Cat In A White Tie And Tails

Chapter 48

Bringing Down the House

As dramatic exits go, that was a pip.

Especially since there was no entrance to start with.

I have got to give Mr. Max Kinsella credit for a true magical presence. First you see him; then you do not. Some people could call him irresponsible. Some people could call me just a cat. You can never go by “some people.”

Meanwhile, I am more than somewhat pleased that I instructed the Cat Pack to assemble here at Neon Nightmare after the Oasis adventure, just in case Synth shepherding was needed. I released the tuxedo unit to go back to the police substation for a well-earned fast-food feast at the hands of Las Vegas’s finest.

So Mr. Max is the only formally dressed presence here. I hope he spotted my reduced posse and me, and appreciated our letting him hog the stage. Again.

Meanwhile I set an example for our next moves by sidling over to the almost empty bottle of Blue Curaçao and giving it a gentle swipe.

It crashes onto its side, leaving a macabre tail of blue blood leaking out of its lip.

Miss Czarina Catherina screeches and jumps even farther away from the bar, just as Inkadoo and Blacula jump up on each shoulder of Mr. Hal Herald. His Adam’s apple sets his bow tie jiving as he swallows hard and recalls how the Cat Pack shredded the Darth Vaders’ much heavier cloaks during the showdown in the Synth clubrooms.

With my Miss Temple armed, for the first time in her life, the Pack was there to see to it that no concealed carrying laws were visibly broken. Now we are here to see that certain shady characters scatter posthaste, so Miss Temple can leave safely under our escort.

Mr. Hal’s shuddering session has encouraged Inkadoo and Blacula to jump to barstools to watch the back of his departing heels. Miss Czarina is wailing and calling on Bast to help her, so I merely escort her out the length of the bar and meow a polite good night.

Ramona is a hard case. She is eyeing Miss Temple with an aim to exercise a bit of territorial imperative. I well recognize the signs in any species.

It is then that Miss Midnight Louise chirps from her spot near Miss Ramona’s barstool, stretches with her posterior and big plumy tail up in the air, opens her dainty jaws wide, and extends one elegant black-velvet foreleg to the side of Miss Ramona’s green satin gown and draws one claw down it from shoulder to décolletage.

Miss Ramona gets the message and scrams with an echo of very fast high heels.

My Miss Temple has watched all this with interest but without comment. She looks up into the empty peak of the almost empty nightclub.

I stalk over and rub around her ankles, in and out like the famous Hollywood hamburger joint handles customers, to say that I will wait outside.

A couple head-jerks from me, and the Pack leaves various stations on the bar, stepping carefully around the sticky trickle of Blue Curaçao. I must say Miss Midnight Louise sashays out at her own speed and druthers, pausing like a statue of Bast to look up as intently as Miss Temple.