Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 25

Midnight Louie Eats Crow with Caviar

With more fishy things occurring at the Crystal Phoenix, I am forced to eat and sleep on my old turf. I would much prefer my literally cushy spot at the Circle Ritz, but too much is afoot (including the little doll to whom I owe so much, and vice versa) at the Phoenix to leave the premises.

Fortunately, I can do both (eat and sleep, that is) in the same spot: under the tropical green leaves of the canna lilies that edge my own private pond. One might argue that since the funny business is being transacted within the hotel and casino, what I am doing lounging about the grounds outside?

First, a fellow must have a retreat in which to ponder. Plus, I must keep an ear to the ground, and that is hard to do Indoors. Second, it behooves me to keep myself undercover. I am a well-known, perhaps even a notorious figure around and about the Phoenix. To flaunt my familiar profile would cast discretion to the wind. I am also in something of a quandary. Not only must I conceal myself from the nasty types committing sabotage and savagery inside the Phoenix, but I am not anxious to draw the attention of the lovely Caviar.

She has shown a lamentable tendency to haunt the place while hunting the poor sod who sired her. Had he but known, I he would have thought twice about any hijinks with her mother, I can tell you. Since I am he, I speak with authority.

By some happy kink of Miss Caviar's brain, she does not suspect me of being this irresponsible dude, though I match the description in every respect. My most delicate task is to keep Miss Caviar from seeing me in the company of anyone who might let slip the dogs of revelation and call me by my name. This is not easy to do around the Phoenix, where I am known and loved by all, from the owners to the chorus girls to Nicky's bevy of brothers, who are all over the place these days, up to their Armani lapels in strange doings.

Needless to say, an ace detective who is forced to hide like a craven mouse most of the time is more than somewhat handicapped.

So the canna lilies provide my sole reliable cover, though I sneak out every now and then to kipe a carp to keep the old hide going.

This, however, is becoming less likely.

For some reason as irritating as it is mysterious, little Miss Caviar has also chosen the carp pond as her favorite retreat. She does not even have the innate feline grace to slink around it, but sprawls openly on the flagstones framing the pond, tail fluffed and fanned.

For a female who supposedly knows the ways of the back alley and the Dumpster dinette network, this is astonishingly naive behavior. I feel an unselfish urge to warn the poor sap, but restrain myself. Frankly, the young often need to be taught a harsh lesson, and Miss Caviar more so than most. Offering lip, teeth and claws to one's elders (not to mention one's forebears) is not something that should go unpunished.

In fact, I must have been leading a pretty angelic life lately, for even as I drowse in the dirt under the canna lilies, unnoticed by all, even and especially by my unacknowledged offspring, who should come striding into the sunlight, resplendent in executive whites, but Chef Song himself.

The sizzling Las Vegas sun glints off the broad steel rectangle of a formidable cleaver. Usually these cleavers are used for such yummy tasks as cutting meat, but, Chef Song being of Asian ancestry. It is also used extensively on vegetables as well. In fact, I spot a sliver or two of mushroom still adhering to its slick, razor-edged surface.

If Chef Song walks softly and carries a big stick (or cleaver), many the time I have run before it with a juicy carrot in my mouth. My carrots are often orange and tasty, but wear fins and scales. No one is more devoted to the welfare of these imperial koi than Chef Song. And no one is more dedicated to extricating the most tender among them from under the very eyes, nose and cleaver of Chef Song than Midnight Louie.

So Miss Caviar has made a severe error in judgment in displaying her languid length to the oncoming chef. It is true that she considers herself too refined for raw meat, preferring the pulverized, putrid-green pellets of Bast-knows-what that pour from a Free-to-be-Feline box.

But Chef Song does not know that. All he knows is that our kind are enemies of his plump, pampered, piscean pets. He especially knows that Midnight Louie is the master of the game. Let Chef Song see black, and he sees red.

Even now he stops, focuses on the flagrantly visible Caviar, and hefts his cleaver with a curse.

I cannot bear to look. Caviar is chopped liver. And kidney, and other essential organs. I would advise discriminating diners to avoid the main restaurant at the Crystal Phoenix for the next few days.

