Then I look up. This apartment is strangely made, with high pointed ceilings and high shelves underneath them fit only for gathering dust or holding ugly large-scale decorative objects and innumerable small spiders. In some ways Miss Kit Carlson is living in a fish bowl and I am on Candid Camera. What can I do to inspire a stranger to rush over and ring the doorbell?
Locking a leg behind my neck and conducting some delicate personal grooming in plain view might enrage a few envious pussycats, but I cannot see a human coming all unhinged at such a display.
I could knock the rather unfortunate Santa Fe vase off the upper shelf, but the noise would draw the attention of my darling ladies, the eventuality I most desire to avoid.
I study a small, star-shaped metal object embedded in the ceiling. I believe it is a sprinkler system, a precaution against fires. In my experience, that is, in Las Vegas, Nevada, such escapees from Asian martial arts films are usually to be found in major buildings, like offices or hotels, but apparently New Yorkers are unusually safety-conscious, especially in old buildings that have been renovated recently.
Is there any way Midnight Louie could start a fire other than by coming on to some new girl in town? I leap onto a countertop to paw open a drawer, though hardly anybody keeps matches around any more.
Pity. The humble matchbook cover used to solve many a crime in the olden days, especially when used as a memo pad. Now, hardly anybody at all even smokes, except oysters and herrings, of which I am exceptionally fond. Still, my groping limb overturns one of those short stubby votive candles. And where there is wax with a fuse, there is usually a matchstick to light it.
Finally I work out a matchbook, but it is not one of those cheapie, flip-cover, old-movie jobs, but a tiny little box with tiny little wooden matchsticks in it. How adorable! Nonetheless, I take this worthless object in my teeth and hop from counter to espresso-machine top to distant shelf.
Now. To add flames to the fire. It takes my sharpest shiv to break into the box, then mondo maneuvering to work out one crummy miniature match. My next problem: providing enough friction to ignite the match, and enough of the proper kindling to set off the fire alarm. The entire job might have been easier if I had cracked Miss Kit's pantry door and broken into a can of Texas chili. Power to the pepper and the pussycat!
I cannot think of anything useful to burn around the place ... until I remember the pile of papers Miss Kit Carlson keeps beside her computer in the room Miss Temple is sleeping in, when she is not sleeping out. They are only typed on one side, so I figure Miss Kit keeps them there for scratch paper. Pleased, I hop down to the floor by stages to implement the next, and most tedious, part of my plan.
Anybody dumb enough to have trained their eagle eye or telescope on these windows will be getting a most mysterious eyeful over the next couple of hours. Like a bunny rabbit, I hop out of sight, and then I hop back into view and up to the high shelf. My return trips are notable for the roll of paper clutched in my incisors.
In due time I have a nicely mounded pile of pages, each one titled "Siege of Sighs."
Finally, I drop-kick a match to the pile and scratch kitty litter until something ignites. (You must understand that I am not literally scratching kitty litter. I only use the stuff when there is not so much as a potted plant around as a substitute. But I use the same friction-laden movements with my hind feet that would burn litter, were it at all combustible.)
Finally a lucky kick slides match head against striker. I hear a sound of many wings beating, but it is only the leaves of paper that are curling as a cutting edge of bright fire eats away at them.
I skedaddle before any random spark catches my heels, and hunker down by the front door.
Not long afterward, an ear-splitting beeping goes off, accompanied by inmate shrieking, frantic phone dialing, downward drifting clouds of smoke and an urgent knock at the door, followed by a scrabbling sound of a passkey in the lock.
Above it all, the sprinkler system hisses to life and a gentle chlorinated rain falls on everything within range. Now the Leo the Lion at the MGM Grand hotel in Las Vegas is not the only one with a spraying problem.
But despite the hullabaloo, I keep my post by the door, springing forward to freedom when it bursts open and an excitable super spouting a language of the Indian subcontinent rushes through into the rain and the shrieks.
I am on my way to the fire exits, which are being thronged by nervous folk in nightclothes. The doors bat open and shut as tenants seek safety below. I thread through their legs on the dark, steep stairwell and am soon in the small lower lobby.
