"What is it, dear? See something awesome in the globe?"
"I saw something sentient under the sofa. Do you have rats?"
"Oh, good. She's warming up to you."
"What is 'she'? Cleopatra's asp?"
"Silly! She's just the psychic we were waiting for. Remain calm and I'll bring your goodies out and we can begin. Just pretend you didn't see her, and she'll relax and come right on out."
"I didn't see her, except for the eerie eyes. You mean to say a grown woman can fit under this sofa? I know it's big, but--"
Electra had disappeared, leaving Temple to slip her heels off and curl her feet beneath her on the cushion. No way was that green-eyed mystery going to snap at her Achilles' heels from under the sofa.
Electra returned with a hammered aluminum tray bearing teacups, cookies and a shallow dish of dried greens that looked like very minced loose-leaf tea.
"This is a ... condiment."
"Oh, no. It's a bribe. Just munch and sip and we'll be ready to begin in no time." Electra bent to position the dish near the sofa bottom.
Temple shrugged and ate icing off a slab of cookie. "I haven't had one of these forever."
"Sometimes store-bought is superior. Well?" Electra waggled her eyebrows at Temple.
"Well, what?"
"Have you seen Max lately?"
"Um, sort of."
"Max is not the kind of person you sort of see. He's either there, or he isn't."
"Don't I know it. Yes, we ran into each other once or twice."
"What about Matt?"
"What about him?"
"Don't you run into him more often around here? Is it really fair to see both men?"
"Electra, that's my business."
"Maybe, but I can't help feeling solicitous."
"For whom?"
"Well, Max did bring you to the Circle Ritz."
"So he's your favorite?"
"But Matt has really been here for me, and for you on some serious occasions."
"I know that."
Electra sighed, sipped her tea and leaned over to check under the sofa. "I confess, it's a good thing I'm the grandmotherly sort and a mere onlooker at life these days. I would be hard-pressed to choose between those two darling boys myself."
"Thanks, Electra," Temple said between her teeth. "You took the words right out of my mouth. Now, my cookie is eaten, my tea is drunk and I have been debriefed. Can we get on with it?"
Electra leaned way over, until her headdress almost touched the floor. "I think so. We have decided to approach the offering."
Temple leaned over to witness this signal event.
What looked like one of those beige faux-lambskin (she hoped) dust mops was edging out from under the sofa to sniff at the bowl of dried leaves.
When soft white paws appeared, Temple opened her eyes wider. When she glimpsed stunning bright blue eyes, she blinked. When dark-tipped ears perked, her own twitched in surprise. When a dark-tipped but bushy tail swished free of the sofa's shadow, she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Electra, this is a cat."
"I know. And not just any cat. A Sacred Cat of Burma. This is a Birman cat, and her name is Karma."
"You've denied having a cat for months!"
"She's shy," Electra said in melting tones. "We do not allow just anyone to know of our existence, do we? No ... She has abilities greater than those of mortal cats."
"Oh?"
"She is a gifted psychic."
"How do you know?"
"You will see. Just watch the green globe. When Karma is present and participating, the most astounding visions appear within its murky center."
Temple had to agree about the murky center. She watched the cat, which was a beauty, no doubt. All that golden hair ending in paws gloved in dainty white, while nose, ears and tail were tipped with sable brown. And in between, the pools of limpid blue, like morning-glory hot springs in Yellowstone National Park.
Nothing murky about this lady.
"Electra, why so secretive about this cat?"
"She's so very, very sensitive. All the great psychics were that way. Too much outside influence can overwhelm her. It is a great honor that she deigns to show herself to you. Please don't make any sudden motions. Simply sit back and prepare to wonder at what the crystal will show when Karma begins her wonders to perform."
"I can hardly wait."
"If you have any urgent personal matters you wish guidance about, merely keep them in mind and watch the crystal."
Temple rolled her eyes. Maybe she was most deeply interested in guidance on her Crystal Phoenix renovation project. She doubted the crystal would have much to say about that. She kept an eye on it, wary of any sudden images that might show up.
