Carole Douglas - Cat in a Midnight Choir

“I do not know about him,” Mr. Lucky replies with a hackle twitch. “That creepy leopard-spotted mask is insulting to the real thing, and his voice sounds like he is gargling rattlesnakes. I liked the Man in Black who stole us back from the ranch better.”

“Mr. Max,” Mr. Lucky purrs in basso agreement. “I have heard of him often on the Big Cat circuit. It is a shame that he has retired from the magician trade nowadays. He was the best. We guys in black are pretty hard to beat.”

“Hear, hear!” I put in, but am ignored, except by Miss Louise, who corrects me. “Gals in black, too.”

“Speaking of gals in black,” I put in, hoping to be heeded for once,“I hear you two big guys are going to be working with a new female magician. How is that going?”

“How does a pipsqueak like you know about our secret sessions?” Osiris growls.

“I hear things others do not. It is my job. I am a private investigator.”

“She does not wear black,” Osiris says,“this new lady. At least not all the time, although I commend the truly long fingernails she wears. As long as some human females’ high heels. Four inches, I would say.”

“Awesome,” purrs Mr. Lucky, cleaning between his own four inch shivs.

I try not to shudder, knowing that the evil Shangri-La and her light-fingered mandarin stage-shivs stole my Miss Temple’s ring as part of her so-called act three months ago. Besides, it is more important to know what Shangri-La is up to now.

“So Miss Shangri-La is indeed joining the Cloaked Conjuror’s act?” I say idly.

“And that kitten of hers.” Mr. Lucky lifts a paw the size of a catcher’s mitt and licks it cleaner than home plate.

“You mean” — my breath catches in my lungs like a two-pound koi in the throat — “a piece of fluff about the size and weight of Miss Midnight Louise here, only pale of coat?”

“She is a funny-looking feline,” Mr. Lucky says,“not a symphony in monotone like Miss Midnight Louise. Her eyes are an unnatural blue shade, her body is the pale liverish color of the pablum I am given when I am sick and off my feed —”

“Baby food,” Osiris sneers. “They give you human baby food, buckets of it.”

Mr. Lucky ignores the attempted ignominy, as I would do in his position. “And her extremities appear to have been dipped in some sort of mud. They are all dirty brown.”

I chortle to hear the hated Hyacinth cut down to size by the Big Cats. My every encounter with her so far has ended with me caged or drugged, not a sterling record for a street-smart shamus. But even she would not dare to challenge these big dudes.

Midnight Louise is not amused. She never is.

“I have seen the cat in question. She is a lilac-point Siamese and is supposed to look like that, including the blue eyes, which are highly prized by humans. The only thing unnatural about her is the colored enamel on her claws, and that is perpetrated by her mistress, who presents a rather gaudy stage presence herself.”

I cannot believe that Miss Louise has beaten me here to lay eyes on my bête not-noir in her new lair before I have! To lay eyes on both of them, in fact, Shangri-La and her hairy familiar.

“I need to check these babes out,” I say.

“I bet you do,” Mr. Lucky says with a wink. “I must say you get around for a little guy.”

I fluff my ruff, but Midnight Louise is not impressed. “I have got the whole layout down cold. Come on along and I will show you.’Bye, boys.”

There is little left for me to do but to sashay after Louise like she is cheese and I am a rat. When I catch up with her, I decide to assert my age and experience.

And then I get a brilliant idea. These dames are big on family trees, and have I got a claw off the old cactus for her!

“Say, Louise.”

“ Miss Louise to you, since we are not related, as you keep reminding me.”

“It is funny you should mention that. Before I came here I ran into a rather large piece of auld lang syne.”

“Huh?” She stops and twitches her tail. “I am a Scottish fold, ye dinna hae ta speak Scots to me.”

“I mean I encountered a figure from my past. My earliest years. It was quite a shock.”

“I am surprised you remember anything that far back.”

“Ungrateful kit! I am not about to forget my own mother.”

“Mother?” She actually stops and sits, squashing that metronome tall of hers. “How can you be sure? You must not have seen her since you were six weeks old. I certainly did not see mine after that, though whether it was because she was dead or domesticated I cannot say.”

“Well, my ma is neither dead nor domesticated. She runs a feral gang on Twenty-fourth Street, a pretty raw neighborhood. She has survived being kidnapped by the Fixers and is doing just fine. I would say she said hello if there was any chance that you two were related, but it does not look like there is.”

“Liar!” she spits. “So my grandmother is alive.”

I do not say anything to dissuade her. Dames love to imagine long lines of interelated individuals, whether they be human or feline. Perhaps that is why the human ones watch soap operas.

“Do you think she would know anything about my mother?” Louise asks.

“Could be.”

“I suppose you did not ask, you irresponsible lug!”

“There was not time. I was about to be jumped by the Wild Bunch or whisked away for an unnecessary globe-otomy by the Fixers.”

For some reason Miss Louise finds this amusing. Her shiny black lips curl like whiskers with a permanent wave. “Yeah. I suppose in your condition you could be mistaken for an unneutered male. Who would dream an alley cat like you had benefitted from a human-style vasectomy?”

“Not the Fixers,” I admit with a shudder. “Now, where are these dames of Asian persuasion? I have reasons for tracking down Shangri-La and her evil sidekick Hyacinth.”

Midnight Louise sits down in the middle of a flagstone walk between a luxurious growth of giant-leaved plants imported to give the Big Cats a touch of jungle clime.

I can tell right off that she is about to be obstinate.

“We need to make a deal,” she says.

“About what?”

“Our relationship.”

Dames! “We do not have one.”

“I wonder if the delightful lady gangster you met on the north side would agree if she laid eyes on me.”

“A mother may recognize a grown kit, especially when the kit in question was such a remarkably smart and personable little nipper, but no grandmother is going to recognize an offspring once removed. Let us face up to the common prejudice: we black cats all look alike.”

“Actually, I was not interested in any personal relationship,” she says silkily. “I was speaking purely of business.”

“Oh. Right. You work for me. Sometimes.”

“I have worked with you, sometimes, when it suited me. I believe it is time for a more formal arrangement.”

“What? I should pay you?”

“We should be partners.”

“Partners! I do not need a dame for a partner any more than I need a dustball dog for a sniffing substitute.”

“Yet you have employed both on several of your latest cases.”

“Aha! You admit that I do have ‘cases.’”

“I will…if you admit that we are probably blood related.”

“Hell, an average cat couple can create over four hundred thousand offspring in seven years, which I admit is a long run for your average street cat. All cats are probably related.”

“Do not swear, Daddikins,” she purrs in an odiously sweet manner. “It is a bad example for the boys.”

I turn to find black and spotted muzzles parting the glossy leaves. “Ah…nothing to worry about. Just a little family discussion.”