Miss Temple edges, barefoot too, to the edge of the balcony.
I, of course, am carried along with her, unwilling. I have definitely revoked the purr.
He stands up, lays his jacket on the lounge chair, and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
My Miss Temple is as still as a stalking cat. I did not know she had such skills in her. She watches. I can practically feel her whiskers twitching, her pupils slitting. (These are figures of speech. She is not so elegantly accoutered as me and my kind, alas.)
But she is as alert as any alley cat, which is high praise from me.
Mr. Matt’s instincts are nothing to spit at tonight either.
He suddenly looks up.
They see each other.
My Miss Temple does not move a muscle, except that her heart revs up.
He looks at her. She looks at him.
He keeps undoing buttons on his shirt. Then it is on the lounge chair.
He begins on the trousers—silly convention! He stops at the underwear, which is dark and understated, at least.
My Miss Temple’s fingernails are starting to seriously impinge on my musculature, which is almost in as admirable a state as Mr. Matt’s.
What is the big deal? She has seen him in his swim trunks before.
All I can say is the night is strangely charged until he dives into the deep end of the lit aquamarine pool and begins swimming laps back and forth.
Some spell is broken. Miss Temple mutters under her breath, and incidentally into my ear, “Well, I suppose it’s the equivalent of a cold shower. For him.”
She sounds terminally angry with our esteemed neighbor and I chance a small merow in her ear.
“Poor Louie!” she says, back to normal and paying attention to me again. “Are you hungry? Was bad mommy away too long? Bad, bad mommy.”
Well, I loathe the “mommy” stuff, which my Miss Temple has never resorted to before, but I cannot complain about the tins of sardines, shrimp, and oysters she piles over the ugly green, dry foundation of Free-to-be-Feline in my bowl.
I settle on my haunches to dispense with it bite by delicious bite.
Thank goodness things are back to normal around here and I can lie back, digest everything, and relax for a while.
Previously in
Midnight Louie’s Lives and Times …
How sad that my singing voice is more scat than lyrics, for my personal theme song would have to be “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.”
I admit it. I am a shameless admirer of the female of the species. Any species. Of course not all females are dames. Some are little dolls, like my petite roommate, Miss Temple Barr.
The difference between dames and little dolls? Dames can take care of themselves, period. Little dolls can take care of themselves also, but they are not averse to letting the male of the species think that they have an occasional role in the Master Plan too.
That is why my Miss Temple and I are perfect roomies. She tolerates my wandering ways. I make myself useful, looking after her without letting her know about it. Call me Muscle in Midnight Black. In our time, we have co-cracked a few cases too tough for the local fuzz of the human persuasion, law enforcement division. That does not always win either of us popularity contests, but we would rather be right than on the sidelines when something crooked is going down. We share a well-honed sense of justice and long, sharp fingernails.
So when I hear that a reality TV show is coming to Las Vegas to film, I figure that one way or another my lively little roommate, the petite and toothsome, will be spike-heel high in the planning and execution. She is, after all, a freelance public relations specialist, and Las Vegas is full of public relations of all stripes and legalities. In this case, though, I did not figure just how deeply she would be involved in murder most media.
I should introduce myself: Midnight Louie, PI. I am not your usual gumshoe in that my feet do not wear shoes of any stripe, but shivs. I have certain attributes, such as being short, dark, and handsome … really short. That gets me overlooked and underestimated, which is what the savvy operative wants anyway. I am your perfect undercover guy. I also like to hunker down under the covers with my little doll. My adventures would fill a book, and in fact I have several out. My life is just one long TV miniseries in which I as hero extract my hapless human friends from fixes of their own making and literally nail crooks. After experiencing the dramatic turn of events recently, most of my human associates are pretty shell-shocked. Not even an ace feline PI may be able to solve their various predicaments in the areas of crime and punishment … and PR, as in Personal Relationships.
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 seventeen books now. When I call myself an “alphacat,” some think I am merely asserting my natural male dominance, but no. I merely reference the fact that after debuting in Catnap and Pussyfoot, I commenced to a title sequence that is as sweet and simple as B to Z.
That is where I began 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 Hot Pink Pursuit. (Yeow! Pink is not my usual macho color.)
Since I associate with a multifarious and nefarious crew of human beings, and since Las Vegas is littered with guidebooks 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, Miss Nancy Drew on killer spikes, 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, whose unsolved murder last Halloween while unmasking phony psychics at a séance is still on the books … .
