Cat On A Hyacinth Hunt

Chapter 34

Siamese Twins

I am most sorry to leave the backstage scene of the Opium Den and the presence of the lively Hyacinth, but I have a mission to accomplish.

So I make a lightning run back to the Circle Ritz. This is some trek to undertake in a hurry. If I am not careful, I will be in need of an undertaker, all right. So I try to hitch a few rides, but the Strip does not usually offer the sort of working vehicle that is best for clandestine hitchhiking.

The delivery vans and panel trucks usually take Highway 15 to avoid the crush and the hordes of tourists on foot crossing every intersection.

I must admit that I am spotted now and then, and my obvious sense of purpose is duly noted.

"Look, Craig. That cat looks like he knows where he is going. And what is he carrying in his mouth?"

"Probably a dead lizard. Or a long tongue. How can he know where he is going? Everyone knows that cats do not think. And I am not too sure about dogs, either."

Imagine crediting dogs with an evolutionary edge, however slight, over cats! Ridiculous.

Another sign of the jealous nature and weak-minded stance of those who disdain feline virtues.

Of course I do look rather silly with the object of my mission flapping from my mouth in the dry desert breeze, but I am singularly short of pockets in this skin-tight catsuit I wear (and the Mystifying Max thinks he invented black velvet Spandex for his act!).

I do not know if my Miss Temple (and I do consider her my Miss Temple even though she has developed a wandering eye of late) is still pursuing the floral angle on Hyacinth, but I think the feline angle in the angular person of Miss Hyacinth Curare-tips (and probably lips, for all I know) is a far more promising lead. At least it sniffs that way to me, but I may be a bit prejudiced. "Cherchez la femme" strikes me as stellar advice in all cases.

Do you know that I am also wondering if Miss Temple has perhaps had a bolt backed out in her brain since Mr. Cliff Effinger slapped her silly against a van side? Also, her conversion to contact lenses could account for her strange lack of vision in selecting her male companions lately. She should know from experience that I am always hot on the trail of evil-doing, and am also very cuddly and undemanding--except for my territory, which has been our bed, our bedroom and our suite of rooms all these past months, with visitors allowed at my discretion and with my approval.

I am not surprised when I get home that the bathroom window is ajar in welcome but the place is as bare as a stripper's bottom at the All-nite, All-nude Bar on Paradise and Flamingo, Las Vegas's least classy junction.

I sniff for unwanted scents and they are all over the place: Mr. Matt Devine, Mr. Max Kinsella, Lieutenant C. R. Molina ... the only one not present of late in my digs seems to be the late Mr. Elvis Presley. I even dig up the faintest sniff of hyacinth in bloom, which I recognize from sniffing the plant on Miss Shangri-La's dressing table, that Miss Hyacinth of Siam almost knocked to the floor in one of her frequent fits of peke. (That is another snot-nosed breed of dog I cannot stand, the Pekinese, and it is an Asian import to boot.)

Well, I drop my offering on Miss Temple's coffee table, which lately, according to my expert sniffer, has held only libations of a more bibulous nature. (I believe this bibulous liquid is something found in the Bible, as in admonitions to not get drunk. Liquor is a kick, but I only lap a little up at a time.)

I certainly hope Miss Temple's contact lenses can spot a clue as big as a brochure. But I have done all a little fellow like me can.

So I skedaddle and make my arduous way back downtown. Every instinct in my body tells me that the Opium Den is where all the action is in this case, and I do not think this solely because a sinuous lady with sapphire eyes and ruby-red claws awaits my return with bated breath.