From there I am an ankle away from the freedom of the city.
In the distance, another of those annoyingly frequent New York sirens carries on like a banshee.
Everyone on the ground floor and the sidewalk outside looks up, so when I leap out fur to femur with an oblivious human, no one tries to stop me.
I sniff the evening air, which is much brisker than it is in Las Vegas. A pity. Scents do poorly in colder climes. I will have to use my other senses to follow the map route I have lain upon all afternoon. Luckily, Cornelia Street walks right into the Avenue of the Americas, otherwise known as Sixth. I take off down the street at a brisk trot, glimpsing Washington Square a block away. These pads were made for walking, but I have a long way to go up the spine of Manhattan before I hit the hostelry I seek.
In no time at all I am passing Fourteenth Street. Only thirty more blocks to go, but they are shrimp appetizers compared with the whale-length extent of blocks in Las Vegas. I pass churches and bars and office buildings. I am almost scuttled at Thirty-first when a bag lady decides that I am worse off than she is and tries to run me down with her shopping cart in the name of saving my soul. I dodge the squeaky wheels and take my chances underfoot, pausing to catch my breath at the Empire State Building. I am tempted to join the lines snaking to the top for a look-see at the Big Apple from the worm-on-top's point of view, but decide a tourist jaunt could blow my cover.
By then I am in Herald Square, where Broadway crosses Sixth on its way to the seamy environs of Times Square. I sigh and head for more respectable realms, straight north, past Macy's department store. There I pause to offer suitable honor to the late Rudy, with whom I share a certain weakness for a certain weed, although my kind is legal. While I am paying my respects to a dead veteran, wouldn't you know some dude emerges from a building with not one but two Russian wolfhounds in tow. Or rather, the Russian wolfhounds have him in tow.
They eye me as one, launch a keening duet and tangle their leashes as they streak after me. Their owner has just become a boat anchor with nothing to snag onto.
I take off flat out, ears flat, feet flat, hair slicked to my back for maximum speed. I zig and zag, targeting tourists and other slow-moving pedestrians. On an even, unpopulated playing field I would be black caviar for those ancient hunters, but this is dysfunctionally chaotic New York City, boys, and I do not have any fancy harness holding me back.
I leave them entwined with a fairy-light bestrewed tree and a lady walking a toy poodle behind the New York Public Library. I give a small roar of greeting and triumph to the unseen Big Cats keeping guard on the building's Fifth Avenue entrance and pussyfoot the last two blocks to Forty-fourth.
Unfortunately, people in this city are more used to dog doo-doo by the curb than to the sight of an independent feline (and waste-management expert) on the move. They cry out and point to me, but I keep trotting and do not look back. It is lucky that my national commercials for Allpetco are not yet reality. It would really slow me down if I had to stop and sign autographs.
By the time I get to the Algonquin at Sixth and Forty-fourth, I am pooped, but only in the sense of being tired. I have not littered once upon the streets of New York, despite the stress of the chase. However, my breath blows frosty smoke rings and my sides are heaving. I collect myself outside the Blue Bar next door before attempting the final stage of my mission.
The Algonquin doormen
are attired in long, full winter coats like the Wizard's guards wore in Oz. But I can work with long full coats. My wits and stamina gathered, I dart under the longest model on the shortest doorman. Within seconds I am within inches of the opening double doors. It is nothing for an old Las Vegas hand like myself to calculate the odds down to a whisker's breadth. I leap between the closing pincers of glass and brass without losing a tail-hair, then sprint through the inner set unscathed.
I am spit out into a lobby of the old school . . . say the library of Princeton University.
Luckily, the lobby resembles Mr. Robert Frost's wood: lovely, dark and deep. Age-darkened wood looms all around, providing excellent camouflage for a swarthy fellow like me. The carpeting, tastefully worn to a dull red, is less amenable, but no one seems to find my feline presence remarkable.
"Oh, look," says a lady with a Southern accent. "The famous house cat."
