Unknown - 16_Cat_In_An_Orange_Twist

A voice booms out in the darkness with such authority that for a fleeting moment I fear the world will be created again.

Miss Louise hunkers against me, not from fear but the better to whisper in my ear. “Who is on the loudspeaker?’

“That is no loudspeaker, dear girl, that is a theatrically trained voice projecting. Sometimes I envy these humans their immense, and immensely wasted, vocal range. In fact, I know the possessor of that stainless-steel foghorn”

“You always claim to know everyone in this town.”

“Mostly, they know me,” I retort modestly. “That happens to be the commanding voice of Danny Dove, the eminent choreographer. At least someone two-legged in the place has the sense to call for the lights to be put out.”

As we listen, we hear the answering scrabble of a few footsteps. Someone besides us is up and about now.

Louise and I dispose of the last shrimp within reach and duck under the floor-length tablecloth as a new burst of gunfire rakes across the china, making for a rainfall of chips that are useful at no casino in town.

In the fresh quiet after the storm, I hear at least two or three people in motion. Peeking my nose out from under the watersoaked linen, I spy a sight that would turn my whiskers whiter, were they not already so colored.

“What is it, Daddikins? You have stiffened like roadkill.”

“Roadkill. That is a good name for it. My roomie has lost her mind and is on the move in this shooting gallery:’ “How do you know?”

“I have glimpsed the fugitive sparkle of what can only be my Austrian crystalized Stuart Weitzman signature shoes. Miss

Temple must be looking for the light-control mechanism in answer to Danny Dove’s clarion call. I must go to her aid:’

“And what can you do?”

“I do not know, but I can be there in case. Stay here, under the tablecloth. And do not eat all the shrimp!”

Without a backward look, or a burp in mourning for the abandoned shrimp, I streak in the direction I last saw Miss Temple’s shoes crawling in four-four time. At least she has the sense to assume a four-limbed mode of locomotion. On the other hand, I hate to contemplate my namesake shoes scraping their delicate crystals on all this scattered glass … speaking of which, ouch! I might be better off with some protective booties myself.

Sure enough, the megawatt glimmer of those dazzling white Austrian crystals are as easy for a seasoned tracker like myself to follow as breadcrumbs for a bird.

Ker-plough ack-ack-ack. Whoever is shooting has a lot of ammo, not to mention nerve. I crouch down, hoping my Miss Temple has had the sense to do likewise. But someone else is moving despite the fresh shots.

Someone pale and sensibly low is following Miss Temple too.

I scramble right on those vanishing heels, which are dull brown leather and not nearly as simple to tail as synthetic diamonds.

And then all the lights go out.

Luckily, I am blessed with phenomenal night vision.

So it is a bit of a surprise when I hear thumps and whispers ahead in the dark, and find myself forced to screech to a stop.

That is a only a figure of speech. Were I truly to “screech to a stop,” the entire set of hunkered-down humans in this building would be clapping their hands over their ears. I have quite an effective screech in my repertoire.

No, this is a metaphorical screech. It means that were I a motor vehicle stopping so quickly, my brakes would scream bloody murder.

As it is, I stop on a dime without a sound, a master of the feline change of direction in midair. I am only sorry that all the lights are out and no one is here to see it. Especially Miss Midnight Louise.

I land silently, but not without great effort. There is a lot of me to land silently.

Although the most immediate humans in the area are right in front of me, I must do a sniff test to make sure of their suspected identities.

This I manage with my usual undercover delicacy. My supersensitive vibrissae (whiskers to you crude human types) twitch near the presumed face of my lovely little roommate.

It is Miss Temple indeed, flat on her back and utterly safe from flying bullets, even in the dark.

My delicate vibrissae reach out again … to confirm the near proximity of Mr. Matt Devine, who has rushed to my Miss Temple’s rescue with my own admirable speed and dedication.

In fact, he has covered her body with his to protect her from flying bullets.

This I too would do, save he is much bigger and better suited to the task.

All is well, so I retreat into the dark that disguises my watchful presence.

I am sure that they do not need me.

In fact, I am urgently needed elsewhere: at the scene of the crime.

Somewhere out there. In the dark Las Vegas night. Under the bright desert stars intermittently lit by the bright Las Vegas neon.

Assured of my Miss Temple’s safety, I am free to be fully feline and embrace the dark night; to track down the perpetrators of this uncalled-for assault on Miss Louise’s and my midnight snacking buffet.

You might call it a snack attack, as far as I am concerned. And that is motive enough for swift and merciless pursuit.

Chapter 11

Dark Victory

The utter darkness that ended the shooting spree seemed to end the world also.

Stunning silence stalked the shattered mock rooms inside Maylords. Nothing moved. Now no one spoke, whimpered, even seemed to breathe.

A spiderweb brushed Temple’s cheek, followed by a felt penpoint, cold and wet. She must be hallucinating sensations in the absence of her prime sense, sight.

She was not alone in the dark. At all. Temple started to struggle free of the living, breathing weight atop her.

It lifted, somewhat, but again something tangled in her hair. Then an ice-cold palm cradled her cheek.

“Temple?” Matt whispered in the dark.

“I think so. How did you-?”

“What were you doing moving around in this madness?”

“You too!”

Matt’s rapid breathing echoed her own startled-rabbit pulses. Maybe it was her imagination-it was pitch-dark-but it seemed the whole universe had held its breath and everybody else was pretty damn quiet too.

She tuned in the reviving sound of shifting bodies and furniture, of muffled curses and sobs. An elbow dug into the carpet a bit too close to her ribs and then the weight lifted away and she was able to breathe all on her own, alone. Too bad.

“God, what were you thinking of?” he asked.

“I remembered where the light panel was.”

“So did somebody else, somebody probably a lot closer. Are you hurt?”

“I can’t tell yet.”

His hands helped her struggle to sit up from what she could only regard as a compromising position.

Her breath still came like hiccoughs, in ragged jerks. Action, moving had made her feel better, more alive. Sitting here in the dark absorbing the terror of the attack made her into a puddle.

Matt put an arm around her shoulders, which obligingly shuddered. She hated that! His hand, warmer now, slid along her cheek to her neck.

He was taking her damn pulse! As if his wasn’t in overdrive too.

She shook herself loose. “I’m okay. Did you hear the punching of eight million cell phone buttons?” “Yeah.”

“I suppose anything I might do here is redundant.”

“Nothing you could do would be redundant.” His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, an obvious accident in the dark or … omigod, maybe he was going to kiss her, and, well, everything would change forever faster than a shot in the dark… .

“Okay, people!” Danny Dove’s voice, mellow and commanding, could make eighty chorines twitch their ostrich feathers in perfect sync. It could also command mass hysteria to shut up and take a debutante bow.