Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 33

Three O'Clock Rock

I wish I could say that this unexpected family reunion resulted in a good deal of mutual grooming and purring, but the fact of the matter is that we each face a formidable generation gap, not to mention the gender stretch.

Still, discovering unsuspected blood ties does force a truce of sorts. We withdraw under the deck surrounding Three O'Clock Louie's to hash out our various grievances. If, from time to time, the occasional tidbit from the diners above slips through a gap In the boards, none of us can object as long as each gets a lick at the booty.

The old man regales us with tales of his life at sea. Even the hostile Caviar finds herself hypnotized by the details of life on the Bounding Maine. (Personally, I remember the Maine being lost at Pearl Harbor, but apparently this vessel is a namesake.)

"Does not all that heaving and sinking make you seasick?" Caviar asks Three O'Clock.

"No, Ma'am. Not In the slightest." The old fellow tidies his whiskers as his eyes soften with a nostalgic sea-green glow. "Has a soothing effect, as when we were rocked in the cradles of our mother's bellies. They do not call it Mother Ocean for nothing. And I soon got my sea legs--

especially when I saw all that North Pacific silver tumbling to deck. Ah, that is a sight. . .

mountains of piscine delight, fresh and gleaming with saltwater. The captain would often offer me a nip of his best brandy after the catch was in and we were relaxing from our labors in the cabin."

"What labors?" I ask. "You did not even have to snap a whisker in the pursuit of this prey.

Their heads were handed to you on a platter, so to speak.

"True, my lad, but the thrill of the chase is overrated, to my mind. At a certain age one grows wise enough to find a situation where one's meals are home-delivered. Did I not understand you to say that you had found a domestic situation at a place called the Circle Ritz?"

I do not miss the slight sneer at the notion of "domestic."

"I have retired to a condominium with room service," I admit, "but before that I was self-employed as a house detective at the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, the classiest, joint on the Strip."

"Hmm, joint." The old man lunges into the shadowy twilight of our retreat and snags a fallen piece of fried chicken.

"That fried food is bad for one of your years," I point out. "Full of fats and salt."

"You may be right," he says, chowing down the find without offering to share it with his long-lost descendants. "I will sacrifice myself and eat it all to spare you youngsters any health problems."

"Spare me the blarney, Grand-daddio," Caviar puts in. "You and your boy here have all the paternal feeling of a trash compactor."

I am still stinging from hearing my present situation described as domestic. "Miss Caviar has done well for herself," I say. "She resides just above me at the Circle RItz with Mr. Matt Devine, a most genteel fellow and a friend of my own associate, Miss Temple Barr."

"He is a bit hard on the furniture for such a genteel person," she replies cryptically. "I have spent most of my time of late at the Crystal Phoenix. I perceive a need there for an agile, youthful, full-time house dick."

"You cannot be a house dick," I shout.

"And why not?" she demands in a low purr.

I am not going to stalk nose-first into that trap. "I have not officially vacated the position.

You will notice that I have been staking out the grounds of late. Events of a dark and sinister nature are afoot there, and I am ready to pounce at the right time."

"Oh, please," Caviar beseeches me in weary tones. "The stray dog population is up and what have you done to address it? Nothing. Next thing we know, coyotes will be venturing up to the Dumpsters for a nighttime snack."

"I am not worried about a few coyotes when there is bigger game to hunt."

"Such as?"

"I cannot answer, as the case has not entirely come together."

"In other words, you have not got a clue." She turns to the old man. "Do you perform any other function out here, besides adding to the atmosphere?"

He sticks his neck out from under the deck to snag an errant shrimp.

"Drenched in butter," Caviar sniffs. "The cholesterol count must be astronomical."

The old man is not about to be dissuaded from any seafood surprises. I watch him munch away, my stomach growling in sympathy.

"Hush!" Caviar snarls. She stretches up on her lithe little legs to press her ear to the planking above us. "I heard someone mention the Crystal Phoenix. I am on eavesdropping duty now."

Three O'Clock rolls his eyes but does not desist smacking his lips.

I sit up and take notice. I am always interested in the odd conversation, especially when I recognize one of the voices.

"Never mind asking why," Crawford Buchanan is hissing to someone seated directly above us. "All the poker chips in Las Vegas would not get me anywhere near the Crystal Phoenix tonight."

"But you are show chairman," a female voice objects.

This voice I have never heard before, but under the downtrodden quality I read a dogged weariness as it goes on "I do not understand you, Crawford. This Gridiron show was so important to you. You were hardly ever home for two months, yet this last week you act as if the entire event were poison."

"Everything he touches is poison," puts in a third voice-- young, bored, bitter and female.

"Quincey!" the older woman reproves.

The man's voice lowers. Above me a deck chair frame creaks as he leans forward. "This show is poison. Those so-called rehearsal mishaps are no accidents. That stupid PR woman has really cooked her goose and her gizzard this time."

"You mean that Miss Barr who visited you in the hospital when you had your heart attack?

She seemed real nice."

"Nice is not enough in a town like this. Merle, you should know that by now. Temple Barr will be lucky to see the sun come up tomorrow. The signs have been there all through rehearsals and neither Temple nor that high-handed Danny Dove have glimpsed the writing on the wind.