I bow and stroll into the eighteenth-century ambiance of the lobby-bar, moving among wing chairs and tea tables, head and tail high. At last, no hubbub. No dogs. No doo-doo. Just the tranquility so dear to the feline soul, and a smidgen of respect.
I am so pleased to be recognized despite the fact that none of my ads have run yet, that I fail to scan the ambience with all of my senses. Imagine my surprise to scent an odor of the most delicate feline nature.
A female of my species is very near.
Naturally, I cannot resist discovering if the Divine Yvette has accompanied her mistress for a cocktail, yet the scent is . . . foreign, if no less intriguing. I reconnoiter, arriving finally near a mahogany niche, a bookcase with the doors removed, which has been remodeled into a cat accommodation.
"Matilda's Suite" reads a plain brass marker. I study the decor beyond the red-velvet curtain held back by a golden rope. For a moment, the golden rope reminds me of recent unpleasantness, then I focus on the charming scene: rose-striped wallpaper, four-poster bed, a handsome parquet floor covered with scattered throw rugs, including a Persian of impeccable pedigree, a hanging candelabra, and the piquant touch of sock toy with a bell affixed lying on the parquet.
This Matilda must be one pampered pussycat. I sniff around trouser legs and pantyhose-clad ankles until I find the missing minx of the house.
There she lies, curled fast asleep on a tapestry-upholstered chair, a petite gray and buff tabby clad in an aqua leather collar.
"Pardon me, miss," I say in my best out-of-town manner. "I hesitate to disturb you, but I am a stranger in town."
Her golden eyes slit open, then she sits up, yawns and widens her pupils to take in my appearance.
"Well, I do not meet many of my kind here. Are you just stopping in for a drink or thinking of registering at the hotel?"
"I am visiting guests."
"Oho," says she, settling on her haunches. 'Those high-fashion models on the ninth floor, no doubt. I have only glimpsed them coming and going. I doubt that you will get an audience with such snooty celebrities."
"My dear lady, I am a sort of celebrity myself."
"Oh? You do not look like Maurice."
"Him. He is dead meat. The name is Louie, Midnight Louie, and you will see more of me."
"I would not think that could be possible," she says, surveying my girth.
Well, she is a scrawny thing, and no doubt jealous. So I take my leave, knowing at least what floor to seek. Still, I do not wish to attract untoward attention, and the bellmen, at least, would recognize me for an unauthorized interloper, even though I only need to stroll in this relatively feline-secure environment. So once again I am forced to duck behind potted palms and semi-potted persons to make my way to the elevators.
Here I am served by my nose. Speaking of potted this and that, I am sorry to say that the Divine Yvette's many stresses have led to a relaxation of potty procedures. And one of Miss Savannah Ashleigh's spike heels has managed to step into the scene of the crime.
I would be ready, willing and able to follow my Fair One's scent over the far Himalayas.
Tracing it to the proper elevator and then up to the proper floor is merely a matter of dogged persistence. By the time I am sniffing along the ninth-floor hall carpeting, I am reeling a bit, but still game. Or is that gamey? Certainly the spoor has hardly become cold. Or dry. I wobble down the hall until my nose directs me to a certain doorway.
The French are great believers in Nose. A well-trained Nose can discriminate between various vintages. A persnickety nose can tell a rose from a radish. A fine old feline Nose can follow a queen to her castle.
Number 917 it is. I pause to give the accomplishment of my quest a proper moment of reverence. I pause another ten seconds to gird my loins for a delicate mission. Wherever the Divine Yvette goes these days, so go the scurrilous offspring of the now-fixed Maurice. And also so goes the Sublime Sister Solange.
The average nomadic hero usually has only twain terrors to survive, like Scylla and Charybdis. I get Solange and Yvette and unknown offspring. It will take all the diplomacy and experience at my command to avoid playing favorites.
I decide to cut the suspense down to a reasonable time limit, and paw the door.
True, I have in times not far enough past felt the wrath of She Who Must Be Dismayed. But I am ready to face anything in hopes of putting things right with the Ashleigh girls.
