Carole Douglas - Cat in a Red Hot Rage

“Now let me see, Matthew."

“Matthias."

“Whatever. Handsome. Humph. I get that you got that. Rich? I know what your new two-year contract was, honey boy, so don't jive me there. A dazzling performer. And just what do you think we both do night after night on the airwaves? Smart? Yeah. A decent guy. You are a way more than decent, guy."

“And he was a lot more experienced than I am.”

Letitia blinked her Oprah-size double set of false eyelashes at him.

“You know what I mean:' Matt said. She did. He'd confided in her over the months like an emotion-blitzed call-in. "With women."

“Are you getting better, honey chile?"

“Oh, yeah."

“ Hmmm. In that case that new fiancée of yours had better watch out. Ambrosia might be on her tail, or yours.”

Matt knew that Ambrosia's worldly bluster was another insulator, like the three hundred pounds her body wore, from the aftermath of childhood sexual abuse.

He'd just been celibate by choice, trying to hide unhappiness behind a vocation. She'd been molested.

He lifted her hand and kissed it. "Any gal or guy'd be lucky to call you girlfriend."

“Well." She beamed at his tribute. "That's what I'm here for, baby, to soothe the troubled soul. When's the wedding?"

“We haven't decided yet. We don't know whether to go for a Vegas quickie or drag the relatives up north into it. Or both."

“Me, I'd want that white dress and long, long train, and everybody lookin' on."

“I suppose most women would."

“Your girl?"

“She'd say no, but probably. Besides, I might like to see her like that myself."

“Every woman wants to be someone's angel for a few hours, honey. Hey! Enough jiving. You gotta go on in fifty seconds.”

Letitia scooted out of the literally hot seat to let Matt take her place. He just had time to put on the foam-padded headset, pull his notebook and pen to center spot, and watch the director through the glass window, counting down.

His intro echoed in his ears.

“It's the Midnight Hour with Las Vegas's leading man of mellow advice, the divine Mr. D, Matt Devine.”

Chapter 27

The Scene of the Climb

Getting into any nightclub is a snap for those blessed with the ebony coloring and effacing stature of Midnight Louise and myself.

Getting into a nightclub that has reflective black Lucite floors and walls is almost too easy to be ethical.

So the kit and I do the Neon Nightmare Slink and are soon among the merrymakers crowding the bar and the dance floor. If we can avoid some clumsy human foot doing the salsa stomp on our tippy toes or rear members, we will soon melt into these shiny black walls like licorice ghosts.

Well, that comparison leaves something to be desired (mainly that we are not edible like licorice, unless there is a pit bull in the building). Anyway, we do our patented pussyfoot past all the carousing humans to a place that Miss Midnight Louise has earmarked as a "secret entrance."

“It is probably just a janitors' closet," I tell her.

“A tad jealous that / have found my way around this maze when you have not?"

“Nonsense, Louise. I always appreciate the efforts of underlings. Ouch!”

That girl spends hours honing her nails to saber-sharpness, not to mention a spit polish.

In the meantime, she has leaped up to trigger a pressure-opening door, like you see on some TV cabinets. We tumble on through as it bounces shut behind us, leaving us in total darkness.

Darkness is never total for the feline nation.

My trusty, long, supersensitive vibrissae (you thought I was referring to something else?) fan out on either side of my noble nose, feeling the air currents, searching for boundaries. Only Santa has whiskers as famed, and mine are white as snow, just like his.

“Forget the white-cane act," Louise hisses at me. "I know the way.”

As we mush along my eyes adapt to the almost nonexistent light.

We now spot the whisker-thin vertical and horizontal presence of light leaking from door frames that are not quite tight. I even hear the distant murmur of human voices.

Alas, I do not recognize the deep, dark timbre of Mr. Max's baritone among them. But I do hear his name mentioned! Both of them.

Louise and I pause outside the pale outline of a door, ears and noses twitching our vibrissae.

We hear the name "Kinsella." We hear the name "Phantom Mage." The people within do not appear to think that they are one and the same, at the moment, or in group discussion. We need to get into that room!

But we are stuck on the outside looking in. Okay. That is not quite as accurately stated as the experienced shamus should put it. We are stuck on the secret inside of Neon Nightmarelooking into the even-more-secret inner sanctum of Neon Nightmare. There is obviously no way that a couple of hip black cats are going to bust into a room filled with light and humans and not attract unwelcome attention.

Sure, we will be underestimated, as usual, but we will also be worthy of note, as always.

“I am dying," Louise says, "to find out what they are saying." Hey! That might be a way. People do not expect dead cats to eavesdrop.

Uh, no. Ma Barker would not want Miss Midnight Louise to sacrifice herself just so I could get an earful. Ma Barker does not have many known maybe-grandkits.

The narrow beam from one of those tiny, high-intensity toy flashlights comes roaming down the hallway. Louise and I flatten and play dead, or background.

The flashlight does not illuminate much, but it does reflect off the satin folds of a full-length black cloak lining.

Eureka! It is an excellent thing that I have kept my coat licked to shiny perfection. Midnight Inc. Investigations sweeps through the now-open door swathed in cloak folds. We melt separately under the nearest chairs and take a deep breath.

“Cosimo!" our savior is hailed. "We were just talking about our current conundrum."

“Conundrum" is a funny old-time word that means "puzzle." If you are talking "conundrum" in this town, you are talking Mr. Max Kinsella, the most enigmatic magician and counterspy guy on the planet. If he still is on the planet, which is what Miss Midnight Louise and I have risked our mutual extremities to find out.

“Where are the odds leaning today?" Cosimo asks, throwing his cloak over his chair back and smacking me in the kisser with several woolen folds sharp enough to eviscerate an eel.

“I think our scintillating Max has offed the Phantom Mage and is lying low until the caper with the Czar's Scepter is history." The voice offering this opinion is darkly female, spoken by a real devil-dame from the heyday of Noir.

I must admit that voice makes my most adaptable member sit up and take notice. Hubba Hubba Hussy! Louise's foreclaws in my shoulder remind me to keep a low profile. Is not that always like a female?

“Why would he kill the Phantom Mage?" another voice asks.

“The guy ripped off his act. Kinsella acted like he was indifferent to that, but he was an alpha magician in this town not too long ago, and we alpha magicians do not forget, or forgive."

“It would have been a splendid parting gesture," the woman says. She is a Cleopatra-style temptress lounging into a red leather chair like it used to be the skin of her favorite lover before he disappointed her.

“Maybe you are right, Serena,'' says an old dude in plain civvies, "but he also turned the tables on us, my friends, by undoing the criminal act we required him to perform as a membership ritual. I agree that he is a first-rank magician, but he also has a first-rank ego."

“And you do not?" Serena asks.

“Touché. Still, I find the man too mercurial to be entirely trustworthy. No one knows where he has gone now, for instance. Or why he both did our bidding, rather spectacularly, and undid it. Or if he has indeed murdered this lesser magician-acrobat called the Phantom Mage, or if that demise was an accident. Max Kinsella strikes me as a man ever-ready to take credit for accidents."