Meanwhile, Mr. Max is sought by another dame, Las Vegas homicide LIEUTENANT C. R. MOLINA, mother of preteen MARIAH …
… and the good friend of Miss Temple’s recent good friend MR. MATT DEVINE, a radio talk-show shrink and former Roman Catholic priest who came to Las Vegas to track down his abusive stepfather, now dead and buried. By whose hand, no one is quite sure.
Speaking of unhappy pasts, Lieutenant Carmen Regina 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 with the LAPD …
… or that Mr. Max Kinsella is aware of Rafi and his past relationship to hers truly. She had hoped to nail one man or the other as the Stripper Killer, but Miss Temple prevented that by attracting the attention of the real perp.
In the meantime, Mr. Matt drew 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, deservedly christened by Miss Temple as Kitty the Cutter. Finding Mr. Max impossible to trace, she settled for harassing with tooth and claw the nearest innocent bystander, Mr. Matt Devine …
… who is still trying to recover from the crush he developed on Miss Temple, his neighbor at the Circle Ritz condominiums, while Mr. Max was missing in action. He did that by not very boldly seeking new women, all of whom were 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 than the aforesaid Lieutenant Molina, he 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 turned up deader than an ice-cold deck of Bicycle playing cards. But
there are thirty-some million potential victims in this old town, if you include the constant come and go of tourists, and everything is up for grabs in Las Vegas 24/7: guilt, innocence, money, power, love, loss, death, and significant others.
All this human sex and violence makes me glad I have a simpler social life, my prime goal being reunion with …
… THE DIVINE YVETTE, the stunning shaded silver Persian belonging to fading B-film star Miss Savannah Ashleigh and once my partner in some cat food commercials, and such a simple hope as trying to get along with my self-appointed daughter …
… MISS MIDNIGHT LOUISE, who insinuated herself into my cases until I was forced to set up 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 semiengagement ring from Mr. Max during an onstage trick and has not been seen since, except in sinister glimpses …
… just like THE SYNTH, an ancient cabal of magicians that may deserve contemporary credit for the ambiguous death of Mr. Max’s mentor in magic, Gandolph the Great.
Well, there you have it, the usual human stew, all mixed up and at odds with one another 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?
By Carole Nelson Douglas from Tom Doherty Associates
MYSTERY
MIDNIGHT LOUIE MYSTERIES
Catnap
Pussyfoot
Cat on a Blue Monday
Cat in a Crimson Haze
Cat in a Diamond Dazzle
Cat with an Emerald Eye
Cat in a Flamingo Fedora
Cat in a Golden Garland
Cat on a Hyacinth Hunt
Cat in an Indigo Mood
Cat in a Jeweled Jumpsuit
Cat in a Kiwi Con
Cat in a Leopard Spot
Cat in a Midnight Choir
Cat in a Neon Nightmare
Cat in an Orange Twist
Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit
Cat in a Quicksilver Caper
Midnight Louie’s Pet Detectives
(anthology)
IRENE ADLER ADVENTURES
Good Night, Mr. Holmes
The Adventuress1 (Good Morning, Irene)
A Soul of Steel1 (Irene at Large)
Another Scandal in Bohemia1 (Irene’s Last Waltz)
Chapel Noir
Castle Rouge
Femme Fatale
Spider Dance
Marilyn: Shades of Blonde (anthology)
HISTORICAL
ROMANCE
Amberleigh2
Lady Rogue2
Fair Wind, Fiery Star
FANTASY
TALISWOMAN
Cup of Clay
Seed upon the Wind
SCIENCE FICTION
Probe 2
Counterprobe 2
SWORD AND CIRCLET
Six of Swords
Exiles of the Rynth
Keepers of Edanvant
Heir of Rengarth
Seven of Swords
PRAISE FOR CAROLE NELSON DOUGLAS
“The indefatigable Midnight Louie series never seems to run out of steam.”
—Booklist on Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit
“A lighthearted, original, and very enjoyable story … fans will not be disappointed by this delightful continuation of the series.”
—Romantic Times BookClub Magazine on Cat in an Orange Twist
“Midnight Louie defies critical comment. To some cat fanciers, he is as tasty as a fresh bowl of Fancy Feast.”
—Booklist on Cat in a Neon Nightmare
“Douglas just keeps getting better at juggling mystery, humor, and romance … . Established fans will welcome another intriguing piece of the puzzle.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review) on Cat in a Midnight Choir
“Never a dull moment.”