But none did.
Although Electra clucked and crooned at the cat, the animal simply fell over on its side, as Temple had seen Midnight Louie do dozens of times, and gazed at them, blinking every now and then.
A subtle hum rose from the floor.
"Well, she's purring. She must like you," Electra said. "But I don't understand. Usually by now the crystal ball is teeming with interesting images. Karma, dear, time to tippy-toe through the empyrean."
Even this lilting reminder did not seem to rouse the cat, who laid her head on the carpet and drowsed her eyes shut.
"This is most embarrassing. Karma is such a strong medium. Her mere presence is like heat under a pot of water: everything comes to a boil. I don't know what to say. I'm totally perplexed."
There wasn't much Temple could say either. This was like being invited to the music recital of a friend's child, and then said child forgets the music.
While Temple searched for consoling words appropriate for the owner of a contrary cat, a sinister thump sounded from elsewhere in the penthouse.
"I thought you said we were the only ones coming," Temple said.
"We are." Electra was so downcast she merely stared sadly at Karma sleeping on the carpet; she didn't even react to the distant thump.
"That noise could be an intruder."
"Probably is," Electra said mournfully, regarding Karma as if the cat were on her deathbed, when she simply looked at ease.
"Electra. Matt is at work by now and I don't know where your phone is if we have to dial nine-one-one."
"Yes, Matt is gone, and Max is goner. And I don't remember where my phone is. I am heartbroken. What has happened to my poor Karma?"
"She looks fine--"
"She is not fine! Karma lives and breathes her role as a medium. If she is present and nothing astounding is happening, she is terribly, terribly ill. What will I do?"
Temple recognized true distress and quickly shoved her native skepticism aside.
"She is obviously physically healthy, so ... there must be some psychic interference, that's all."
"But why now?"
Why now chose that moment to walk right in.
"Electra, it's Louie!"
"What can Midnight Louie do from two floors below to a receiver of Karma's power and experience? He is just an alley cat."
"He is just an alley cat," Temple agreed, "and what he can do is get to where he wants to be.
Louie is here."
Electra looked up to the shadow at the edge of the room and the two glowing embers of green. "Louie! Are you interfering with Karma?"
Midnight Louie affected his usual bored look as he stalked over.
He bent to sniff Karma's supine form when he arrived, then looked up at them, eyes narrowed.
He leaped up onto the sofa between Electra and Temple. While Temple ran her hand down his back, Electra leaned away in suspicion.
Louie sat and stared at the green globe, tilting his head most intelligently.
Temple exchanged a look with Electra.
"Don't watch me; watch the globe," Electra urged her with sudden fire.
Temple complied. She had spent many less interesting evenings watching the screen in her TV set, especially since Max had lef
t.
Midnight Louie was as focused as herself and Electra. Karma was off in Lullaby Land.
And as Temple stared at the rippled glass, as her thoughts drifted to other matters, as her body relaxed and her mind softened, she seemed to see small beams of light darting like tiny translucent fish in the shoals of glass.
The motion, the image was soothing, in a self-hypnotic kind of way. Imagine. Electra thinking her cat could produce phenomena in a garage-sale globe ... consider the crystal a kind of aquarium, like the Mirage's immense tanks. Consider the cats as not psychics but predators watching snail darters of the Id and Ego swirl through the empty air within the globe. Air-breathing fish of the imagination. Phantoms. Ideas. Memories in motion. Subconscious submarine spirits.
Cats would like that kind of scenario. Cats might watch it for hours, but it didn't mean that the cats evoked anything within the globe. It didn't mean that they saw anything other than motes in an emerald eye. It didn't mean that people saw anything either.
Except... Temple saw swirls. Saw oily patterns in the water, saw words written on waves, saw images . .. like the Luxor, that pyramid of a hotel on the Strip.
She saw a pyramid!