Somebody Very Big is mucho upset about this show, and about Temple's closing skit in particular. Buchanan predicts that when the curtain falls tonight, it is going to take a few people with it, including that uppity pair. That is why you will not find me near the Crystal Phoenix tonight. Not on my life!"

A warm drop of bloody water drenches my forehead as Crawford bites into whatever live bait he favors. I hope that it is dog, rare, but restrain a shudder of distaste and keep an ear cocked despite the bio-hazardous material dribbling down.

Caviar has minced back from the mess, but her own ears remain fanned like furred satellite dishes to catch every syllable. She does show some investigative promise, were her attitude not such a handicap.

"Should you not warn them?" the woman asks.

"What, and risk my neck? I am not going within spitting distance of that sitting tinderbox.

Besides, who would believe me? They do not even respect my scripts."

"Crawford, if you are irked about your show and neglect to warn somebody--"

"Forget it. I am only guessing, but I am dead serious. Something major is going down at the Crystal Phoenix tonight, and all I want to know about it is what I read in tomorrow's Review Journal. "

"You mean that you do not want to scoop the competition?" the younger female jibes.

"I mean, Quincey, that I do not want to be scooped up in a spoon. Now shut up about this.

You never know who is listening."

Enlightenment has come too late for Crawford Buchanan.

With swift lashes of my rear member, I herd the others away from our inadvertent listening post. Caviar is more than ready to move on, but Three O'Clock seems inclined to remain reclined and suck up any descending goodies. I tap him politely on the shoulder and nudge him along.

In seconds we are twenty feet down the decking and able to have our own discussion without fear of eavesdroppers.

Caviar is all fired up. "We have got to get back to the Crystal Phoenix pronto."

I frown. "I can see that I must hustle to the aid of my personal associate, but I do not perceive any reason for you to cut short your visit to your grandpa at the lake shore. You two have a lot to talk about."

"Hah!" she responds in her usual tone of disrespect.

For a moment I pity Crawford Buchanan, with such a sullen daughter. No wonder the mother's milk of feline kindness does not surge through his veins.

Three O'Clock is frowning now, especially as Caviar has positioned herself under a knothole where one might expect even larger bounty to trickle through. "I do not know why you two find it necessary to skedaddle so soon just to take care of some humans."

"Professional pride," I growl. "I owe it to my domestic partner."

Three O'Clock rolls onto his side and begins to tidy up his black bib.

Caviar and I exchange a look of perfect concord for once. The old man will be of no use on a mission of such urgency.

We wriggle out from under the decking, eyeing the tourist cars.

"How will we get back in time?" Caviar muses.

"How did you get out here?"

She drops her eyes coyly. "Spuds Lonnigan dropped by the Phoenix to visit Jill Diamond. I hitched a ride."

I nod. "Not bad. But he will be out here cooking until Three O'Clock Louie's closes--at three a.m., I presume."

She pulls a sour face, which is not hard for her to do. "I fear so."

"Then my mode of transport is the best bet."

"What is that? Donkey cart?"

"You are sarcastic even in a crisis, but, no. There is my vehicle."

I nod at the Gray Line tour bus, which is belching exhaust as its passengers mount the high steps. "We can just catch it for the trip back. The driver, Red, is a friend of mine; he will let you aboard too."

The doors remain ajar, but we can hear the screech as Red puts the bus into gear.

With a mutual look, we race toward the huge silver bus. I tell myself that timing is everything, even as I urge Caviar to greater speed. Together we sink our claws in sand to keep from shooting under the bus. I smell hot rubber and diesel fuel, and--somewhere near--

something dead.

"Get on!" I yowl, unsheathing my claws to give her a spur in the flank.

She shoots up the stairs so fast that Red will think she is me.

Even as I watch, the accordion doors snap shut, grinding their rubber buffer strips like toothless gums.

I hear Red on the microphone, announcing the rest of the itinerary.

"Now that you have had a tasty lunch at Temple Bar, we will head back up north, folks, for a leisurely tour of the Valley of Fire, with dinner at Echo Bay. Hope you enjoy."

I back up as he turns the behemoth and it starts lumbering for the access road.

An old lady in a baseball cap at a nearby window jumps, then I see Caviar pasted to the tinted glass, her green eyes focused on me with furious disbelief.

"It is better this way, kid," I tell her, though she cannot hear me. Maybe she can read lips.

She is too young and inexperienced to lay her life on the line in case of such dire necessity.

And she is blood kin, after all. Plus, this is no job for a dainty little lady who is as green as a twenty-dollar bill.

Besides, I work best alone.

I dash around the back of the restaurant and breathe a sigh of relief.

A big white truck is idling there, its back doors as wide open as heaven's gate.

HARRY THE MEATMAN the sido lettering reads, LAS VEGAS.

Here is my ticket to ride. I leap up into the dark cool interior. Ah, at least the ride back will be air-conditioned and considerably more direct than the tour bus. I chuckle to think of Caviar seething amid a busload of tourists all calling her "Kitty, Kitty." I just hope that she does not bite the hand that feeds her. Red might bear me a grudge.

I hunker down behind a carton of wieners and curl into as tight a ball as I can manage. Not only could I be accused of attempted assault on a side of beef if I am found, but if my calculations are wrong and we do not speed back to Las Vegas post haste, I could end up on ice, permanently.

I shiver as I contemplate the long odds facing me. At least if I die it will be in a meat locker.