When I hear nothing more--no frantic yowls, no ring of cleaver on flagstone, no more curses, I unsquinch one peeper.

Miss Caviar has risen at the chef's approach and replied to his opprobrium with a plaintive mew.

Oh, please! This innocent act will get her nowhere. Chef Song narrows his eyes and looks Miss Caviar up and down. I cannot blame him. She is a trim piece of pussycat.

"Skinny," he pronounces.

I prefer them plump myself.

Eyes . . . gold. Not green."

Not my fault.

Miss Caviar sits again, neatly, with her feet and tail all tucked together like she wouldn't mash a mayfly.

Chef Song edges to the pond and does a quick fin count. The greedy-guts in the fish suits do a mass schooling at the pond rim, all expecting a fistful of their favorite snack, an unwholesome pellet available for a quarter from a dispensing machine installed there for the hotel guests.

Chef Song, being the boss, knows a way to get the machine to hand over without feeding it a quarter He dribbles these unappetizing nuggets over the bubble-blowing fish-faces in the water.

A few fall to the flagstones and roll away.

Miss Caviar gives a dear little cry and bounds to retrieve one, crouching beside it to chomp away.

Chef Song straightens in wonder. "You strange kitty. You do not want fish, you want fish food?"

She looks up with her big carp-gold eyes and gives a miniature meow.

"Nice kitty." He is patting her satiny little head, which is as I black and sin-smudged as her larcenous soul, with the hand that does not hold the cleaver.

She sniffs delicately at the lingering odor on his fingers and licks one.

My stomach turns. So does Chef Song. He is retreating rapidly back into the hotel, as would any self-respecting person confronted with such an unnatural feline.

Still, the minx's fish-hating act has probably saved her I skin. I can give the devil her due.

She does not rest on her laurels, or sneak a spare carp I and get out of there, as I would. No. She sits facing the door through which Chef Song has vanished as if bereft. Cut the act, kiddo; you've lost your audience, except for me, and I am not impressed by such a turn tail to the feline creed.

In fact, she has outstayed her luck, for the door springs open and once again Chef Song advances on the carp pond.

I wince. If he suspects that she has hanging-around tendencies, he will make even shorter work of her.

I do not see the cleaver, but perhaps he will resort to a trap of sorts to remove her to the animal pound.

Even as I think this, he is bending low before her. For an odious moment, it almost looks as if he is worshiping her. In fact, he has left an offering; two in fact. I spot rice bowls of blue-and-white porcelain.

Miss Caviar digs into one urged on by untranslatable coos from Chef Song.

Poison. It is worse than I thought. I rise, ready to do my duty, however odious, and warn the little skunk away.

Chef Song straightens, uncrosses his arms, and reveals the cleaver at the ready.

What can I do? Risk an extremity? These are vital to my work and leisure activities. I recall needing an antidote to poison in an earlier case of mine involving some unsavory characters from the fringes, coyotes by name. So I know a noxious plant that will make the victim throw up the tainted food. It is unpleasant to down, and even more unpleasant to upchuck, but Miss Caviar obviously needs a lesson.

As soon as Chef Song skedaddles, I will point out her error and play the hero by leading her to the nearest stand of Desert Tobacco, which is guaranteed to make the heartiest eater repel any toxic substance.

The chef, nodding and grinning like a homicidal puppet, leaves the scene at last.

I am about to do as planned, when Miss Caviar rises and trots after him. After performing some nauseating leg-rubs in the doorway, she is invited in.

Will travesties never cease? I always had to break or sneak my way in to the Crystal Phoenix.

That is the way it should be done. That is the way it was always done.

I stalk over to the abandoned bowls. Ugh. Free-to-Be-Feline salting a well chopped mixture of white chicken meat, shrimp and . . . caviar. The other bowl holds clear liquid. I sniff it, expecting to inhale turpentine or some other deadly libation. Water. Just water. Smelling faintly of minerals and other healthful natural additives. Bottled water! What kind of decadent dishes are these? Not poison, but bribes. What is happening to the species?

I stalk to the pond edge and gaze into a dozen fish eyes as glassy as marbles, all those carp pushing eagerly to the pond's edge as if dying to leap into my grasp.

Unfortunately, I have lost my appetite.