Cat In A Topaz Tango

Fighting Form

Of course no one recognizes that were it not for my extreme sensitivity to vibes of both a physical and psychic nature, no one would know Mr. Matt Devine was suffering from duel fatigue and blood loss deep in the deserted part of the hotel.

Even my Miss Temple did not suspect I was fresh from clawing my way up the silent butler shaft from the high-roller suite service area two floors below, which includes a fully staffed kitchen as well as twenty-four-hour maid, bar, and concierge services. It pays to be rich in Vegas.

So it just looks like I was idly sleeping on her vibrating cell phone when in fact I had just arrived there, panting and not much better off than Mr. Matt Devine himself at the moment. But I knew he would be phoning her if he could manage it, and I had to make sure our joint Sleeping Beauty would hear it.

This may seem a desperate and frantic ploy, but I am not Lassie. I could run howling through the casino and no one would heed and follow me, except to boot me out onto the Strip.

I have done what I could through this whole awful nightmare of lethal surprise attack.

I have no doubt that both the masked attempted murderer and our own Mr. Matt have the impression that they were dueling mano a mano all over the Dancing With the Celebs set. And quite a thrilling, but lamentably unfilmed, contest that was.

But no, the contention was mano a gato in some respects. (“Gato” is the Spanish word for cat.)

I keep a keen eye on all the Circle Ritz folks at this shindig and happened to be sniffing around the company buffet table backstage during the very wee morning hours, hunting clues about the mishap involving Mr. Keith Salter. Okay, he ate separately, but you never know. Not that I was copping a free meal, although I was not loath to lap up any unclaimed crumbs from said spread for a Midnight mid-night nosh.

Be that as it may, or may not, my sharp olfactory senses can pick up what humans overlook even without a supersensitive canine nose. I did find crumbs of things I would rather die than eat, such as cranberry muffins, but nothing that I could die from if I ate it.

So it is the wee-est hours on the deserted set when I hear footsteps and decide to widen my area of inquiry.

I am there when Mr. Matt blunders in, searching for Miss Tatyana.

Any other investigative dude would suspect him of making an unlawful romantic rendezvous. I, however, know Mr. Matt is already uneasy enough about his unsanctified hanky-panky with his own fiancée and my dear sweet roommate, so I doubt he would be canoodling with a hot-tempered Russian fireball.

At that point, I am as innocent of suspecting lurking menace as he is and am merely curious about this after-hours rehearsal. Perhaps Miss Tatyana thinks she can draw out more of his secret Latin soul with late-night sessions. He was not Antonio Banderas material until he did that righteous paso doble the other night.

I myself, on the other hand, was born with dark, Latin good looks, masculine grace, and cojones (and I kept them despite now being politically correct for my species in the reproduction department).

As I was saying, I was born with the brunet swagger to stomp and slither about the stage intimidating the ladies into swooning at my feet. All four of them. Feet, I mean, not ladies. Though I am not averse to social quintets.

I expected to have some merriment watching Mr. Matt trying to go Latin lover again in the tango, and then Zorro shows up.

I see instantly that Mr. Matt is outmatched.

I see instantly that the only dude here who can fight Hispanic fire with Hispanic fire is a longtime alley shivmeister.

So while Mr. Matt does his best to sidestep the unexpected weapon, I am playing the cape in this lethal pasodoble for dudes.

This means I must hurl my much outweighed self into the fray.

Alas, the cameras are not rolling.

They would see my agile, unbooted toes doing a fierce flamenco with the unnamed dude in black’s high-heeled boots. Any stomp that I failed to elude would break all my shivs, not to mention my toes.

It is very close. Only my lithe full-body twists keep me from death by stomping.

The dark dude is as fast as his rapier work. I dodge both boots and sword-point, seeking two vital goals. One is keeping Mr. Zorro from spearing my roommate’s current beloved (okay, I cannot yet forget Mr. Max, who is a dude after my own parts). The other is attempting to mark the masked man’s hide with my four-on-the-floor: the wide track of my shivs that will identify him later if I can but manage to install a full house of claws to the epidermis.

I must say that Mr. Matt is surprising both the attacker and myself. He is faster on the draw—and the withdraw—than I expected. And what is any dance but drawing closer and retreating farther, much like human relationships.

In fact, I must admit that my own amatory adventures are a continual process of advance and retreat.

Perhaps this attack is a far, far better dancing lesson than Miss Tatyana could administer, if she had truly been hoping a late-night challenge would unleash Mr. Matt’s deepest emotions. Which at this point would be to live, now that he has finally attained the hand of my lovely roommate in marriage.

Recognizing what is at stake for me and mine, I hurl myself at our opponent without regard to life or limb. I am an unseen shadow tripping his every step, leaping to catch and capture his sword arm on every blow.

At times the flurry of steps catches me in the staccato enemy fire of his boot heels and I go rolling over the darkened dance floor, my torso caught in the crossfire and beaten and bruised.

I have not been in such a rumble since I was a young blade. So it is Zorro versus gato. Fox against cat. We are both sly and agile creatures, which is not exactly how I would describe Mr. Matt, splendid fellow that he is.