At last my pathetic pawings are answered, but by nothing human.
A petite paw slips under the door to play padsie with my own. I am much encouraged that this is a "claws-in" pursuit.
In time, our machinations are jiggling the door in its frame. Then there is a mighty crack! And the door pops open like a jack-in-the-box.
I enter, the lion king in basic black, to discover Miss Savannah Ashleigh out, and both ladies at my beck and call.
"Oh, Louie," cries the Divine Yvette, who is on a first-name basis. "We have been robbed."
Robbed? Have some little kittens lost their mittens? I look around for the beastly little rug rats. I spy the offspring of Maurice treading carpet toward me with their needle-sharp nails. Cowards breed cowards. I catch the one in the lead by the nape.
"Slow down there, Sport," I mutter between my clenched teeth. "Did you see the perp?"
A flat-eared little head turns to mine, and comes back spitting.
"I am only five weeks old," she squalls, "and no 'Sport.' I cannot see shinola, you big bullyboy. Now release me before I scream kit abuse."
Obviously, she is blind if not unprimed in politically correct defensive systems. I drop her like a hot coal. Sheesh. What a grouch.
"I meant by 'robbed,'" the Divine Yvette explains, "that I fear that Maurice and my sister will be the Allpetco spokescats."
"Neither one should count their kittens before they, er, hatch. Chin and whiskers up, my lovely. It is not over until the fat lady sings."
"What fat lady? My mistress would have a fit if she heard you use that phrase. It is true that she has been hitting the chocolate bonbons lately, but--"
I extricate myself diplomatically to pay my respects to her sibling and my likely costar, but first I trip over an encroaching youngster. I am fast deciding that Miss Savannah Ashleigh deserves a medal rather than a law suit for her actions toward myself and my now-impossible progeny.
I spy these hellions' aunt taking refuge under a dressing table. So I shake them off and ankle over to the Sublime Solange on my belly, complimenting her with purrs and licks all the way. It takes a handy fellow to handle a female.
I explain that I look forward to many happy film shoots with her, but that my first loyalties must remain attached to the Divine Yvette.
"How sweet of you, Louie." The Sublime Solange opens her citrine-green eyes until they seem to be suns going nova. "I like loyalty in a tom. I understand that you have taken a brave position to avoid polluting the planet with excess kits of checkered background."
"Well, I would not consider myself checkered, or even slubbed silk. Let us say that I recognize that a time must come when even the tomm
iest of Toms must take a position of responsibility in the community."
"Is that your position of responsibility?"
I look back to ascertain my form. It is perfect, as always.
"Yes, ma'am," say I.
"Aye, aye," says she.
It might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship, except that one of the tiger-stripe kits lurches over at a critical moment. I am forced to halt all operations (would that I had been able to do so a couple of weeks ago!), to pick up the miscreant by the scruff of its neck, and deliver the little bastard (a friendly figure of speech, I am sure) to its mama.
"Oh, Uncle Louie!" cries the interloper. "How big and strong you are!"
Flattery will get them longevity.
And so it goes in cat heaven. My harem of houris (two in number) lounge and purr benignly, while I am sore beset by Maurice's castoffs.
Some days it is not worth busting out of or breaking into a hotel, much less a nursery. Uncle Louie indeed! And we are not even related. I can hardly wait to return to Las Vegas.
Chapter: Tailpiece
Midnight Louie Bites the Big Apple
Wait a minute! I was under the impression that my new, politically correct status would be a lot more fun than it is turning out to be. So far. And all I have done so far is cry Uncle! But I must admit that I was not able to get around in my usual devil-may-care manner in my latest adventure.
I was beginning to feel distinctly like Nero Wolfe during this episode.
Not that I have developed a taste for orchids, although I am always ready to sample any bit of wild greenery that may cross my path, even if it is the cultivated variety. (I prefer feral flowers, myself. Wild game has a better flavor.)
No, it is just that the vicissitudes of the Big City being what they are, I can see why the super-intelligent Mr. Wolfe chose not to dirty his foot leather with the grit of Gotham.
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