Cat in an Alphabet Soup

11

Catastrophe . . .

Temple awoke to find the black cat sleeping on her feet. This gesture of affection was wasted in the hot afterglow of a long, tossing Las Vegas summer night.

Midnight Louie, however welcome back, was hot, hairy and heavy, about eighteen pounds. Come to think of it, Temple had only to add a zero to Louie’s avoirdupois and she’d have a pretty good description of the nocturnal presence of the Mystifying Max.

“Bastard!” Temple growled at the morning and Louie, following this undeleted expletive with an unexplained shiver.

“Guess what I’m going to do at work today,” she told the cat, extracting her feet from its warm underbelly. “I’m going to find out more about Pennyroyal Press and the late Chester Royal—just for the heck of it.”

The cat apparently approved of her resolve. He ate his seven-ounce can of spring-water-packed albacore tuna, from a fishery that abided by the new Geneva conventions for the preservation of dolphins. Then he freshened his whiskers and was waiting, sleek and expectant, by the door when Temple charged out of her bedroom dressed and ready for battle.

“Why not?” she asked nobody rather pugnaciously. “The convention center has thousands more square feet than the Crystal Phoenix, even if none of it’s that upscale. You can rule the roost—and the rats to boot. Come on.”

She was not surprised when the cat trotted out after her like a dog. Midnight Louie was obviously a feline of great enterprise and intelligence. First she stopped at Electra’s penthouse apartment one floor up to collect the surprise package that had been a-borning all night.

Electra, an insomniac who welcomed nocturnal projects, was baggy-eyed but not too worn to fail to admire Midnight Louie rubbing demandingly at her ankles. Apparently she had no objections to his presence. Readily abandoning his new fan, the cat followed Temple to the car.

After Temple had stuffed Electra’s huge paper sack in the Geo’s rear area, Louie hopped into the front passenger seat and braced his huge front paws on the dashboard like a pro. The Storm whipped through Vegas’s sparse morning traffic. Folks who’d been up until two and three in the morning weren’t out puttering around at 7:30 a.m.

When Temple and Louie slipped into the nondescript rear employee entrance to the mammoth convention center, Lloyd pushed his cap back on his balding cranium and narrowed his eyes to miniblind slits.

“Look, Lloyd. Midnight Louie’s a VIP around here now. Famous detective cat. You read it in the paper. He can come and go as he likes.”

“That official?”

“It will be as soon as I talk to Bud.”

“Humph.”

“Humph is right! If the Crystal Phoenix can have a house cat, we can have one, too. He might become a valuable convention center mascot, like Baker and Taylor. Any news of the missing duo?”

Lloyd shook his head as he inspected the contents of the huge paper bag Temple carried. His eyebrows lifted almost to the brim of his ebbing cap.

“I swear that there are no hidden explosives, Lloyd. Terrorists wouldn’t pick Vegas to make a statement and there aren’t any incendiary books out this year, except maybe the new Pee Wee Scouts kiddie title. The one a couple seasons back that told kids there was no Santa Claus raised more of a ruckus than Salman Rushdie.”

When Lloyd finally nodded her in, Temple, bag and cat obliged him.

The office was still empty, but Temple made a quick call to Cyrus Bent, the security head, and told him her needs. Within twenty minutes she was meeting him at the Baker & Taylor booths. Within five they had managed a semiofficial break-in to the cat castle. Within eight they were out of there with an empty paper bag, mission accomplished.

“I hope those people appreciate your efforts,” was Cyrus Bent’s parting sentiment. Most men in private security were like stateside leftovers celebrated in song during World War II: either too young or too old. Bent was on the old side of that statistic, which meant that he knew that good security included being secure enough to bend a rule.

“Hope so,” said Temple, saluting him as she raced down the long exhibition floor toward the offices.

Once there she showed Louie his food bowls in the storage room—a source of much interest—and a new permanent site for the previously floating workplace litter box—a source of great disdain. She left the storeroom door open as a sign of Louie’s new status.

