Cat In An Alphabet Endgame

8

Ring Around the Ritz

I stand with Midnight Louise watching Mr. Matt drive off in his “new” old car, leaving us ride-less in mid-tail.

“I told you,” Miss Midnight Louise says, “we should have slipped into the Impala on the other side of the block while Mr. Matt was occupied into downsizing his look.”

“You mean while he was changing into scruffy, probably stinky clothes to match the driver of the junker car he found so fascinating. What a loser that guy is, ponytail and soul patch.”

“Whatever…”

For the moment, Louise sounds like little Miss Mariah in a teenage snit. “At least, Pops, the clothes would have made it easier to follow him if he left the Impala, which we cannot do now.”

“If you would have listened to me,” I tell her, “we would have slipped into the Jaguar right off, and not have had to race back and forth from that very unsatisfying breakfast rendezvous at the Magic Muffin.”

I am huffing quite a bit from proving to Miss Midnight Louise I can still keep up with a car for a four-block round trip.

She shakes her head. “Only you would stop for a Dumpster inspection on a tailing assignment.”

“There might have been evidence.”

“The only evidence you found on this expedition is the bacon crumbs on your whiskers.”

“It is of interest that Miss Electra has a popular breakfast joint near the Circle Ritz. Good for business.”

“Her business, not ours. What has been the point of this runaround while Mr. Matt changes looks and cars? We have lost him.”

“But we have gained information?”

“What?”

“Night before last, in the aftermath of Miss Electra’s penthouse invasion, Ma Barker told me that tall, dark-coated men from here—men, plural—and one yellow-haired one, were showing up recently on the bad side of town. I have seen Mr. Matt’s breakfast partner before.”

“You have me there, Popster. I have not. And what is Ma Barker doing visiting you at the Circle Ritz when you could bop over to her headquarters at the police substation?”

“Family business, Louise,” I say loftily. “Mother and son bonding. You would not know about that, since you are fixed.”

“Hmmph. So who is this tall, dark-haired man who is so busy he has to run off with the extra breakfast muffin in his pocket?”

“They are super-large. I wonder if there is a dumpling-shrimp version.”

“Daddy Greedy-gut!”

I choose not to take offense. “He is not a frequent player on the scene, but has been assigned back to Las Vegas only recently. Interesting. Mr. Frank Bucek, Mr. Matt’s mentor from years ago in the seminary and now an FBI agent. And Mr. Frank did not seem to share much information with Mr. Matt, or have time to waste.”

“Neither do we,” she says as I wander over to sniff where the junker car of interest to Mr. Matt had been parked.

Hmm. Traces of leaking motor oil with an attar of crushed cactus flowers. The car had been in the desert, but where was it going now?

Only Mr. Matt would know for sure, and he was not talking.

“What will we do next?” Miss Midnight Louie inquires in an exasperated tone.

“At my favorite listening post two nights ago—”

“Under the bed like a chamber pot, no doubt!” she spits. “That is low, Daddy-o. Also an invasion of privacy, so there were two home invasions at the Circle Ritz that night.”

I am not concerned about privacy when so many secrets are circulating among my nearest and dearest.

“I heard a familiar location discussed. That is what I will investigate next.”

I look at the ugly oil spot the junker has left on the asphalt, like a very big bug died under its wheel.

“I think Ma is right. A sinister conspiracy is spreading into our territory.”

“If it turns out as well as our tailing operation this morning, Pops, you had better pack a lunch!”