—Library Journal on Cat in a Leopard Spot
Tailpiece
Midnight Louie, Paterfamilias
People! They are forever fixating on fatherhood. I suppose that is because of capitalistic materialism. They not only have territory to defend but property to inherit along with genetic traits.
Me, I find fatherhood incontinent, irrelevant, and immaterial.
I am like that Greek goddess who gave Zeus such a headache that she was born from his brain. She never had a mother and therefore gave Orestes his walking papers when he was up for Murder One for offing his mother. Mother offing is a big no-no even in the natural world but this Athena chick did not see it as any big deal, as she never had a mother, only a very powerful father with a headache.
Anyway, we street cats only know our mothers and they are pretty darn good to us until the hormones wear off and we are on our own. So fathers are no big deal. Even if we did run into one we would probably have to fight him anyway.
So I am mystified by all this brouhaha about Mr. Matt finding his father and little Miss Mariah’s father finding out he is one. Miss Midnight Louise appears to have been infected by this human obsession also. She should understand that the way of our kind is serial fatherhood. It is not that lady cats are what humans would call promiscuous. They are just designed to enter the sublime state of heat, unable to say no. Naturally, there are all sorts of dudes out there with the same problem. So a single litter may have four different fathers. And who knows which kit is due to which father?
So why sweat it? In my case, Ma Barker made it clear to me that Three O’Clock Louie was my sire. And that is fine with both of us. We do not need to tread on each other’s toenails but neither do we need to hang out and sing sentimental songs together once upon a midnight clear, or drear.
Humans are also ridiculous about the mating game. Here they have the option to have all the fun and pretty much ensure that no unforeseen consequences come along later causing them to look up innocent dudes as if they were criminals. Yet they keep subjecting their most basic instincts to intense negotiation, not to mention recrimination. Why bother!
I muse on these matters because it is clear to me that my Miss Temple is contemplating wandering in the congenial feline direction when it comes to matters of the heart and other organs.
I cannot say I am surprised. Mr. Matt was bound to outgrow his artificially extended adolescence one of these days and become a young tom with a lot of wasted time to make up for.
I cannot agree with those who do not much like Mr. Max Kinsella. He is one cool cat in the street or between the sheets, from my observation, with obligations to protect the world at large that few can understand. Rather like myself. But he has other territory to guard at the moment and when the cat’s away … the mice will play. And someone will pay. This is Las Vegas. Bet on it.
Very best fishes,
Midnight Louie, Esq.
P.S. For information about getting Midnight Louie’s free newsletter and/or buying his T-shirt, contact him at Midnight Louie’s Scratching Post-Intelligencer, PO Box 331555, Fort Worth, TX 76163-1555, or by e-mail at [email protected]. Or visit Midnight Louie’s Web pages at www.carolenelsondouglas.com or www.catwriter.com.
Tailpiece
Carole Nelson Douglas Makes Room for Daddy
You’re a fine one to philosophize about fatherhood, Louie.
You’ve only just now barely acknowledged the delightful Midnight Louise as your daughter.
But you’re right that the feline kingdom is a matriarchy when it comes to family life. A lot of human households are becoming more like that, since some human fathers are also likely to slip away from the confines of a domestic life.
Still, humans are hooked on relationships. They have a sense of history about where the
ir forebears have been and where they and the whole human family might be going.
So when blood relations are missing, they find unrelated people to fill in for the absent father, or mother, or brother or sister, or child. Sometimes even your kind do the job, Louie.
As for your speculations on the uniquely human condition known as “romance,” you are about as expert there as a lapdog would be at bloodhound work.
You’re just lucky to have an alternate source of affection and support when your rambling and gambling days are over: all of those human females who don’t mind a roguish ladies’ man around the house … if he’s of another species.
A preview of
Cat in a Quicksilver Caper
By Carole Nelson Douglas
Forthcoming From Tom Doherty Associates
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
Chapter 1
Swept Off Her Feet
Temple Barr woke up at 10:30 A.M. in the morning, in her own bed, which was hardly unusual, and supposed that there wasn’t a woman in America who didn’t ache for one of those Scarlet O’Hara moments.
Maybe it was Scarlet swearing to heaven that she’d never have to choke down another raw turnip (or broccoli or cauliflower floret … or diet book) again.
Maybe it was the spunky freshman Scarlet, telling that blind-stupid Ashley Wilkes right out that he ought to be dating her instead of some wimpy prom queen from the next plantation down along the Sewanee.
Maybe it was Scarlet cornered on the Tara stairs, shooting an attacking Yankee soldier dead.
Cat in a Hot Pink Pursuit Page 36
