Midnight Louie 14 - Cat in a Midnight Choir (23 page)

“Yvette is a good match to her mistress, I suppose, although I do not think Savannah Ashleigh is of the Persian persuasion. And your own lovely mistress, what breed is she?”

“Shangri-La?” Hyacinth sits to add lip gloss to her already gleaming and unnaturally painted nails. “I have never seen her without her mask of makeup. We are both members of masked breeds, perhaps that is why we understand each other. She is small and lithe, like myself, and I flatter myself that she is of a similar kind, an ancient race from the East, wise and inscrutable.”

“
Hmmm
,” say I, who loathe the word inscrutable. To me it is a synonym for “stuck-up.”

“
Ommmm
, Louie?” Hyacinth mistakenly quotes me. “Are you meditating? That is a very enlightened thing to do, perhaps more Indian than Asian.”

I am not about to remind her of the glorious Persian’s roots in Afghanistan, just above India. She does not seem capable of appreciating the many attributes of the Divine Yvette.

“
Ommm, hmmm
,” I reply diplomatically, managing to straddle both East and West. I am not convinced that Hyacinth even knows the origins of her deceptive mistress. I suppose I will have to leave solving that mystery up to Mr. Max.

I chafe, sorry to be no longer eavesdropping on the humans and the leopard upstairs.

Miss Hyacinth mistakes my unease for other urges.

“I am working,” she says shortly. “I do not have time for dalliances.”

Hallelujah!

“Now that we have met again, without prison bars between us,” I gabble like the lovesick swain.

“The bars between us were always of my doing, Louie. I am devoted to my role in life. My mistress has plans for us that are so much more ennobling than making fools of ourselves on stage or on sets. I realize that you have developed a hopeless passion for me, but you must realize that it is midlife crisis on your part. I am too far above you to encourage your pathetic attentions. I cannot allow myself to be distracted from my mission by personal concerns. You may kiss my hand before you go.”

Right. Like smack her in the kisser with my mitt. But she has handed me an advantage, however odious. So. I am an obsessed admirer, am I? Gives me an excuse to turn up where I need to. We obsessive types do not give up, do we? I get the impression this dame likes it that way. I let my eartips dip.

“I am desolate, chèr Hyacinth, but I understand, my dear llsa. I will remain here in Las Vegas, hunted and haunted, while you fly away to more elevated planes.”

She bats her demon blue eyes. (They look a lot like Lieutenant Molina’s peepers, come to think of it.) They wink like the three rows of faux blue topazes in her collar. (She wears a dog collar, of course, like any self-respecting subversive dominatrix rock diva.)

My eyes fasten on something below the collar…not her chest hairs! A gold charm dangles below the crystals and the shape is oddly familiar. Fortunately, or unfortunately, my avid interest is taken as personal rather than professional.

Hyacinth’s true-blue eyes cross with self-satisfaction. “Console yourself with that low-bred Persian, if you must, Louie. That would be for the best, rather than aspiring beyond your means. There is a certain tragic nobility in your dedication to such shop-worn goods.”

My shivs are itching to show Hyacinth some dedication she has never encountered before, but such is the role of the undercover operator. You must sometimes play Caspar Milquetoast. So I bat playfully at her neck instead, a clumsy gesture that she blocks with a right cross.

“I must truly leave?” I mew piteously.

“Alas, yes. And now!”

Yes, sir! She has shown me to an open window onto the dark, wide lawn leading back to the deceptive barrier of the cemetery.

I leap to the ledge. In like smoke, out like Flynn.

“Adieu, my lady fair.”

I pound down to the ground and hotfoot it across the sward before somebody unleashes the hounds of Hell that guard this weird outfit.

I sense Miss Hyacinth’s eyes upon my exit all the way to the exterior wall.

Good. More time bought for my partner-in-crime, Mr. Max Kinsella.

I just wish I knew where Miss Louise was.

Somewhere cushy, no doubt.

She can’t possibly have gotten into bigger trouble than I have.

Magicians at Work

Max found an upright curtained box to slip into like a man donning a cape.

Some people found upright, coffin-narrow boxes claustrophobic. To Max, they were home. Children were supposed to be seen but not heard.

He needed to be
un
seen,
and
unheard.

Gimme shelter. Put me on a stage, the invisible man incarnate.

Max eavesdropped, nostalgic, on the intermittent murmurs performance professionals make when they are rehearsing, as they consult one another.

