Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

Hen Party

So there I am in the hall, trying to avoid the stomp of boots and high heels from twenty champagne-sipping human females milling around.

Do they glance down at the carpet to see if there is any stray resident around? No. Speaking of stray residents, I have seen no trace of Mr. Matt, which is a big relief. Nor do I see Mr. Nicky Fontana lounging about either. Although I think Mr. Nicky would be better at hiding out in a bordello than Mr. Matt.

Miss Temple will have my hide if her fiancé is found in a compromising position in this house of the rising libido.

Meanwhile, it is all one big chicken ranch party up here. The Fontana bridesmaids are oohing and aahing at the settings and accoutrements of the cathouse trade.

I finally am spotted, of course, but they are all so wrapped up in French ticklers and the like than I am taken for the house cat, Satin. People are just not very observant when it comes to presumed domestic slaves like us. This blind spot is very useful to the undercover investigator.

I am just glad Miss Midnight Louise is not in on this gig. I know she would take the strongest exception to the harmless fun the girls are having as two very different worlds of feminine wiles cross trails momentarily.

“No offense, ladies,” says one girlfriend. “The boys were not supposed to come here. They were going to be driven to an Elvis impersonation, with a teenage-bride Priscilla popping out of a cake. Lots of rock ‘n’ roll music and that one tame peekaboo bit.”

The residents hoot it up. “Really? You are kidding! Well, we will take the night off, since you have paid for it, and you have the run of our facilities,” says Gigi. (I have a photographic sniffer and can match each hooker with her perfume from the roll call in the parlor.)

Another now tipsy bridesmaid confides to a girl in blue, “I know the bride-to-be did not want her fiance kicking up his heels or anything else interesting tonight, but the groomsmen are fair game.”

“Pretty game, I think,” Angela says, “from their expressions and certain other signs.”

“They are all single!” a bridesmaid says, pouting. “Why should they not have fun at a bachelor party? As long as it is with us, their loyal girlfriends.”

“You really hope to get them to commit after tonight?”

“Who thought Aldo would ever get married? Now he is all grins and domesticity. If one can fall, so can the others.”

Not this “other.”

Midnight Louie does not get ’napped, trapped, and whapped with a wedding ring. Never. No way. If the formerly freedom-loving Fontanas want to be sucker-bait, fine. It is nice to see Satin again, and know she is off the streets and safe, but I am not throwing my ruff in the ring for her paw in perpetuity.

The plan for the evening seems pretty clear at this point. The bound-but-not-gagged—and certainly at this point not terribly resisting—Fontana boys are going to have a prenuptial honeymoon in whatever setting their particular girlfriend chooses.

Macho Mario is going to be kept prisoner in the parlor, surrounded by a bevy of beauties who have no interest in catering to his needs or druthers, along with the madam, with whom he seems to have a nodding, but not intimate acquaintance.

Satin and I will have lots of time to catch up on old times.

And Mr. Nicky and Mr. Matt will continue to hide out, as emerging now would be rather embarrassing.

One good thing: given the amount of champagne being consumed by the bridesmaids, I am guessing that the festivities will end in a snoozer long before daylight blinks its eyes open over the desert and shows us all where the heck we are.

I follow the giggling bridesmaids down the stairs for another round of boyfriend teasing before they herd them upstairs for more serious business.

Humans! Cannot live with them, cannot live without them.

Unfortunately.