When Valerie came in, Temple’s word processor was chuckling with rapid-fire releases. Her messages would have to wait a little longer. By the time Bud Dubbs arrived at 9 a.m., Louie had selected Crawford Buchanan’s desk as the most congenial resting spot. Buchanan scowled in at 10:30; by then Louie’s presence was fait accompli and Buchanan was in serious danger of being supplanted as the office layabout.

“Get that monster off my desk!”

“Why?” Temple asked. “Every time he switches his tail he clears off two months of outdated clutter.”

“I hate cats!”

“You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It takes a certain discrimination to appreciate a cat like Midnight Louie. Gosh, that’s a great name—I’d wish I’d known it before the Review-Journal article ran.”

“A disgusting name, surpassed only by its possessor,” Buchanan snarled. He was in a vile mood.

Just then Emily Adcock from Baker & Taylor came charging in with an exultant look.

“You found the cats!” Valerie guessed.

“Not quite. It’s either the most astounding thing... or—” Emily Adcock focused on Temple, who had not said a word or moved a muscle—“you did it! What a wonderful idea!”

“I didn’t do it personally,” Temple said.

“It certainly takes us off the hook and makes the setup look intentional.”

“What is this wonder?” Bud Dubbs asked on his way from the coffee maker.

“You’ll all have to stop down and see it,” Emily went on. “When I came in this morning, there in the pathetic, abandoned cat display were the dearest stuffed versions of Baker and Taylor you ever saw!”

“My landlady does soft sculptures,” Temple explained. “She stayed up all night to do them.”

“But it was your idea,” Emily Adcock repeated.

“I figured that a faux Baker and Taylor were better than no Baker and Taylor.”

“A brilliant idea.” Emily smiled broadly. “I feel so much better with something on display. Now all we can do is hope the real B and T show up.”

She left looking vastly relieved.

In her wake, Buchanan fidgeted under all the good vibes flowing in Temple’s direction. He scowled at Midnight Louie, who was now grooming himself on the floor. “Could have killed two birds with one stone if you’d put this black brute into the crystal cage instead.”

They regarded him as if he had proposed barbecuing Baker and Taylor. Temple answered. “Louie doesn’t look anything at all like a Scottish fold cat. His ears are all wrong.”

“Fix ’em,” Buchanan said. “I’ve got a nail clipper with me.”

“Boo, hiss,” Valerie put in.

“I wouldn’t mess with that old boy,” Bud advised. “He looks big enough and mean enough to clip your ears before you’d lay a fingernail on him.”

Louie yawned and shut his eyes.

Temple saw a verbal opening and darted in. “Say, Bud, that story was so cute. Why not keep Louie on as a mascot through the ABA? It might focus attention off the absent cats. Okay if he hangs around?”

“As long as he doesn’t make any messes.”

Buchanan headed for the men’s room. “Great. This place’ll smell like a tuna factory in two days.”

“It does already,” Valerie said. “You guys always order tuna salad from the Pita Palace. It’s pretty ripe by the time it gets here.”

Temple finally began flipping through messages from late Saturday. One was actually in an envelope. She tore it open. The last time she’d seen her letter opener was when she’d used it to cut a loaf of zucchini bread Bud’s wife had sent in. Besides, her nails were long, strong and lacquered Aruba Red. They could open nonscrew-top beer bottles and type at 105 words a minute.

The envelope was standard business issue, midget-size. An ink smudge decorated the comer where a stamp would be had it been mailed. Temple felt uneasy as she withdrew the note-size sheet of paper.

Typed letters uneven in pressure and alignment skipped across the page.

IF YOU WANT THEM CATS BACK, PUT $5,000 IN A BROWN BAG AND LEAVE IT AT 10 A.M. MONDAY BY THE THIRD GODDESS ON THE LEFT IN FRONT OF CAESARS PALACE. OTHERWISE, THEY IS STEW MEAT.