. But she does know how to crack the whip.

So we are soon to be six strong and storming Synth headquarters. I scamper along, newly invigorated. Knowing the head-strong ways of Miss Midnight Louise, I am sure that she is lurking somewhere ahead.

Armed and Dead

Temple felt she had walked onstage in the middle of a play.

Probably the climax of a murder mystery.

She had entered the room between two huge bookcases, putting her in a shadowed niche, and the lights were dramatically dim.

So she kept as still as if in a childhood game of “statue” and took in the scene.

Five people in profile were in the midst of an intense scene, three arrayed on or near the room’s furnishings, two in front of a wood-paneled wall that had obviously also concealed a door.

Of the two seated women, one obviously was the femme fatale, the usual slinky brunette. Why were blondes and brunettes always slinky and redheads just … cute? The other woman was a chubby Electra Lark caftan-wearing type: electric and eclectic and eccentric in dress. Where Electra spray-dyed her halo of white hair rainbow colors, this lady wore a large paisley turban on her perm-frizzed gray hair.

A Max-tall man about twenty-five years older than he, wearing a chocolate brown suit and rust silk T-shirt, stood by a gas-log-equipped fireplace, the leaping flames making his face a craggy mask.

And then there were the two Darth Vader types in floor-length black cloaks and Cloaked Conjuror full-head masks, holding sleek handguns on the three apparent club residents. Double Darths. Double firepower. How … not nice.

Temple’s right hand still clutched the top of her purse. In only a few quick motions she could open it and draw the gun. So few seconds and yet far too many; she saw that now. Any movement on her part threatened to uncork the physical violence that was still frozen into verbal exchanges.

Unless … she started her moves now and nobody noticed, which seemed most unlikely too. Instead of being armed and dangerous, she could end up being found armed and dead.

Both parties were staring exclusively at each other, the way lovers do. Or haters.

“We know nothing about the money stash,” the older woman in the ridiculous turban said wearily. “Cosimo handled all that. He was the main contact with … you people abroad.”

“If they are the real contacts,” the tall man said. “Can your gazing crystal tell us that, Czarina?”

The other woman present ignored him to taunt the intruders in a calm contralto. “Did you start by murdering the Phantom Mage?” she asked the masked pair. “Then Cosimo? Now us? That’s the way to get your damn stockpile of money, all right.”

“The money is not ours,” one bizarre, androgynous voice answered. “It was held in trust for our just cause.”