Unknown - 15_Cat_In_A_Neon_Nightmare

Previously in

Midnight Louie’s

Lives and Times . .

Heavens to Mehitabel, folks! After the turn of events last time out, so many of my human associates have their fat in the fire that I am not sure even an ace feline PI is chef enough to extract all their skins from the conflagration in one piece.

As a serial killer–finder in a multivolume mystery series (not to mention a primo mouthpiece), it behooves me to update my readers old and new on past crimes and present tensions.

None can deny that the Las Vegas crime scene is a pretty busy place, and I have been treading these mean neon streets for fifteen books now. When I call myself an “alpha-cat,” some think I am merely asserting my natural feline male dominance, but no. I merely reference the fact that since I debuted in Catnap and Pussyfoot, I then commenced to a title sequence that is as sweet and simple as B to Z.

That is when I begin my alphabet, with the B in Cat on a Blue Monday. From then on, the color word in the title is in alphabetical order up to the current volume, Cat in a Neon Nightmare.

Since I associate with a multifarious and nefarious crew of human beings, and since Las Vegas is littered with guide books as well as bodies, I wish to provide a rundown of the local landmarks on my particular map of the world. A cast of characters, so to speak: To wit, my lovely roommate and high-heel devotee, freelance PR ace Miss TEMPLE BARR, who has reunited with her only love .. .

… the once missing-in-action magician MR. MAX KINSELLA, who has good reason for invisibility: after his cousin SEAN died in a bomb attack during a post-high-school jaunt to Ireland, he went into undercover counterterrorism work with his mentor, GANDOLPH THE GREAT, but Gandolph was murdered the previous Halloween while unmasking phony psychics at a séance.

Meanwhile Mr. Max is sought by another dame, Las Vegas homicide LIEUTENANT C. R. MOLINA, mother of preteen MARIAN … and the good friend of Miss Temple’s recent good friend, MR. MATT DEVINE, a radio talk-show shrink who not long ago was a Roman Catholic priest and has tracked down his abusive stepfather, MR. CLIFF EFFINGER… .

Speaking of unhappy pasts, Lieutenant Carmen Molina is not thrilled that her former flame, MR. RAFI NADIR, the unsuspecting father of Mariah, is in Las Vegas taking on shady muscle jobs after blowing his career on the LAPD …

… or that Mr. Max Kinsella is hunting Rafi himself because the lieutenant blackmailed him into tailing her ex. While so engaged, Mr. Max’s attempted rescue of a pathetic young stripper soon found him joining Mr. Rafi Nadir on Molina’s prime suspect list, although both are off the hook now, on that case at least.

In the meantime, quite literally, Mr. Matt has drawn a stalker, the local girl that young Max and his cousin Sean boyishly competed for in that long-ago Ireland .. .

… one MISS KATHLEEN O’CONNOR, for years an IRA operative who seduced rich men for guns and roses for the cause. She is deservedly christened by Miss Temple as Kitty the Cutter … and—finding Mr. Max impossible to trace—has settled for harassing with tooth and claw the nearest innocent bystander, Mr. Matt Devine .. .

… while he tries to recover from the crush he developed on Miss Temple, his neighbor at the Circle Ritz condominiums, while Mr. Max was missing in action, by not very boldly seeking new women, all of whom are now in danger from said Kitty the Cutter.

In fact, on the advice of counsel, i.e., AMBROSIA, Mr. Matt’s talk-show producer, and none other then the aforesaid Lt. Molina, he has tried to disarm Miss Kitty’s pathological interest in his sexual state by losing his virginity with a call girl least likely to be the object of K the Cutter’s retaliation. Except that hours after their assignation at the Goliath Hotel, said call girl turns up deader than an ice-cold deck of Bicycle playing cards.

All this human sex and violence makes me glad I have a simpler social life, revolving around a quest for union with ..

.. THE DIVINE Yvette, a shaded silver Persian beauty I filmed some cat food commercials with before being wrongfully named in a paternity suit by her air-head actress mistress, MISS SAVANNAH ASHLEIGH… .

And just trying to get along with my unacknowledged daughter …

… MISS MIDNIGHT LOUISE, who has insinuated herself into my cases until I was forced to set up a shop with her as Midnight, Inc. Investigations, and who has also nosed herself into my long-running duel with .. .

… the evil Siamese assassin HYACINTH, first met as the onstage assistant to the mysterious lady magician .. .

.. SHANGRI-LA, who made off with Miss Temple’s semi-engagement ring from Mr. Max during an onstage trick and who has not been seen since except in sinister glimpses .. .

… just like THE SYNTH, an ancient cabal of magicians that may take contemporary credit for the ambiguous death of Mr. Max’s mentor in magic, Gandolph the Great, and GG’s former lady assistant, Miss GLORIA FUENTES, as well as the more recent death of the CLOAKED CONJUROR’S assistant, not to mention a professor of the metaphysical killed in cultlike surroundings among such strange and forgotten zodiac symbols as Ophiuchus, PROF. JEFFERSON MANGEL.

Well, there you have it, the usual human stew, all mixed up and at odds with each other and within themselves. Obviously, it is up to me to solve all their mysteries and nail a few crooks along the way. Like Las Vegas, the City that Never Sleeps, Midnight Louie, private eye, also has a sobriquet: the Kitty that Never Sleeps.

With this crew, who could?

Chapter 1

Fallen Woman

She looked like a fashion model photographed by Helmut Newton for some slick, slightly sick ad in a fashion magazine.

Or like a butterfly pinned on a mosaic of fire opal.

Or like just another dead woman in the City that Never Sleeps—West Coast edition.

Lieutenant C. R. Molina gazed down at the gossamer straps attached to the extreme curve of a high-heeled, paper-thin sole dangling from the dead woman’s bare big toe on one foot. Gucci or St. Laurent, probably. Talk about an upscale toe-tag. Grizzly Bahr would get a kick out of hearing that when he got the body.

Medical examiners got a kick out of things most people would consider grotesque.

“How are we gonna get the body off that?” came a disgusted male voice from behind her.

Alfonso had joined her in gazing at a victim ten feet below who was seemingly suspended on the intricate galaxy of neon that formed a ceiling for the hotel’s vast gaming area.

The chatter, chimes, and clinks of Las Vegas games of chance drifted upward in the vast central atrium above the false neon ceiling, like sound effects from a faceless computer universe.

“There must be a clear Lexan ceiling above the neon,” Molina guessed. “That’s the only thing strong enough to resist extreme impact. Otherwise she’d have crashed right through the neon tubing down to the casino floor.”

“Bullet-proof plastic. That’s a security application.”

“That’s what the hotel needed. One kid on an upper floor dropping a BB could fatally bean a customer.”

“Makes sense,” Alfonso conceded. “I’ll check to make sure.”

“Any idea how far she fell, or how long she’s been there?”

Alfonso shook his head like a doleful basset hound. He was one of those sloppy cops: fifty or sixty pounds overweight, baggy suit, mussed hair, puffy face, sleepy eyes set in a bezel of perpetually bruised skin. The package made him a very successful homicide detective. As with Peter Falk’s Colombo, everybody always underestimated Alfonso.

Not Molina, who devoutly wished that someone other than the crack team of Alfonso and Barrett had been “up” for this case. Abie, they were called, as in Abie’s Irish Rose. A.B.