He needs his shadow ally and I rise to the occasion, literally leaping into the billows of Zorro’s cloak, rending as I fall, ripping it to shreds. But I am outweighed.

My ribs are bruised, and my breath heaves in and out like a bellows.

A random kick sends me spinning like a Frisbee to the edge of the dance floor. I heave myself upright, cheered to see that Mr. Matt has backed our adversary into the heavy velvet stage curtains and smartly rolled him up like a fried rice and bean enchilada.

Revived, I push myself to my feet and rush forward, slipping under the heavy curtains, risking the flamenco stamp of our contained enemy to leap high one last, desperate time. My shivs flare out, curved scimitars seeking purchase. Both my sword arms sink like pitons into the man’s rear face (except it is hardly his face, heh-heh) as I slide down the mountain of human flesh, leaving a grooved bloody trail of skid marks.

His screams of frustration are satisfying. This dude will be IDed by his ass for the next six weeks . . . if anyone can find out who he is and order a strip search.

Parting is such sweet sorrow, as one far more famed than I has noted.

The dude’s parting scream is muffled by the thick velvet curtains Mr. Matt is using for an impromptu winding sheet.

Dude! I would slap pads and palms with Mr. Matt if I did not have only ragged shivs to offer.

We did it!

Oh, wait. I will get no credit.

I am so bummed out. You did not notice my baaad, baad moves, my self-sacrificing footwork, my killer rock, rhythm, and rakes? I am to the dance floor born. I should win this thing.

What is new? My kind is always underestimated.

All I can do is race to the nearest elevator, eel into a car crowded with people too drunk to notice an unauthorized passenger, sneak onto the all-night celebrity-catering floor, operate a silent butler, silently, with my snagged nails, crawl back into the suite my roommate occupies, and cuddle up to her cell phone so she can get your call for help, Mr. Matt Devine.

Who should win this competition, paws down?”

The dude in black who is not carrying a grudge and a sword, only shivs and street soul.

Me and the ghost of Johnny Cash.

Okay, we fade to black. Together.

So.

Were it not for me, Mr. Matt would not be sitting here now an hour later in the vast living room we all share, having his slashed wrist and hand repaired by the hotel doctor.

This involves a process called “stitches” that Miss EK, Miss Mariah Molina, and I gather ’round to watch with equal curiosity. Only a child can rival a cat for a certain carnivorous attraction to blood and gore. Of course, we cats cannot coo, “Ooh, gross.”

Not that Miss Mariah Molina would care to be characterized as a “child,” but she still is one, as are various kits I know, like Gimpy.

Mr. Matt is pale under his spray tan, but then he always was. It comes with that yellow hair of his.

Mr. Rafi Nadir has ordered from room service a gleaming topaz liquid called Scotch despite Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina’s disapproving scowl. In fact, he has ordered an entire bottle of this Caledonian beverage on the tab of the LVMPD and is imbibing himself, as is Miss Temple.

“The cuts are not very deep and will heal well,” Dr. Cuthbert is saying to Mr. Matt. “With rest you can perform this evening, although I recommend against it. With the palm slash, you can expect tingling and loss of feeling for some weeks. Blood loss is never as flagrant as it looks, and you did an excellent job of keeping the artery compressed by elevating your cocked elbow. Smart. I understand you are committed to this dance contest. A pressure wrapping should be fine for now, and can be disguised by the show’s clever costumers. I suggest a Michael Jackson glove approach. I will stand by during the show to ensure we have no unseemly bloodshed.”

“From a preexisting wound,” Miss Lieutenant C. R. Molina adds sardonically.

This “sardonically” is a lovely word that means she is being sarcastic and is in no way convinced that this contest will not produce future bloodshed.

She is a woman after my own heart in this respect. It is obvious that some bloodthirsty souls have been drawn to this display of the terpsichorean arts. That is an ancient Greek term for their goddess of dance, and we all know how good the ancient Greeks were at war, gore, and dark tragic family secrets.

Luckily, cats were not the factor in that culture that they were in the Egyptian, or the body count would have been much higher.

I must admit I am feeling particularly bloody-minded at the moment and take the first opportunity to slink out of the suite (with the doctor) to consort and consult with the cat known as Topaz.

As a famous mascot she will have lots of first-whisker lickings when it comes to gossip about the celebrities to whom we are accessories both before and after the fact.

(Besides, I know who will be sleeping in my bed the rest of the night. Mr. Matt will recuperate under my roomie’s fond care in Miss Temple’s bedroom here.)

No room on the bed for Midnight Louie.

As soon as I enter the casino area, I am ambushed and spurred by a single scimitar claw to dodge under a twenty-one table.

Rich eyes of pure gold with the pupils a pair of dagger-thin slits interrogate me.

“I heard the security staff abuzz over the attack in the dance set area, Louie,” says the sublimely slinky Topaz. “Am I wrong to think that you know all about it? This is my hotel and I am not going to take some cheesy dance show making itself the subject of tabloid TV headlines. I want this out of the news pronto. What are we going to do about it?”

“We?” I ask, afraid for the first time this perilous morning.

Manx! The last thing I need is another female partner in Midnight Inc. Investigations. Still, I can hardly wait to do the noir tango around the Oasis with this toothsome bit of decidedly unfluffy feline.