She saw ... stone walls covered with images ... glyphs. Egyptian tomb scenes. A lotus flower floating by. And cats. Cats in profile. Perk-eared cats, lean and bronze. Mummified cats, wrapped in the Egyptian equivalent of Ace bandages. Mummy cases floating in the tide inside the globe like Moses's willow basket.
Motion, motion. Waves, waves. Images darting like schools of fish. Why was she hungry?
Sharply hungry. Yet, pleasantly . . . sleepy too. In the sun, the dappled sun on the water, the flicker of torches on stone, on gilded mummy cases and furniture and jewels. King Tut's tomb.
She was inside King Tut's tomb, under water, under waves, but she recognized the world-renowned treasures and her eye panned a train of tomb friezes like an educational channel's camera. But she had walked here. Trotted. On all fours. And she looked up, sniffed the torch fumes. Her eye-slits narrowed in the bright light. Her whiskers twitched with recognition.
Birds. Painted in profile. Feeders. Painted in profile, with dark-rimmed almond eyes. Our Kind, painted in profile, ears erect, necks richly collared, tails curled neatly around the feet.
An entire string of the Kind, forming words and concepts. Glyphs. All bronze gods. All sacred.
And there, the King himself, in profile, looking down.
One of the Kind lying, not sitting. One of the Kind sprawled like a Pharaoh himself awaiting a pat of the Royal Hand. Why shouldn't a King look at a Cat, and why shouldn't a Sacred Cat look right back at a Pharaoh? And why shouldn't this particular Pharaoh look at this particular specimen of the Kind, seeing that it was most large and unusual, handsome, gifted and wise: the only all-black one in the bunch?
Chapter 25
All the Pharaoh's Phelines
I am reclining on my bed when Miss Temple returns from her sojourn above.
Actually, Miss Temple thinks that it is her bed, as Mr. Max used to think that it was his bed, but ultimately it is my bed, and I am willing to share. I have learned a lot in five thousand years.
She looks a little dazed, and I understand that these are trying times, but look at all the times that I have been through, and I am the same simple accommodating soul that I always was. Which is remarkable, considering my antecedents.
"Louie," she says, looking at me like Bergman looked at Bogart at the end of Casablanca, a bit dazed but really appreciative at long last.
"I guess I should ask how you got out and up to Electra's place, but frankly, her so-called psychic cat was such a dud that it was a good thing you showed up. I was so tired, though, I sort of dozed off. I'm afraid that Electra has delusions of grandeur. That cat Karma of hers is a dust mop. Pretty as can be, but pretty useless too. She thinks it's sensitive, but I think it's just lazy."
I cannot say how these words thrill me.
Of course, I know that the annoying Karma has been riding herd on me so mercilessly of late, that she has worn herself to a nub of her former powers, which is why she was making like a doormat and I was able to walk right in and kick Kitty Litter in her face.
Not that I like to rub all that sand into the eyes of a noble feline descended from a hardy and once worshiped desert race, like myself.
Now the genie is out of the bottle. Midnight Louie has antecedents, after all, and they are not too tacky. I have it on unassailable authority that one of my great-great-greats many times removed, and perhaps many lives and reincarnations previous, was a palace favorite.
I am talking about that honored Temple of Karnak cat, that Pharaoh's firstborn friend, the unofficial house dick at the pyramid and environs, that Sphinx's first cousin, Louie Sr. Sr. Sr. Sr.
Sr. et cetera. No wonder I am associating with a Temple even today.
As for the languid Karma, she has fallen down on the job.
Those nouveau Burmese haven't got the family tree that goes back to the real roots of our Kind.
Just wait until I tell the Divine Yvette, who is no doubt the reincarnation of one of those Queens of the Nile.
I am not just a contemporary cool-dude detective. Once, I was King Tut's bodyguard.
Chapter 26
Calling Mrs. Bates . . .
Matt sat by the phone in his Circle Ritz apartment.
