Cat In A Diamond Dazzle

Chapter 9

Spray for Rain

Although I dare not enter the Crystal Phoenix until I can check out the whereabouts and mood of my ungrateful offspring, Midnight Louise, I can lurk outside. This I do, for two good reasons. I am determined to rekindle the relationship between me and Miss Savannah Ashleigh's purebred pride and joy, the Divine Yvette. I am also not averse to keeping an eye on my other little doll, for it has not been lost upon me that she is somewhat at loose ends, what with one thing and another. Frankly, I fear for her sanity.

So there I am, keeping unobtrusive watch for any comings and goings of an intriguing nature. That is how I come to see a certain party of three exiting the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino. For those unfamiliar with my usual turf, the Phoenix is a modest establishment more noted for class than crass.

Once I pick up the trio's trail, I recognize two of the subjects at once: Miss Temple Barr and Miss Electra Lark, for the simple reason that neither of them are unknown to me.

The third is a puzzler, though in some ways a riper version of Miss Temple. Anyway, they link arms and amble down the Strip, laughing and talking like old friends. This is suspicious in itself, for I have never laid eyes on the new doll, who looks old enough to be Miss Temple's mother or Miss Electra's sister. Could she be both? Anything is possible in the Naked City. (Some call the Big Crabapple of New York the Naked City, but Las Vegas is better qualified for that nickname, whether you count half-naked chorus girls or stripped-bare gamblers who leave this town in little more than suspenders and a barrel.) Midnight Louie does not require the presence of an unexplained person to realize that something is up. Miss Temple and Miss Electra have skipped out on the Circle Ritz far too abruptly to evade my whisker-trigger suspicions. I hope that this outing will enlighten me. I have little trouble tailing them along the Strip, which is crowded with foot traffic. I am always well beneath notice among foot traffic.

Certain advantages pertain to being the little guy.

The ladies' path heads south. I watch the Luxor's obelisk steadily swell at the Strip's southern end. It spikes the brilliant blue autumn sky like a giant's upside down thumbtack. Meanwhile, I keep a profile lower than a craps player on a losing streak, darting from one island of landscaping to the other, as if chasing butterflies. Such subterfuge hardly seems necessary. Most folks afoot in Las Vegas are gawking up at towering hotels and signs. That is why a slack-jawed jaywalker perishes every three days in this town, that and maybe all the free drinks at the casinos and not enough brain cells to bet on something other than traffic flow. These jaywalkers are a mystery anyway. I cannot see any advantage in it. You will not catch Midnight Louie walking a jay across the Strip during rush hour--not even a trained cockatoo Anyway, there I am crouching in the petunias before I hop into the next nest of marigolds or what have you. And so on. In a matter of blocks (and blocks along the Las Vegas Strip are on the gargantuan side, on both sides!) it becomes apparent where the ladies three are heading: only one hotel stands head and maned shoulders above the others this side of the Strip: the MGM Grand. This sweeping structure of green glass is reminiscent not so much of the Emerald City in Oz as it is of a tidal wave halted in mid-crash. The MGM Grand's 5005 rooms make it the world's largest hotel. It takes its calculated leisure in an architectural sprawl that covers twice the acreage of the other Strip behemoths.

Naturally, it is completely fitting that the door dude to this mirrored Babylon on the Mojave should be a fellow with feline tendencies.

Sure enough, Leo the lion's ocher stucco head soon dominates the horizon. These so-called Big Cats!

They think they own everything they survey, simply because they are taller than the next guy. On the subject of true stature, I am shoulder to shoulder with Miss Temple Barr, figuratively speaking, of course.

Figuratively speaking, though, this Leo is one impressive dude. Large but angular, with world-class green eyes the size of billboards. My subjects skirt Leo's muscular paws without a glance up at his lordly yet amiable face, so eager are they to pursue their mysterious mission. Then Miss Electra Lark stops dead. Tourists part like the Red Sea around her as she turns, looks back and points with a lack of politeness that only a tourist could get away with I do not pause to think, but spring for camouflage--

right into the pansies and decorative cabbages sprouting at the base of Leo's immaculate pedicure. I have heard of cabbages and kings, and Leo is a self-proclaimed King of the beasts, but pansies? Really, Leo, what do we have here--L-a-a-ammm-bert, the Sheepish Lion?

I am not surprised by the presence of this effete flora, but I am about to be shocked nearly out of my leather soles.

Meanwhile, Miss Electra continues to wave her arm about like an undisciplined tail. Miss Temple and the stranger stop to gawk at what I discern to be the blue and red peaks of the Camelot Hotel and Casino's fools'-capped mock-Medieval towers, kitty-corner (sorry, Leo) from our location.

The Camelot is old chapeau, pardon the expression. I have seen its pointy-hatted wizard glowering down from the Camelot drawbridge onto the Strip for several years now. I like to fancy that this maybe-Merlin has cast a spell on old Leo, dooming the big guy to eternal gate-keeping function at the opposite hostelry. Imagine sitting there day after day, able to do nothing more than light up the night with your big green eyes. This is definitely the downside of working as the house cat at a hotel.

While I crouch and contemplate the sad state of feline pride in these latter days, hordes of human feet hoof into the MGM Grand's maw of brass-and-glass doors. A subtle hissing noise, like a chorus of cicadae, cranks up all around me. Although we are far from the open desert, this sound has a terrible, impending nature, like a thousand rattlesnakes about to strike.

