Unknown - Douglas_Carole_Nelson_Cat_in_a_Jeweled_Jumpsuit_Bo

It is while gazing on the almost-naked ape (this critter is wearing the obligatory diaper) that I happen on the discovery of my life. Why are cats superior to all other species? We know that they are, and that they have attained this high station despite lacking the prized opposable thumb or even the disgusting bark so hailed in the canine species.

I have it. Call me Darwin! (But only as a middle name. It is an extremely wimpy name and I only claim it in the abstract sense.) The chimpanzee before me betrays the clay feet of the entire human race.

Diapers. This creature is wearing that so-undignified banana bandana that marks a creature who is hopelessly retarded in its elimination. The feline, on the other hand, is notable for its neat personal habits indoors or out (unless subjected to intolerable emotional stress). This has made us a boon to humankind from time immemorial. No other animal species is so remarkably tidy. This makes us King of the Beasts. Or Queen, if Midnight Louise is listening in.

Once the innate inferiority of the creature before me is clear, despite its agile fingers and brain, I sit down and take charge.

“All right. Settle down, Chiquita-chomper. I suppose I should know if you are a dude or a dudette. Well?”

The thing chitters at me in monkeyese. I scratch my nose in puzzlement. It repeats the gesture.

What a silly mug! Naked as a slug, despite the hairy coat that would do honor to a goat. And the thing smells to high heaven. No wonder it is locked up far from human sniffers.

I speak slow-ly and clearly. “Me Louie. You … well? Me Louie, you—”

“Chitter, chitter, chitter, chatter.”

“Enough of the chit-chat. Me Louie, you … ?”

The big ape starts pounding itself on the chest. Big hairy deal. If I had wanted a drummer, I would have asked for one.

Then I finally tumble. The critter is trying to use sign language. He is not saying “chitter chitter bang-bang” on his chest, he is saying his name. So I listen harder during the next outburst and come to only one conclusion. Am I a seasoned investigator, or what?

“Or what?” may describe my role as translator for a juiced-up monkey.

“Chatter?” I say, not believing my own words. “That is your name? Chatter?”

“Chitter chitter.” Head nod.

By George, I think he has got it. “All right, ah, Chatter.”

Grin grin, nod nod. Show teeth. Ugh! So square and dull and regular, no interesting predator peaks and valleys. No wonder humans seek out orthodontists. I would too if I had that in my family tree. Fortunately I go back to Ole Sabertooth Tiger, and there was nothing filed down about that Jurassic dude.

“Okay, Chatter. G0000d monkey-wonkey. Ah … can you explain why you are locked up in here?”

Chitter chitter, blink blink. What is this guy, a hairy semaphore? I see that there is nothing to do but for me to forsake the sophisticated signaling system of my breed and descend to sign language as well. These crude charades offend my feline soul, but the dedicated investigator must sacrifice even dignity in the pursuit of an honest answer.

So I walk to the door. I walk back to the cage. I leanmy forelimbs up to the padlock, and pantomime a twisting motion. Then I sit down, do my best to impersonate an owl and force my purr into a trilling “Whoo-whoo-whoo.”

The big monkey tilts his ugly head and eyes me inquisitively. I am not about to repeat the performance, but I do repeat the question: “Whoo-whoo-whoo.”

Suddenly light dawns in those ancient brown eyes. The creature leaps up, assumes a bow-legged stance, and begins playing the air guitar as if he were auditioning for Saturday Night Live.

Naturally, I am startled by this unsuspected talent and leap back, in case this is St. Vitus dance and it is catching. Of course the conclusion is obvious. An Elvis imitator has incarcerated this poor benighted being behind these cruel chickenwire walls.

Verrry interesting.

But why was Miss Quincey Conrad paying surreptitious visits to the imbecile and calling him Baby? Is she perhaps acquainted with the hairy little fiend? Might there be some plot involved.

Ah-hah! I remember my detective antecedents, bom in the USA, even if they were first practiced on French soil.

I refer, of course, to what mystery readers of all ilk must inevitably be reminded of when confronted with a crime, a primate, and a mysterious motive.

Cherchez le chimp, bebe.

It is very possible that the individual who attacked the costume so senselessly, scattering nail lacquer and paper towels about, was this very creature I share confinement with. A chimpanzee is quite strong, and even more unpredictable. Elvis kept one, as a matter of fact, by the name of Scatter, and it drank beer and looked up girls’ skirts, much to the amusement of Elvis and the refined gentlemen of his entourage. Then the novelty wore off, and the animal, after being the life of the orgy for some time, was consigned to a solitary cage, where it died alone and unmourned. I cannot condone treating even a silly antecedent of humanity so callously.

Seems to me some son of Scatter would be very interested in laying some version of Elvis low.

Chapter 22

Help Me Make It Through the Night

(Recorded by Elvis in 1971)

“Elvis alert!”

The phrase, bellowed out, made Matt start and look behind him.

Almost midnight, but he was alone in the studio, and the alert was only on his headphones.

Leticia was grinning at him from the other side of the glass window, a vision in an orange and turquoise-trimmed silk tunic and pants. Matt imagined she was the kind of vision Elvis would have had after eating one of those nightmare meals made from his four favorite food groups: lard, sugar, salt, and carcinogens.

“You’re expecting that guy to call again?” Matt asked through the mike. He was relaxing into the radio routine: commercials were blaring to the outside world while the staff took a break before they were back on the air.

“I’m hoping, honey.” She winked.

Matt wasn’t hoping for another visitation from the Tabloid Twilight Zone, but he was prepared if it came. He’d not only read a lot of books about Elvis, but he’d made notes. Maybe he could trip the King up. Prove him the fraud he needed to be revealed as, in order to come to terms with himself. His real self.

This was Matt’s show, after all, and he wasn’t here to be made a fool of. He grinned at the shakiness of that assertion. Anyone who stuck their neck out with a live call-in show like this was in imminent danger of public folly.

But no tin-star Elvis was going to be his downfall….

Of course, the worst nightmare for a live call-in show was not a bizarre guest. It was the absence of any callers. Leticia had been known to assume other voices and call in herself, if need be.

That wasn’t necessary tonight. Calls came pouring in, including three referring to the previous night’s Elvis sounding (as opposed to sighting). Two callers were irate that the station would use such a blatant gimmick to hype the new Elvis attraction in town. One caller wanted to know if Elvis had been in the studio for the interview.

“It wasn’t a live interview, no,” Matt said, tongue deeply in cheek. “He called in just like you did.”

“Oh, wow,” the woman said. She sounded too mature to be making this call or saying “wow.” “Then he could be dead too.”

“You’re claiming to be dead?”

“No! I meant, it could have been a voice from the grave.”

“In that case, I’m very glad it wasn’t an in-person interview.”

“It’s not a gimmick, like that man said before, is it?” “If it is, it’s not a gimmick that’s originating here at WCOO. We were as surprised as anybody.”