Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 27

Lou Who?

Although I am used to undercover operations, it is more than somewhat galling to be forced to slink around my former digs like a criminal.

But this is exactly the lot that is mine at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, now that Caviar, a.k.a. Midnight Louise, has taken over my turf. Normally, I would not sit still under the nearest topiary tree chewing my nails while some upstart usurps my territory.

However, in this instance my tongue and tail are tied.

This does not suit my larger goal of sniffing out what foul forces are afoot and endangering my devoted roommate, Miss Temple Barr, and her current project, the Gridiron show.

Miss Caviar, In the meantime, shows no shyness whatsoever about swaggering around the grounds and hotel interior, gathering compliments for her resemblance to yours truly, albeit in a somewhat slimmer and younger form.

The more the unsuspecting humans mention my name, the more they ensure that the relentless Caviar remains in the vicinity. I even spot her interrogating the occasional canine that lopes around the fringes of the hotel, hoping for some Dumpster dining.

The first such ugly customer she broaches has me covering my eyes with my mitts as I lurk in the ever-convenient oleander clump near the service entrance.

The browsing dog is a pit bull-shepherd mix, no type to trifle with, believe you me. My forbearance with the young upstart may have given her too high an opinion of herself, for she sashays up to this truly terrifying dingo without a qualm.

"Pardon me, sir," I hear her say as he rips open a body bag with expert slashes of his canines.

He looks up. One eye has a squint and the opposite ear is semi-chewed. "Get lost, cupcake. I will be ready for dessert soon and you would do nicely."

"Funny you should mention 'lost,' bud," she replies without stiffening a single hair. "I am looking for someone who is apparently missing."

"We are all missing in action, babe." His staple-gun jaws wrestle what's left of a t-bone steak out of its plastic wrapping.

Caviar sits on her cute little tall and applies a prissy paw to her whiskers, no doubt offended by her subject's crude dining habits. "The object of my search is somewhat notorious around here. Have you ever heard of Midnight Louie?"

"Heard of him?" The dog spits out a few splinters of bone. "I am the first one in this town to pin his ears back. Has the big bully been bothering you, cupcake? I am the one to knock him into next week, even the next world, and if you tip me off when the goodies are about to hit the buffet table"--his scrawny tail bangs once on the Dumpster side--"I may even let you live a while longer."

"That will not be necessary," says she. "I do my own knocking. So he is afraid of you. I thought he was big and tough."

I cringe in the bushes, my tail beating up a cloud of dust. The reason this dingo dude squints is due to the number three shiv on my right mitt. Yet I am forced to grit my fangs while I hear him libel my battle prowess, not to mention my courage.

"Big and tough," the dirty dog repeats with a growl. "Hearing news like that is what makes a hyena laugh. This Midnight Louie was a creampuff, cupcake. Big, maybe, but it was all lard and laziness. I for one am glad to hear that the old layabout is off the premises. It improves the neighborhood."

As if this scrounger adds some elegance to the environment!

Apparently Caviar is not buying this bozo's story. "Why would Midnight Louie leave such a cushy job if he is as lazy as you say? A position of house detective at a major Strip hotel does not open up every day. And the staff--with the understandable exception of Chef Song--seems fond of him. I have even heard him credited with rescuing the manager, Miss Van von Rhine, from a mob of musclemen."

The dog snorts, which is what you can expect from the breed while eating. "People are easily misled by milk-sucking parasites like him. He has done nothing for this hotel except decimate the fancy fish supply." The animal snuffles among a selection of orange rinds and apple cores before pulling out the butt end of a hot dog. "Besides, from what I hear, he has moved on to another establishment."

"Oh?" Caviar says in a way that begs for answering.

I have got to hand it to the kid. She manages to sound supremely uninterested just as the dumb cluck is spilling the info she wants the most.

He scarfs up some odds and ends I would not deign to bury, then feeds her the info while his mouth is full. "New place. On Lake Mead. Eatery called Three O'Clock Louie's.' Sounds like your friend has found a new gig with a better water view and more carp, where he can stay up later these days."

"He is not my friend," Miss Caviar is quick to establish.

"Then why do you want to find him?"

"Personal business," she answers, flexing her hardware.

The dog eyes the glint of her front claws stretching and retracting in a rhythm no one could mistake for expressing contentment. He backs away, dragging some of his ill-gotten gains with him.

"Yeah, well, I do not intrude in vendettas, lady. I doubt you could do more than nick a few loose hairs off his chinny-chin-chin, but I would like to see that lout get his comeuppance, so I will let you off easy this time. Now get out of here before I lose my appetite and forget I swore off cats!"

He lunges, feet braced, ears back, his loud and uncouth barker at full cry.

Caviar lunges too, fluffing her hair into a fat black aura, and arching her back like a midnight rainbow.

"I have had enough of you, too, fellow," she says in a tone between a growl and a hiss. "You should know that I am the new house detective at the Crystal Phoenix, and I do not welcome passersby of the wrong sort. You will have to do your snacking elsewhere from now on."

"Or else?" he snarls.

I tense, readying myself for a leap to the rescue. Much as Miss Caviar deserves a lesson, I cannot allow even maybe-kin to lose all nine lives to a dirty dog in my presence.

"Get back to the Araby Motel where you belong," she screeches, executing some swift and subtle moves she probably learned off an Oriental shorthair, which is exactly what that breed of cat usually get their opponents by.

The dog's threatening growl has escalated to a howl. He is backing away in big, bounding jerks, rubbing his long ugly snout in the dirt. Four dark furrows now tattoo his nose. Even as I watch, they well with bright red blood.

He dashes off; leaving a trail of droplets a near-sighted wombat could follow.

The triumphant Caviar drags his leavings back to the Dumpster, pantomimes burying the mess and ambles off, no doubt to attend to her beauty routine and cadge another disgusting hand-out from Chef Song.

I remain in the shade, mulling the cruel twists of fate. I am not only rumored to be living elsewhere under a pseudonym, but I have lost my old job to a female. What is this world coming to?