And then I am struck!

A dozen sites on my body sting as I am pelted relentlessly. I leap out of the pansies, crying, "I am dying, Egypt, dying." (Oops. That line is more appropriate to the Sphinx in front of the Luxor down the Strip.) Anyway, I stagger from the flora like Jimmy Cagney hit by a machine gun. Those pansies were poisonous. And the hail of bullets continues. Except that they are wet.

The awful truth triumphs. Leo, the MGM lion, has a spraying problem, and it's pretty pervasive. The pansies beam dewily through a fresh veil of waterdrops.

I shake myself off, hoping to share my bounty with the passing mob. Then I nip through the row of doors with the huge brass doorpulls formed from an intertwined "O" and "Z" behind a Nikon of Japanese tourists clicking away like beetles.

Once inside, I stop, dismayed ... even outraged. I am inside, not outside, but the sky is frowning and boiling with clouds as if ready to rain on my parade again in earnest. Lightning flashes among the clouds'

cumulus blue underbellies. Thunder growls like my stomach on another Free-to-be-Feline morning. I blink my baby greens. How can this be? I admit that I have never bothered to check out the inside of the MGM Grand Hotel, but I did expect it to at least be indoors.

In fact, the unexpected presence of water outside and the scene of impending downpour inside have an unforeseen effect on me. I suddenly remember how long it has been since I performed any actions of a deliquifying nature. Luckily, dead ahead I spot a gentle grassy knoll suffering from a measles of red poppies, so I sprint for relief.

Even more fortunately, a man's voice booms from the gondola of a balloon tethered nearby. (This is not one of your dinky helium objects so prevalent at birthday parties, but the Mother of All Balloons, big enough to serve as transportation.) Every human eye is craned upward to the gesturing figure and the scowling sky beyond, green with oncoming storm. Of course it is really a ceiling, though it is high enough to pass for a sky. In contrast, the so-called grass is barely tall enough to shelter a midget mouse, say Mickey or Minnie (though they are not MGM properties). Furthermore, the blades have a distasteful plastic feel, and as for scent--if you favor privies perfumed with polyethelene, you are in the perfect spot for happy-ever-aftering, but not in Cam-el-ot. So much for the musical interlude. I do not like Muzak in my bitty and I am not very invisible in this ersatz poppy field. While here, though, I sniff the notorious blooms for signs of harvest. Great place to hide an illegal patch of real poppies. No such luck in this case.

A wood that affords more privacy and some real dirt looms beyond the poppy fields' ever-blooming condition. I dash into its welcoming shadows and camouflaging color, earth-brown. In a wink, I have hidden behind an aluminum garbage can someone has thoughtfully plopped down between two trees.

From my vantage point I survey the poppy fields. Against the bilious sky, the crusty old dude in the balloon gondola harangues the attentive crowd while laser-green lightning boogies across the boiling clouds above. Beyond the gathering storm glows a serene, celestial expanse of gilt stars in a Midnight-blue sky, the exact color of my coat's glossy highlights when it is groomed to black satin. I recognize that odd artifice known as wallpaper when I see it, even when it is on the ceiling. Yet I remain thoroughly confused. Apparently the MGM Grand lobby has chosen to combine the worst of indoor and outdoor worlds.

Then I nearly leap into the next county when the silver garbage can beside me starts creaking into motion and begins sounding off. I dodge behind a tree ... made from another foul-smelling unnatural substance. The crowd edges my way, oohing and Ozing.

Only then do I spot the solution to my confusion: a motionless quartet--five if you count the shrimpy canine--stands frozen amid the plastic poppies. They are not collecting for the Veterans of Foreign Wars, believe me, but posing. Even from the rear they are recognizable: that miserable Cowardly Lion who has given cathood a bad name; the twin of my nearby orating garbage can, the Tin Woodman; young Dorothy Gale from Kansas in her checked jumper and red-sequined pumps (Miss Temple would shudder at wearing pale blue anklets with such spiffy shoes); and the Scarecrow who fell down on the job.

Of course that wretched, flea-bitten, cute-as-a-cupcake black mite Toto is there, too. I am in full agreement with the Wicked Witch, who appears to have won their last confrontation after all: stuff him and put him in a theme-hotel vignette.

At least I sniff genuine dirt beneath my feet and am able to scratch up a few thimbles full so I can attend to my emergency needs. Public buildings are always short on rest rooms, although casinos are usually generous in this department. The last thing the management wants is eager gamblers distracted from the siren call of snake eyes and a natural by any calls of nature.

Relieved in all departments, I tippy-toe through the ersatz woods and out into the chiming, glittering casino beyond, where I can dart unseen among the shadows of slot machines and blackjack tables.

And dart I do, until I can catch up with the proper trio of shoes: Miss Temple's pink metallic sneakers, Miss Electra's earth sandals and Madame X's air-cushion white tennis shoes with purple and lime-green accents. As I slink under the long, rainbow archway into the casino proper, I feel a bit like that little windup pooch Toto, who spent most of The Wizard of Oz fox-trotting behind the principal players.

This is not Kansas anymore. I am not even sure that it is Las Vegas.