Unknown - 22_Cat_In_An_Ultramarine_Scheme

“Stifle yourself,” Midnight Louise hisses in my ear. “This is the family ‘coming out’ party at the Crystal Phoenix. There shall be no crude fishing expeditions.”

“Look at that cat’s poor eyelid, Nicky,” Miss Van von Rhine croons, bending low to examine Ma Barker’s puss.

I squint my eyes shut. Miss Van von Rhine will get four in the first three epidermal levels from Ma for that liberty.

“I know a great eye surgeon for that,” Miss Van von Rhine goes on, speaking directly to Ma, “if you would consent to drop by my office with Midnight Louise and let me treat you to Gangsters’ new spa for a facial and even maybe a tummy tuck. We will have a plastic surgeon on hand for Botox and laser eye lifts.”

Eek! A tummy tuck is my mark of honor for surviving a premature surgical attempt on my, er, fur balls.

I am amazed to see Ma Barker erupt in a purr and rub on our hostess’s ankles.

Female! Thy name is vanity! What a traitor.

Whilst I am stewing about the turn of events—I seem not to be the object of every eye—Miss Midnight Louise slinks up to me again.

“Good job, mein papa. Who knows what that South American terrorist would have done to our poor human associates had we not been there to staple his treacherous suit lapels to his epidermis through his trachea.”

Females can be so visceral.

I do see how Ma Barker, after her harsh street life, might be ready for the Queen for a Day treatment. As for my esteemed pater, Three O’Clock has drifted to sleep with his whiskers in the catfish pâté. Pater is in the pâté. What a family! I could die.

“Louie,” says my Miss Temple, “it has been a busy day, and I think you and I should head home to the Circle Ritz.”

Sweeter words were never spoken. I cannot wait to hit the solo sack with her and have my … tummy tuck scratched. I am the exclusive sort.

Meanwhile, there are some tiresome matters, always as clear as a crystal phoenix to me, that the humans always have to settle.

“What made you suspect Santiago, Nicky?” my Miss Temple asks.

“Actually, my brilliant wife. Van, do you want to explain?” He turns to her with a bemused smile.

She shrugs charmingly. “It was nothing. Merely my broad knowledge of international finance.”

Macho Mario barks out a laugh at the word “broad,” which evokes cocked shivs in the Midnight family females, not that anyone biped would notice.

“I always say, Nicky,” he predictably says, “if you do not have it, marry it.”

Mr. Nicky Fontana is a modern dude and knows to give credit where credit is due. “And how did your superior knowledge save the whole project and remove the blot of a murder rap from all my nearest and dearest? Dearest.”

“You … flattering phony Santiago, you,” Van answers with a smile. “Temple came to my office and asked me to explain bearer bonds, after we found that one … ‘rat dropping’ in the tunnel.

“I explained that they had been a convenient way to do international transactions and were available for up to ten thousand dollars apiece. The investment was poor because they often did not earn interest, and their usage is being phased out as we speak.”

Nicky frowns. “We knew any valuables found in a Jersey Joe Jackson stash would be … out of date.”

“Yes. Of course, dear.”

Uh-oh. That is the prelude to a forthcoming contradiction.

“However,” Miss Van von Rhine goes on in that sweet, reasonable, feminine way that always stiffens my hackles into boar bristles, “bearer bonds are worth the loss of interest to international illegal parties who need ready cash. In fact, despite the colorful update of Gangsters attractions, we Americans have been pikers in the ‘gangster’ stakes since Prohibition was reversed, at least north of the border, as Las Vegas is.”

“Agreed, my dear niece-in-law,” Macho Mario rumbles from his kingpin seat on the chartreuse satin chair, which is usually my private throne.

I guess I will submit to age before beauty. This time.

“Anyway,” Miss Vanilla goes on in her tooth-decaying way, “bearer bonds have remained popular in South America, which made me wonder why a North American rat was playing Foosball with one. Upon further studying of the document in question, I saw that it was dated.”

“It was in Jersey Joe’s locker, albeit it was otherwise empty,” Eightball O’Rourke puts in, while chowing down on a caviar cracker. “He has been gone since the seventies.”

Ouch! Not true, especially here in the Ghost Suite. And maybe now!

The hairs on my backbone are standing up and singing “Clementine.” And I cannot even carry a tune, much less wear a size-nine boot or carry a bearer bond. I do so hate to see humans of my gender rushing toward their doom, unless it is Santiago.

“The bearer bond was dated nineteen ninety-seven,” Miss Van puts in, as if we should all get it now.

“So it is a teenager,” Macho Mario disparages. “It is still worth the ten thou. That is a pretty good baccarat-room tip in these times.”

Are mine the only vibrissae that are reaching for the ceiling in this room? Can Macho Mario be that behind the times?

Yes.

Miss Temple takes up the theme. “What was a major world event in nineteen ninety-eight, one that was actually positive?”

There is a long, long silence. Nobody remembers much by years, only by personal ups and downs.

“Uh …” comes a lone, cautious response from a Fontana brother. Ralph, the second youngest to Nicky. “… Windows Ninety-Eight?”

“Good answer!” Miss Van responds. “But not relevant.”

Frankly, the last thing on the Fontana brothers’ minds is being relevant, and the whole clan heaves a sigh of relief.

“And,” Miss Temple adds, “on the pesky international front, the peace accord in Ireland.”

“What should peace have to do with this mess here today?” Macho Mario asks.

“After what Temple told me she learned at the Neon Nightmare, a lot,” Miss Van von Rhine says. “I will let her take up the narrative.”

“I do not want a ‘narrative,’ ” Macho Mario says. “I want an answer to who killed who, so long as it is not a relative, and why.”

“Commendable,” Miss Van says dryly. “I will let Temple continue with what she risked life and limb to learn at the Neon Nightmare.”

Macho Mario frowns. “Her knees did seem to be dry and nubbly today.”

My Miss Temple rolls her eyes. “It is not what happened in nineteen ninety-eight, it is how what happened in the Irish peace process that year that made the U.S.’s nine/eleven attack so earthshaking over there. I did some research and—”

“—And I hope this is not another boring TV news thing,” Macho Mario says.

“I will cut to the chase,” Miss Temple says. “On record, there is only one ‘beneficiary’ of nine/eleven, as admitted by the Dean of Saint Anne’s Anglican Cathedral in Belfast. He cited the ‘worldwide revulsion against terror it sparked.’ As American dollars to support the IRA cause vanished almost overnight, the dean concluded for the Protestant side that ‘We here in Ireland are perhaps the only beneficiaries of nine/eleven.’ ”

“What do the Irish have to do with it?” Macho Maria demands. “Gloomy northern folk with a jones for justice and music and alcohol hard and soft, like their heads.”

“Yet they did what almost no one in the world has managed in recent decades, Uncle Mario,” Nicky says. “They made peace.”

“And because of that wonderful step forward for humanity,” Temple says, “the core of this whole puzzle of murder and magic was a war chest.”

I yawn and make my way to the buffet. I see that this is going to be a talky party, and I prefer rebuilding my strength to social chitchatting. I have a lot to face in the future: having both Three O’Clock and Miss Midnight Louise hounding me when I visit the Crystal Phoenix and Gangsters and the additional stress of Ma Barker crowding me near the Circle Ritz.