Cat In An Indigo Mood

Chapter 55

Nosing Into Crime

Well, I am not about to desert Nose E. just when he gets to star in the solution of the crime.

So when Mr. Malt Devine picks up the little whimperer and prepares to go out, I goad Louise to join me in standing by the door, where we caterwaul like the Second Coming is imminent and Mr. Matt needs to open the door to the Heavenly Host.

"What is with you cats?" he demands, cradling Nose E. against his chest.

Perhaps we do not like to see dogs getting all the free rides.

"This is serious," he adds.

We both produce long, lugubrious faces, as if to demonstrate our essential sobriety.

"Oh, all right. If you are so attached to the little dog--"

Yeah, we are attached, by gum. By a claw!

First we are loaded into Miss Electra's pink Probe.

It seems that Mr. Matt has arranged for formal transportation now that he is toting a lap dog around. What a disgusting breed!

I refer to lap dogs, rather than Mr. Matt's species, but perhaps they are interchangeable.

We make a pit stop at the Reprise record store, where Mr. Matt endeavors to introduce himself, restore Nose E. to his proper owner, and in the same breath beseech Nose E.'s services on his next stop.

Earl E., an elderly, stooped individual with laser-sharp eyes and the instincts of a Doberman when it comes to dogs. cats, and homo sapiens, eyes Mr. Matt up and down.

Nose E. wags his bedraggled tail to show that he is game.

Louise and I, we narrow our emerald and amber beads to mere slits, and will Mr. Earl E. Byrd to do our will.

He shrugs. "I have never seen such a committee before. But I want Nose E. home before midnight. He needs a bath and a pedicure after his adventure."

"Fine." says Mr. Matt, much relieved. "Nose E. is the only one who can dismiss a suspicion that I hope is not genuine."

"Nose E. knows his business, and does it," Earl E. says. "I try not to interfere."

With that we are gone in the borrowed car, heading out of Las Vegas into the Great Black Nowhere of Night.

I love traveling through the empty desert like this! Although I enjoy the bright lights and many amenities of the Strip, there is something to be said for venturing into the Great Unknown. Even Louise, city-bred brat that she is, arches her neck and sniffs the desert air. Nose E. pants out the half-open window, his ridiculousty long ears blowing back in the wind.

"I-am-getting-there, I-am-getting-there," he is singing in Dog.

They always were an operatic breed--all that baying at the moon, as if the moon would care.

"There" is more civilization: crowded home sites and corner churches.

Our corner church looks like a 7-Eleven with altitude to match its attitude.

Mr. Matt pulls into the parking lot, shuts off the car, and sighs.

I wish he would speak Cat, or even Dog. But he says nothing, merely picks up Nose E. and leaves the car, barely leaving us cats room to exit with dignity.

I can see that he is pondering issues of great moment.

Inside is a naked room: bare tile, bare walls, blinds. Nothing soft for the savaged soul.

I smell that noxious brew. coffee. I smell that other noxious brew, guilt. Nose E. is not the only evil-sniffer among us.

"What is with the menagerie?" a man asks, laughing.

"Pet-sitting," Mr. Matt answers. "I guess we formerly employed have to do what we have to do."

The gathered men nod. They are all displaced persons, I gather, all formerly of Mr. Matt's stripe.

I gather that not all the likely suspects have arrived, so l shepherd Miss Midnight Louise to an inconspicuous spot just outside the circle of empty chairs.

"I do not wish a seat on the sidelines. I wish to be in for the kill."

"Face it. Our job here is as mere witnesses. It is up to Nose E. to finger the perp."

"Do you think he will find the scent we have traced from Wilfrid's house?"

"Only if the person who carried it there, at the scene of the crime, is here. Nose E. cannot conjure the criminal; he can only snifff one out."

Midnight Louise sniffs in disgust. "Then we are just window-dressing. I call that small reward for wearing our footpads to nubs all over Las Vegas. And then the dog gets all the credit."

"Sometimes it is enough just to see justice done."

"Not for me. We female felines have hung back and let someone else hog the glory tor far too long."

"Am I hogging glory'? I ask you, am I'? Face it. We do not have the sniffers for this particular job."

"I detected the scent that Nose E. follows."

"But could you swear to the source?"

"Maybe."

While we have been having a quiet exchange of hisses under the chair legs, Mr. Matt and his performing wonder dog have been gathering the usual ooos and chin-chucks. The only thing worse than a cute little dog for hogging the attention is a human baby.

"What is his name?" one guy asks.

I can see Mr. Matt hesitate. He does not like to lie, but saying Nose E.'s name is like giving away his game. Chauncey." he comes up with.

I wince. A wimpy name tor a wimpy dog. Nose E. takes it like a canine, without a whimper.

They are so disgustingly eager to please; you could name them "Doormat" and they would come running, when will dogs realize that they will not get respect until they demand it'? Obviously, this species takes way too much abuse; they could use a bodyguard. In fact, maybe I sniff a new business venture in this somewhere: Midnight Louie's Canine Advocacy Service: Our Claws at Your Command. Our Claws in Your Cause. Our Claws . . .

Oops. Another guy has entered the room.

I can see why Mr. Matt's suspicions have moved in this direction. I note a lot of snowy thatches on the heads present that still have hair. The poor sinned-against human male! How demeaning. To lose one's hair right at the apex of your physical profile.

I mean, who would mind a few patches off, say, where nobody can see, like one's inner thighs? But right on top of Old Smoky'? Cruel, the ways of human aging. That alone would be enough to turn a male rogue, one would think. Luckily, my breed just goes gray around the muzzle and ears. Very distinguished.

I, of course, have yet to spot the first white hair--unless it has been left upon me by some feline of the female persuasion--so I can afford to sympathize. It is no fur off my chin! Perhaps that is why men with shrinking scalps cultivate chin and cheek hairs.

What melted like the snows of yesteryear up top can still flourish on the lower slopes.

Oh, well. It is their problem, thank Bast. Not mine.

While I am ruminating on these Serious Male issues, Miss Midnight Louise is pacing back and forth behind me like a penned panther.

"This is ridiculous. Get to it! I am waiting for Nose E. to sink a fang into the villainous creature who is willing to kill two species."

"Then you are waiting for naught, Girl. Nose E. does not do anything obvious that would give the game away. His signals are subtle, sort of like those in baseball."

"Baseball!"

Apparently I have touched another nerve, but then, that is what I am best at in relating to Midnight Louise.

She hisses quietly. "I do not understand this fetish for worshiping a sport in which human males spend so much time thinking about moving a ball around."

"Uh, it has a certain gender symbolism, it you will."

"I will not! It is stupid. And so is this exercise in waiting for Nose E. to do something."

At this moment, the door opens, and another dude ankles in.

As I had tried to tell Miss Louise about Nose E. (whom I have seen in action ere this), his job demands the subtle cue, not the noisy, media-friendly takedown one sees so often on Cops. Bad boys, what you gonna do when they come for you? Especially if they are nose-hounds.

He begins struggling in Mr. Matt's arms. Mr. Matt obediently sets him on the floor on his four fluffy little pins. Nose E. trots around the circle of gathered men. The chairs are full now.

Nose E. sniffs and accepts pats. He is rather like a royal personage off to press the flesh, or oh to have his flesh and fur pressed, rather.

At one man's feet he sniffs for a long moment. Then he sits, cocks his head, and raises his right front foot.

In Nose E.'s world, this is the equivalent of the Judas kiss, or maybe I mean sniff-off.

I stare at Mr. Matt, whose face has gone still and cautious and very, very sad.