Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

When it comes to Mr. Max Kinsella, there are times when I regret that we are rivals for my Miss Temple’s affections. He has much to recommend him.

I heartily approve of Mr. Max’s second-story skills, his surreptitious ways, his magical arts, his limber physical condition, his penchant for wearing black and only black, his skill at keeping his lips zipped, and his impeccably effective way around the female of his species. In fact, he is a lot like me in many ways, as anyone could plainly see.

That may be why my hackles rise when he enters the picture and my Miss Temple’s domicile, even though he once shared her Circle Ritz unit as an official resident.

Things change, and I am official resident now; he is visitor.

“Missed dinner, huh?” he comments, observing my grooming ritual.

“Baby oysters over dry cat food,” my personal chef says. “Scrumptious,” Mr. Max comments acidly.

I flash him an agreeing glance, but not an agreeable one. “May I sit on your tuffet, Miss Muffet, or is the House Cat going to draw claws on me?”

“Louie is just a big lovable lug,” Miss Temple says, speaking from her experience.

The Mystifying Max honors me with a fleeting glance. He does not believe that for an instant, and I must say I like him the better for it.

“So what brings you out in the light of day?” she asks.

‘What else? Seeing you. How’s the working world going?”

Miss Temple sits down on the sofa, much closer to Mr. Max than to me. In fact, she is close enough to lick his whiskers for him, if he had any.

“Good. That Crystal Phoenix job may have been all-consuming, but now that the revamped attractions are up and running, I’m getting calls to handle public relations for big events all over town.”

Mr. Max runs a few pads down Miss Temple’s arm. “Are you not going to miss Elvis? I hear he haunts the Haunted Mine Ride at the Phoenix.”

“Where does Elvis not haunt in Las Vegas? It used to be his town, so why not? I’ve got a big gig this weekend. Not your style, or Louie’s, but I will have fun. It is the Woman’s World expo at the civic center. Miles of stuff that bores men but enthralls women. I wonder why we’re so different? Do you ever?”

“Never.” Mr. Max does what I cannot, no matter how hard I try. He smiles.

“So what are you working on nowadays, besides writer’s block?”

“Writer’s block. I love it. It sounds so intellectual. There’s never such a thing as ‘magician’s block.’ “

“Actors ‘blank’ onstage sometimes.”

“That is momentary amnesia. Writer’s block is long-term, from what I can tell. I went online and you should see the sites that spring up from those two little words. I have never had a trendy malady before. I enjoy it.”

“You would. You still have not told me what you are up to.”

“I am following your clues, Miss Drew, and looking further into the Synth.”

“Progress? You are making progress?”

He is by now nibbling on her neck, so I suppose he is making progress indeed.

“Some,” he finally says, a weasel word that does not describe the thorough inroads upon her person he has just engineered. “Have you heard of a new club in town called ‘Neon Nightmare’?”

“Sure,” says my Miss Temple, retreating from the abandoned purr-in with visible effort. “PR people know all, like fortune-tellers. A strange outfit is running the place. It is part disco, performance hall, magic club, bar. If you want my professional opinion, the owners have diversified their image too much. Neon Nightmare is a cool name, though.”

“Hmmm.” Mr. Max is miles away from Neon Nightmare.

I am contemplating a fast, full-bore, four-limb leap upon his unprotected spine, but he suddenly leans back against the sofa, foiling my purpose.

“I suspect the place has links to the Synth,” he tells Miss Temple.

“Really? You really think the Synth is concrete enough to have a clubhouse?”

“Why not? An extravagant attraction is the best disguise in Las Vegas, anything extravagant is.”

“What about Matt?” she asks.

Mr. Max fulfills my dearest wish and pulls far away from Miss Temple. “What about him?”

“He needs our help.”

“Let him help himself. It will be good for him.”

“Max! You have a compassionate side, I know you do.”

“But does he have a passionate side? That is something you should think about, Temple.”

“Why?” She is sifting up like a redhead someone has just called a mere strawberry blonde.

“If you want to be someone’s champion, you need to know what he is capable of.”

“Apparently a lot more than I would have thought!”

“Ah. Women always resent the professionals.”

“No, I do not! I did not resent that poor Cher Smith, even though you were feeling so sorry for a stripper you’d never met before that you nearly got arrested for murder.”

Mr. Max sighs, the gesture for which I most envy men and dogs, and I make it a point to never envy men and dogs.

“Cher was not a professional. That was her problem, and ultimately her death warrant. But you are right, Temple. We all have our knee-jerk soft spots. I am just warning you that you have no idea what Matt Devine is capable of; or me, for that matter; or Carmen Molina; or even yourself. Or, to be ridiculous, even Midnight Louie. We all harbor surprises deep within. Sometimes they are well-kept secrets from ourselves.”

“I thought we were all in this together, and going to ‘get together, people and love one another.’ Right now. Are you trying to tell me that Matt might have murdered that call girl?”

“I am trying to tell you that he might not have. It is a fifty-fifty chance for any one of us to committing it—murder—if we are pushed hard enough, and something, or someone, important enough is at stake. And those are pretty good odds for Las Vegas. I could have snapped Molina’s neck the other night when I realized you were in danger and shehad to delay me by going mano-a-mana in the parking lot.”

“But you did not. You let her beat you up!”

“I do not want to fight real murder charges as well as the phony ones, and my object was to get into a car and get to you. A cop car did as well as any.”

“Especially since you can crack any handcuffs on the planet. Still, it must have bruised your pride to let her subdue you.”

“Bruised pride heals. Dead amateur detectives do not.”

“I was all right. I had your darned pepper spray. Not to mention Rafi Nadir.”

“You are lucky he fled the scene. He might have been more lethal than the Stripper Killer, who was merely a sick puppy. Nadir is dangerous.”

“And he once was Supercop Molina’s significant other. Oh, God, this whole town is … a neon nightmare.”

“Exactly. Just like life.”

Mister Max pecks her on the cheek, a chaste gesture even a possessive guy like me cannot resent, and gets up to leave by the same circuitous route he arrived.

Sometimes you just gotta love the guy.

And sometimes you do not.

Chapter 14

… The Shadow Knows

The Strip couldn’t extend to the distant mountains surrounding Las Vegas, so someone had come up with the bright idea of bringing the mountain to the Strip: the club named Neon Nightmare.

From the exterior the new enterprise was a bold slash of neon and a galloping horse graphic atop a man-made peak that reminded Max Kinsella of the ersatz landmarks at Disney attractions.

He squinted at the towering façade by leaning far over the Maxima’s steering wheel to peer through the windshield.

That windshield was the last protective barrier between himself and what he proposed to do.

He was planning to venture back into the world of the professional magician, planning to expose his carefully secured flanks and underbelly … for what?