Free Midnight Louie 14 - Cat in a Midnight Choir by Carole Nelson Douglas

the Las Vegas night, standing alone on Paradise, not certain about anything except that she had to catch an elusive killer.
    Too bad that arresting either of the two leading candidates for the honor would be disastrous for either her career or her personal life. Or both.

 

Asian Persuasion
     
    It turns out that I need an interpreter with the Big Boys. By allowing Miss Louise to check out their circumstances at the canned hunt club first, I have encouraged them to bond with her, not me.
    You would think that male solidarity would overcome a little exercise in charity like visiting the imprisoned, but no such luck. Mr. Lucky, the black panther, and Osiris, the leopard, now think that Miss Midnight Louie is the cat’s meow, and I am merely a tolerated hanger-on.
    At least I am allowed to eavesdrop.
    “So how plush a pad is this?” she asks.
    “Like the cemeteryscape up front,” Mr. Lucky says,“this is a fine and private place.”
    I do not think that he means to paraphrase a poet, especially a Cavalier poet, but he does. I refrain from pointing it out. This is not a poetry crowd.
    “You will get used to the funereal facade,” Osiris assures his new roommate. “It is a security dodge that protects all our hides, including that of our esteemed sponsor, the Cloaked Conjuror.”
    “An artful dodge,” I put in with admiration. “Hiding behind a cemetery is what you might call ironic, as his life is always in danger because his act reveals the ploys behind some of the most famous magical illusions of all time. That is why the Cloaked Conjuror must disguise his face and voice even on stage. Of course he makes enough moolah at it to challenge that casino known as The Mint for the title.”
    “I do not know about him,” Mr. Lucky replies with a hackle twitch. “That creepy leopard-spotted mask is insulting to the real thing, and his voice sounds like he is gargling rattlesnakes. I liked the Man in Black who stole us back from the ranch better.”
    “Mr. Max,” Mr. Lucky purrs in basso agreement. “I have heard of him often on the Big Cat circuit. It is a shame that he has retired from the magician trade nowadays. He was the best. We guys in black are pretty hard to beat.”
    “Hear, hear!” I put in, but am ignored, except by Miss Louise, who corrects me. “Gals in black, too.”
    “Speaking of gals in black,” I put in, hoping to be heeded for once,“I hear you two big guys are going to be working with a new female magician. How is that going?”
    “How does a pipsqueak like you know about our secret sessions?” Osiris growls.
    “I hear things others do not. It is my job. I am a private investigator.”
    “She does not wear black,” Osiris says,“this new lady. At least not all the time, although I commend the truly long fingernails she wears. As long as some human females’ high heels. Four inches, I would say.”
    “Awesome,” purrs Mr. Lucky, cleaning between his own four inch shivs.
    I try not to shudder, knowing that the evil Shangri-La and her light-fingered mandarin stage-shivs stole my Miss Temple’s ring as part of her so-called act three months ago. Besides, it is more important to know what Shangri-La is up to now.
    “So Miss Shangri-La is indeed joining the Cloaked Conjuror’s act?” I say idly.
    “And that kitten of hers.” Mr. Lucky lifts a paw the size of a catcher’s mitt and licks it cleaner than home plate.
    “You mean” — my breath catches in my lungs like a two-pound koi in the throat — “a piece of fluff about the size and weight of Miss Midnight Louise here, only pale of coat?”
    “She is a funny-looking feline,” Mr. Lucky says,“not a symphony in monotone like Miss Midnight Louise. Her eyes are an unnatural blue shade, her body is the pale liverish color of the pablum I am given when I am sick and off my feed —”
    “Baby food,” Osiris sneers. “They give you human baby food, buckets of it.”
    Mr. Lucky ignores the attempted ignominy, as I would do in