Cat In A Crimson Haze

Chapter 4

Midnight Louie Saves His Soul

The moment my ears hear the name "Crystal Phoenix" they stand to attention.

The fact of the matter is, I am none too enamored of the Circle Ritz crowd at the moment--

not that I have any quarrel with my delightful roommate, Miss Temple Barr, other than the nightly battle for prime snoozing space.

I have mentioned other, less amenable tenants now among the roster of Circle Ritz occupants. I suspect that one is bombarding me with the feline equivalent of "good vibes."

Often when snoozing I sense a purring not purely on this plane. The perpetrator of this psychic static, I suspect, is that high-flutin' feline priestess on the penthouse level, the ever-omniscient (at least in her own mind, which has apparently been handed down for generations through a process she calls reincarnation) Karma. No wonder she is so reclusive: I would not advertise my presence either if my little gray cells were mostly cast-offs from defunct users.

As for the vexing matter of the young lady only one floor above me, Caviar, originally known as Midnight Louise, I suspect that between the do-gooder vibes from above and my own conscience, I am in danger of making an unnecessary confession that could be hazardous to my health. So far I have managed to keep the shell-pink interiors of her dainty little ears free from any whisper of my moniker, Midnight Louie.

It seems that I have paternal tendencies, at least genetically.

However, this little doll that Miss Temple rescued from a Humane Society cage in a weak moment sports a savage temper that is particularly directed to the absconding bounder that fathered her. Given her snazzy ebony color scheme and comparative youth, the odds are likely that I indeed did have some brush or other with her mother. In fact, I may remember mama--an ebony lady long-hair down on her luck who crossed my path an even unluckier year or so ago.

So I could be slapped with a paternity suit--and a lot more, like four slashing shivs attached to an agile paw-- were Miss Caviar to discover my real name.

Therefore, I live in fear of being found out, a position I am used to inflicting on others, particularly evil-doers. The claw pinches when it is on the other paw.

Also, I have a lingering dissatisfaction with my role in certain recent religious ceremonies. True, I have spent some time of late around and about Our Lady of Guadalupe church and convent. This was purely in the performance of my usual duties--tracking down wrongdoers and murderers, protecting my naive roommate and saving the skins of cats everywhere. It was not in the nature of a religious conversion.

So suddenly there I am, thrust once again into the portable cell and imported against my will into an environment that is not to my taste: a convocation of all creatures great and small, including far too many immature humans for my taste.

Amid the parrot and goat droppings, the bray of the occasional donkey and the barking and yapping of an overpopulation of dogs, I am confined and subjected to unrelenting cacophony.

I have not seen anything yet. Soon I am summarily hauled from my cage, by Miss Temple Barr yet, who owes me a good deal, if not several first-class meals for professional and personal services, and held up to public ridicule.

While the sun bakes down on my unprotected head, I am the target of uninvited invocations in a tongue more suitable for ancient dudes who favor miniskirts. I suspect that I am being subjected to a "blessing," but it depends upon your point of view whether this is a good or a bad thing.

For one thing, I am not Catholic. If I am any kind of Christian at all, it is a confirmed Copt.

That term has nothing to do with law enforcement, despite my history. A Copt is a modern Christian version of a follower of ancient Egyptian rites. In fact, I do not even qualify as a Copt, since the only Deity I recognize is an obscure Egyptian goddess and head benefactress of the long-gone city of Bast, which bears her name. Speaking of this little goddess-doll's head, I believe it was exceptionally handsome as well as possessed of a supremely wise expression. You can see its likeness in every creature of my ilk that you come across. I do not know if Bast also had the impressive set of whiskers that I have, but these high-up Egyptian babes were often control freaks who would don false whiskers to lend authority to their appearance. At least they knew what counts.

I do not know what Bast (may her whiskers increase!) would think to see one of her loyal adherents doused with drops of holy water in the hot sun, and muttered over In a strange tongue.

I may have to make a pilgrimage to the banks of the Nile to erase this enforced baptism of sorts. It does not appear to have done me any permanent harm, but I am tired of spending so much time at Our Lady of Guadalupe when I am not a parishioner. Frankly, the churchy ambiance leaves me cold. I prefer scenes of a seamier nature, where I can put my nose to the groundstone and sniff out larceny, greed, lust and murder. Also carp.

So when I overhear Miss Temple on the telephone scheduling a meeting at the Crystal Phoenix the next day, I figure it is time to investigate a new turf--in this case, a former venue.

True, I left my previous and cushy situation at the Crystal Phoenix because of an interloper there--a crawling, squalling, bawling bundle of babydom spawned by two people of whom I am too fond to criticize for the quality of their offspring, Mr. Nicky Fontana and his wife, Miss Van von Rhine. (Being a career woman. Miss Van von Rhine does not answer to the epithet of "Mrs.")

However, human offspring do not sport any claws worth worrying about, and their teeth are decidedly tardy in coming, not to mention dull in the extreme.

It strikes me that a return to the Crystal Phoenix might save Midnight Louie from domestic dissonance.

Besides, I always had a fondness for birds, legendary or not, as well as fish.