Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Chapter 40

Brassy and Breezy

So you think I would get an invite to accompany my Miss Temple to the local rag offices to interview the reporter known as Miss Louise Dietz? No such courtesy. And here I had acted as obnoxiously alert about the article as, say, your average hyperactive Chihuahua.

Yes, the words “Miss Louise” do provoke a visceral reaction in me. Unfortunately, I cannot stop my insensitive human associates from thinking it is “cute” to name another black stray cat they have come across after me, in the distaff version of the moniker of “Louie” revered in song and story.

How many famous Louies are there? Let me count the cherished examples.

There is the title song in my honor, “Louie Louie.” It has 1,500 recorded versions, numero uno. Take that, Beatles. You are so “Yesterday.”

Of course, every bartender in the world is named “Louie,” only he doesn’t know it. Louie rules.

As for “Louise,” there is only that one oldie song how “every little breeze seems to whisper Louise.”

Right now I could use that breeze for a short-wave communication.

Who do you think uses my proven methods of breaking and entering through Miss Temple’s patio French door, but the previously contemplated Miss Midnight Louise.

She seems seriously out of breath.

“So what have you gotten your exercise doing?” I inquire.

“Now that you are all alone and lounging around maybe you will listen to a report of import from me. I have activated the Cat Pack, and have heard from a night crew I put on duty. I borrowed a couple of Ma Barker’s best to shadow the suspicious parties at the Neon Nightmare club. There are only three in residence now that Cosimo Sparks was killed in the underground Chunnel of Crime between Gangsters and the Crystal Phoenix Hotel. Did you know, Daddy-O, that the world-class magician David Copperfield had sought to establish a franchise of underground restaurants?”

“No! So the Fontana brothers’ concept was not the first. What is with all these humans yearning to go underground before their time?”

She sits to twist and groom the tip of her long, fluffy train with long, lavish licks of her tongue, just to aggravate me. True, she could be one of those intellectual longhairs … or of rock band ilk. Maybe aristocratic blue-blood runs in her veins, but it is sure not from my side of any family tree, which scotches claims she might put forth for a personal relationship.

She desists bathing to lift her head and answer. “Perhaps it is a death wish,” she muses, “but I think it is the human quest for quiet and privacy.”

“Especially if they have something to conceal, like the mob would. Ma Barker hear of any mobs in Vegas besides hers?”

She shrugs as if having an itch right between her shoulder blades, that section so infuriating to reach.

“The mob always has a game or two going. The glamour and glory days celebrated by the Chunnel of Crime are over. Now it is hijacked meat trucks and gambling and girls.”

I make a face. “I would rather go after the Synth.”

“Well, I did, and I can tell you that led to a surprising conclusion.”

“What do you mean?”

“You assigned me to keep an eye on them and I had a crew of three to follow the three surviving Neon Nightmare operators. We split like a banana’s foster dessert to track those two women and a guy when they slipped out of a side door in the Pyramid of Pretense.”

“And—?”

“Me and Pitch solo, Three O’Clock and Blacula put the shadow on the trio.”

“Three O’Clock? He could not tail his own shadow!”

“I did not need all wet-ears on this job. He did fine.”

“So. What was the result?”

“We split up, we crawled on our bellies like snakes to trail these secretive humans all over Vegas, and we were there when each of the three landed for what remained of the night. You are right, O Ancient Sage. There is some master plan these Synth people are putting into motion.”

“And you know this because…?”

“They all,” she says sourly, “and we all ended up at the same destination.”

I control myself and do not anticipate her answer. Las Vegas has just too many sites that are ripe for crime and chaos.

“And—?”

“It appears they are going to knock off the Oasis Hotel.”

I play flabbergasted. Not only is the Oasis an old established venue, far from the nouveau flash of the Aria and Palazzo, but few see it as a prize target, although a heist at any Vegas hotel-casino will be rich takings … for the scant half hour the crooks have to enjoy lifting the loot before the combined fist of the casino security and police surveillance comes down on them as hard as the Cloaked Conjuror’s gauntlet.

I can believe the mob having such designs, but …

“This is crazy,” I tell Louise. “Why does a cheesy group of magicians think they can keep the heist cash? One of their own is dead, struck down in his white tie and tails in an empty underground safe, and their mysterious masked backers are about to cut the connection with bullets. Obviously, I must hie myself back to the Oasis and investigate for myself.”

“I will show you the site of the recent attack on Mr. Max aboard the ship.”

“I have already done my derring-do on that location, Louise, for an earlier case. You must keep an eye on the Goliath, because I would not put it beyond the Synth to try to make Mr. Max the fall guy on any schemes they have going.”

Of course, I do not mention that the house mascot at the Oasis is the lovely and lithe Topaz, she of the black velvet gloves and golden eyes. She has already clued me in that the mob is a clear and present danger, not a bunch of rogue magicians. Some might point out that Midnight Louise herself benefits from that sublime coloring, but since she claims to be kin, she is off my wish list for good.

Her loss.