The fact that he kept it in the bedroom, rather than in a more public room, was mute testimony to how seldom it rang. And he seldom called anyone himself, so no wonder that his telephone seemed more like an ugly modern sculpture than a home appliance.
He wondered how different his life was from that of Cliff Effinger, who was supposed to be dead, maybe.
He thought again about the body he could not positively identify while it lay static in a morgue viewing room, his to contemplate for as long as he wished. Then he resurrected the image of the walking man he had glimpsed with such certain instinct. Matt knew he had to make the call he most wanted to avoid.
The number came to his fingers by heart, after all this time, and after infrequent use.
Perhaps "dutiful use" would describe the situation better. Holiday dialing.
He checked his new-old watch that he had run across among the contents of a packed box, a gold-edged rectangular face on a black leather band, a parting gift: from the parishioners of St.
Rose of Lima. At the time, it had been a touch of luxury in a minimalist life. His life today, however altered, was still minimalist, but the leather watchband was worn shiny, and the watch face looked genteel and old-fashioned, as if it should belong to his great-uncle Stash.
Was Uncle Stash still living? He hadn't asked about him in over a year. Should. Matt jotted the name down on the notepad next to the phone. Like a cue. A cue for calling home.
The phone rang several times. He kept checking his watch, though he knew the time perfectly well: seven forty-five p.m. in Chicago. There should be an answer.
There was.
Her voice sounded distant. Midwestern. Flattened. He hadn't noticed that until he had left the Midwest and heard other accents.
"Hi, Mom. It's Matt."
"Matt! Are you--I didn't expect... is something wrong?"
She always expected the worst, his mother. In the past, she usually had been right.
She spoke again quickly. "Let me turn the news down."
The phone on the other end clunked as she laid it down. She didn't have a remote control, which had even come with the small color TV he had bought for the living room here. Not for himself, he noticed. "For the living room," as if it were a person in need of placating.
A faint bleat in the background suddenly stopped; the phone thumped again as she picked it up.
"Nothing's wrong?" she asked.
At least this time she phrased it in the negative. Matt smiled.
"No, Mom, nothing. Are things okay there too?"
"Fine."
Fine. It said nothing, and said vo
lumes. It was his mother's period to everything. Say no more. It's fine. You don't need to know. It's fine. None of your business. Fine. It's my problem.
Fine.
Of course nothing had ever been fine.
"Good," he said. His usual answer to the finality of "Fine."
"Are you still ... in that place?"
She could have meant the Circle Ritz, which he had told her about, with details intended to enhance its zany vintage attractions. Or she could have meant Las Vegas.
"Same city, same job."
"It seems a shame ..."
She left: it for him to fill in the blanks: with your education and training, to be just a telephone counselor, to be a low-paid layman, when he had been Somebody once. A man with a vocation, an ancient role ... a low-paid priest, Matt added as he finished the faultfinding litany.
If having a son or daughter enter the religious life is the crown of a Catholic parent's life, having that same child leave the religious life is a disappointment beyond telling.
"Have you found a Polish parish there?" she asked anxiously.
"No, Mom. Not too many Poles in Las Vegas. But"--he knew he was about to mislead, knew he shouldn't, couldn't stop himself-- "ah, I've been involved with a Hispanic parish. Our Lady of Guadalupe."
"Oh. The lovely holy card. Do they still have a statue of the Virgin in church?"
"Yes, it's an old parish."
He could almost see her nodding, slowly, her face the same faded gold color as her gray-streaked hair, both coarsened by time, by... circumstances. She looked at least a decade older than her fifty-two years, and nothing like the only youthful photos he had seen of her, as a young girl in her parents' house on Tobias Street.
"That's wonderful," she said, no joy in her voice, only the same, resigned monotone he had heard all his life.
"Yes." He made his hands unclench on the telephone receiver. "Everything's fine here. And I met one of my old teachers, from Saint Stan's, at OLG."
"Oh?"
"Sister Seraphina from seventh grade. Do you remember her?"
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