Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

I’m here. Sometimes. Strictly by schedule.

“Play ‘Misty’ for me.”

Of course she would call back. Especially now. “You’re dialing the wrong show. Ambrosia’s off the air. I don’t do music, just chat.”

Ambrosia was making frantic throat-cutting motions, but he shook his head just as definitely. Vassar’s death had made him angry for her, and ultimately, wonder of wonders, for himself. Let the games begin.

“Just chat.” She repeated, laughing, with a lilt.

Her voice had the loveliest trace of an Irish brogue. Nothing stage-Irish or exaggerated. Just a faint mist of musicality. Hearing her, one could almost love her instead of loathe her.

Matt held to that idea. Had Kitty the Cutter been lovable once? Or never? Was that what had shaped her?

“What’s your trouble?” he asked, emphasizing the word for the Irish political conflict, The Troubles.

“Ah. It’s about a man.”

“Of course.”

“I gave him everything. Or the chance at everything.”

“And he failed you. Just like a man.”

“Well, no. He was a man. He betrayed me.”

“My gender takes a beating on this program.” Matt could never bear to call it a “show,” though sometimes it was. “Another gal done wrong by some heartless cad?”

“Not heartless. Too much heart. No balls.”

He glanced at Ambrosia. Games he could play on his own time. Raunchy language that could lose the station its license was another matter.

She shook her head, disowned any say-so on program content. This was too vital.

Matt had long since disowned the issue of cowardice. Martial arts had built up his self-esteem in that area, if not others. He had abandoned every precept of his youth and vocation to meet Vassar. Even she had understood and respected that. As he had come to respect her. Yes. That was his weapon. His assignation with Vassar had been a meeting of the minds, even the soul. Who would have thought it?

“A coward,” Matt said. “Fickle. Anything else?”

“Only that he went to a common whore, snuck around on me. Thought I’d never know.”

“Maybe he knew you’d know, wanted you to know, wanted you to get the idea, and get lost.”

“Wanted me to know? Snuck around, I said. Danced in and out of casinos all along the Strip so no one could trace his path.”

“Apparently you did.”

“Well, a woman knows.”

“So, forget him. You really want that kind of sneaky rat?”

“Hmmm. I had hopes that he would have some morals. His history certainly indicated that.”

“So what are you going to do? Moon over this no-good guy? Confront him? He’ll Only lie.”

“You’re right. The only thing to do is to wash my handsof him. Wash that man right out of my hair. Wash my hands of him, like Pontius Pilate.”

Matt felt a chill. She knew her Scriptures as well as he did. He was to be crucified, was that it?

“Maybe,” he said, “you should consider yourself lucky. This is Las Vegas. You can get a lucky break here. He obviously wasn’t worth your attention.”

“Obviously. He obviously was a lot more sneaky than I thought. I guess I’ll just leave him alone all by himself to pay the price. There will be one, won’t there?”

“For every action and reaction, there is always a price.”

“Right. So this is my declaration of independence. He’s off my hook. I want nothing more to do with him. Let him stew in his own juices, if he has any. I’m outta here. Will you tell him for me?”

“I think you’ve done it yourself, very well.”

“Thank you. It’s been fun. And, if you really want to do me a favor, play ‘Misty’ for me.”

Matt was surprised to find Ambrosia “breaking” into the studio, shattering the “fourth wall.” That’s what actors called the invisible divide between them and the audience, and it pretty much applied to radio too. Both mediums offered ersatz intimacy.

Before Matt could answer, Ambrosia punched some buttons on the console.

The Midnight Hour closed for the first time with music, not talk: Johnny Mathis crooning “Misty.” His voice was as caressing as ever. Matt couldn’t believe this was the swan song to Kathleen O’Connor’s obsession with him.

Once the words and music were launched and the mike was dead, Ambrosia glared at Matt. Not at him, on his behalf. “Sorry, my man. I really wanted to give that girl what she had coming to her. And that was not a last word from you. She don’t deserve that.” She smiled suddenly. “Oh, that Johnny is one mellow fellow, isn’t he?”

Would that Mr. Midnight were one too.

Chapter 19

… Max Outed

Not many people, especially security, carried firearms that required cocking anymore.

Max decided he had heard his almost-invisible door magnetically shutting again. Or … he was not alone in the pitch dark.

He stood still and listened.

No one can stand still longer than a performance-hardened magician. Perfectly still. Even his breathing slowed. His performance days were a bit too far behind him, but most of his physical disciplines had held up. He worked out daily.

In time all the tiny almost sub-sonic sounds to be heard became clear.

The faint thump of the raucous musical heart of this odd building. The occasional click, almost mechanical, that came not from a pistol-packing phantom, but from somewhere inside this dark and concealed space.

Max began moving on his treadless, rubber-soled shoes designed to leave no trace and make no sound. He felt likea mime against a black velvet curtain, moving, or appearing to move, but hardly perceived.

And then he heard a thin trail of laughter, as distant as a dream.

His hands reached further out, finding a wall.

He moved along it, swift and silent as a spider, halting the instant the wall vanished.

The slight breath of air on his mask-bare face, the touch of his fingers, told him he had reached the intersection with a wider hall.

This he went down, drawn by the sound of men murmuring, the sound increasing, murmurs becoming words. Thurston in twenty-four … on Halloween yet … damned bastard! … the thugi … dead, I suppose… .

A woman’s voice came bright as a bird chirp in that basso chorus. Cloaked Conjuror, she said. Jeered. Laughter, mostly male. Hearty. Mean.

Max stopped moving, listened further.

More murmurs and now the convivial click of crystal. Not glass, but crystal with its higher, bell-like clarity, as seductive as a long fingernail skimming silk.

He had to be there, bare-faced or not.

Max let his fingers do the walking, those combination pads and prints so supersensitive they could feel another’s sticky fingerprints on glass.

They reached out and touched something. Another door into the dark.

Max knew how these doors worked now. He gave this one a karate chop at the doorknob level, where no doorknob, where no light existed.

The barrier snapped open, halfway, truncating Max’s figure into two halves, both dark.

A roomful of people stared at him as if he were an apparition. What an entrance! Now all he had to worry about was an exit.

Chapter 20

… Synth Lynx

It strikes me as very odd that humans have to work so hard at having fun.

What is it all but running around the block until the day of the executioner’s axe? For the mouse it is the toothsome cheese that comes just before the steel trap. For the cat it is the endless naps that come before the Final Nap. For people, it seems to be addictions, group tours, and therapy. ‘ The scene at Neon Nightmare reminds me of a cruise on the good ship LSD. I was not around for the vintage happenings, but it recall what I have learned of the sixties: sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Just add neon and you get the general idea.