Cat In A Red Hot Rage

“Your Kathleen O’Connor could be such a one.” Kelly handed over the copy of a disappointingly slim dossier. “Where is she now?”

“In a grave in Las Vegas under a simple headstone with her name and date of death. No one knew her birth date.”

“Why track a dead woman?”

“A dear friend of mine suffered much because of her for many years. It’s an obligation.”

“And he? Dead too?”

He hesitated. “You might say that I’m on a mortuary mission, Mr. Kelly. I want to dig up this Kathleen O’Connor’s history. I know her future and her fate. I want to know her past and the making of her. For my … lost friend’s sake.”” ‘You are old, Father William.’ “

“Ah, the Irish. Always with the poetry. Lewis Carroll was old and still photographed lovely girl-children like Alice Liddell who’d inspired Alice in Wonderland decades earlier. Was this eccentric bachelor genius, or a repressed pedophile? Today’s world allows for many divergent interpretations. I seek my own Alice who went down the rabbit hole: Kathleen O’Connor, before she was IRA, when she was the child of an Ireland that had never been for centuries.”

“You have a touch of poet yourself, Mr.—” Kelly checked the name on the passport. “Mr. Garry Randolph. As you said, times have changed. What was vile, violent, and secret is now … just history, God willing. Do you have any idea how many Kathleen O’Connors there are, or were, in Ireland or Northern Ireland on any given day in any given year in any given century?”

“As many as shamrocks carpet the Irish ground and freckles dot the Irish face.”

Kelly chuckled at the puckish, poetic lines his guest had produced with a grin. “I now have ‘contacts’ among the new IRA. I’ll check with them. Kathleen O’Connor cut a wide swath for such a slip of a thing, I hear. Someone from her era may be willing to talk with you.”

He rose to see his visitor out.

The phone rang that evening in a suite at the Malmaison Hotel. He’d avoided the Europa Hotel, which before the IRA truce had the unenviable reputation of being “the most bombed hotel in Europe.” It was safe now, but he preferred the trendy comforts of a boutique hotel and the company of trendy young things with odd hair and arty tattoos sipping white wine and watching Fashion Channel runway shows on a huge, ceiling-hung television screen.

He had the money to indulge himself while following this cold trail on this haunting quest. Max’d had even more. He’d always made plain how he wanted Garry to spend it if, God forbid, he survived him.

From the black, red, and cream modernity of the rock and roll suite he gazed at the misty towers of murderous Belfast. The city was doffing its violent past like a London Fog coat, showing off a thriving young figure under it.

The voice on the phone apologized for calling during the dinner hour.

“I have an old fellow,” Kelly said, “maybe full of blarney, who remembers the girl in question. Something he said already made me think you should check the orphanages. Probably in County Clare. Do you know how many orphanages—?”

“Thank you. I’ve written down your information and will follow up.”

“And let me know, of course, what you learn. People in our line of work are always curious.”

Garry Randolph, once known as a magician named Gandolph the Great, nodded his head, although the man on the phone’s other end couldn’t see the gesture.

“Of course I’ll let you know, Mr. Kelly, but it may be a while.” He hung up, biting his pale lower lip.

An orphanage. Talk about needles in haystacks. Not good, but he was used to dealing with orphans. And spies. And magicians.

He sighed again, and put a call through to Switzerland. Then he would call the contact in Las Vegas. While he waited to be connected, Garry brooded.

This was the most difficult assignment of his life, and perhaps would be the death of him, as Kathleen O’Connor had always been the death of so many, including herself, ultimately.

He remembered what that feisty, non-Irish redheaded love of Max Kinsella’s life had so appropriately nicknamed her, in a place and time that now seemed long ago and far away to an _old man full of duty, and doubt.

Kitty the Cutter.

Tailpiece

Midnight Louie’s Deep Purple Mood

I certainly have developed an appreciation for vivid color combinations after seeing the Ashleigh girls decked out in imperial purple and royal red.

To these traditional colors of empire are not only Red Hat Sisterhood members entitled, but all those of the feline persuasion born.

Humans, unfortunately, are a pallid lot compared to the coats of many colors, and patterns, that felines sport. Unfortunately, our human companions are also up to their hairless ears in family matters tinged with large doses of dysfunction. (Not that we of the superior species do not have a few dysfunctions of our own. But they are minor matters involving litter boxes and finicky palates.) Too many dysfunctions, however, make for crime and punishment, and I am always all too happy to lend a mitt to the crime-detecting part of the formula.

I must admit that I am most relieved that the aging females of my species do not feel obliged to make a habit out of raiding the plumage of other creatures. I imagine Ma Barker in such a getup, and shudder. She is formidable enough in her natural state. With her coat and temperament, Black is the New Blue.

While it is satisfying to have cleared Miss Electra Lark of murder charges, I am not sure I like the direction in which my domestic life is headed. I preferred the uncertain days of yesteryear, when I always had to come home wondering, Who has been sleeping in my bed?

Now I have Goldilocks, all right, but she seems to be set on eliminating all the creative tension from my existence by installing domestic bliss in the form of Mr. Matt. I confess that I no longer know who’s who and what’s what, and I think that this is a distressing state for an author to leave her collaborator in! Not to mention our loyal readers!

On the other hand, something very intriguing seems to be cooking on the international front. Could a jaunt to Ireland be in my future? I do have Irish eyes, you know. Not that they smile.

Midnight Louie, Esq.

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Tailpiece

Carole Nelson Douglas

Foresees a Rosy Future

Louie is such a sensitive soul.

He’s deeply affected by his environment, so his human companion’s change of partners is bound to affect his mood, if not his appetite. But people are far more inconstant than cats, so he will just have to display his inborn superiority and adjust.

I would respectfully suggest that humans must resort to celebrating their age instead of ignoring it because it shows so much. Those of Louie’s persuasion don’t show their age as easily as humans. That’s the benefit of an all-over fur coat: no wrinkles. Plus, any sags and bags are always camouflaged.

As for trips abroad, Louie, I would not practice your version of “Danny Boy” on the back fence just yet.

There are plenty of hot times coming in Las Vegas, even with Max Kinsella apparently MIA or DOA and Gandolph off with the IRA. But what’s new, after all?