The cage closer? You stand here? No, there. What about the cat? He’s fine where he is for now. And this turns when…? On a count of eight. And you are —? Here.

Max had worked solo, so his constant Q and A had been with a technical crew, not costars. Still, the ritual, the mind-numbing, boring repetitiveness of it, offered a stability and comfort he had found in nothing else. He wondered if that was what Matt Devine missed in saying the mass. He knew Matt Devine missed saying the mass. He had to.

You don’t give up a leading role in the theater, or the Church, without losing a primal connection to something bigger than yourself, something more than tradition, something intimate and sacred….

Max cut off his thoughts.

His role of magician had been only a cover. The real role was hidden beneath the illusion. He was here to play his real role: spy, protector, thief of other people’s secrets.

Booted footsteps finally announced the arrival of groundsmen ready to collect the leopard. They sounded like storm troopers among a ballet troupe.

Osiris snarled, grumpy. Max smiled unseen in his upright coffin. The leopard reveled in his role, in work. Max had sensed that when he had “liberated” him from the Animal Oasis. This particular caged beast was not exploited, but occupied that rare boundary between wild animal and animal that had learned to enjoy a degree of domestication. The only problem was that so few people were fit to interact properly with such an animal. Better that this truce between the species had never been negotiated.

Still, Max knew the Cloaked Conjuror, trapped as he was behind the mask of his own stage persona, himself caged, loved the leopard and would protect him as he would a human colleague.

Shangri-La he could not speak for.

She was quick, a talented illusionist, and a conundrum. Why would she bother playing second banana in a major Las Vegas act? How deeply involved was she in the drug transportation scheme that had been used to kidnap Temple? And Midnight Louie, although he was obviously an afterthought.

When Max heard the light retreat of footsteps now that the leopard was gone, he tensed, his hand on the curtain. Exit Shangri-La. Enter the Mystifying Max. It would be best to surprise and confuse the Cloaked Conjuror, to convince the magician that the magician-turned-spy’s illusions were superior.

Max waited, listened, timed himself.

When CC had turned away to deal with the equipment, Max slipped out of the box, climbed atop it and jumped to catch onto one of the huge wrought-iron chandeliers marching down the center of the ballroom.

He swung for a minute, silent as a pendulum, then used his remarkable upper body strength to pull himself up among the swaying branches.

In seconds he was arranged like a deus ex machina in a Greek drama, the god descending from the heavens at the play’s end, thanks to a creaking stage mechanism that playgoers chose to consider part of the Olympian miracle.

“Osiris is ready to work again,” Max commented casually.

CC spun away from his props, stared at the blank-eyed rows of windows, looked toward the stairs leading to the ballroom.

“Heavens, no,” Max said sardonically.

Of course CC looked up at that. Even his expressionless mask seemed to frown when he spotted Max.

“You! How —?
I’m
the debunker, not you! But you keep turning up where you’re not supposed to be.”

“I saved your rear, and your leopard, the last time I ‘turned up,’ didn’t I?”

Max swung to the floor, lithe as a chimpanzee, despite out-of-condition muscles that protested. The illusionist landed as lightly as thistledown, or Tinker Bell.

Clap if you believe in fair play.

“What are you doing here?” CC said.

“Curious.” Max dusted off his palms and prowled among the equipment. “Curious about your new partner, for instance. I had considered getting a female partner, before I…retired.”

“You? You always worked alone. It was your hallmark.”

“Times change. Why did you hire Shangri-La?”

“To spice up the act, I guess. She’s masked herself, in her way. You don’t think we make a good team?”

“You make a provocative onstage statement together.”

“Thanks. That’s why, I suppose. Just any other female magician wouldn’t have been worth recasting the act for. But she’s, ah, well, you’ve seen her. Highly feminine but not blatant about it, small enough to manage the usual acrobatic illusions, and she brings multi-cultural dimension to the act, not to mention that incredible performing Siamese of hers. It’s uncanny! You’d almost think that scrawny little devil could think. Rather sinister in its way —”

“Almost like a witch’s familiar? If you believed in witches.”

“Why do I think you just might?”

Max laughed. “I’m a fifteenth-century kind of guy? Seriously, I agree Shangri-La’s a great match for your act. Her and her cat. How’d you find her?”

“She found me. Pulled a surprise visit at the theater, like you did the first time. Came swinging down from the flies like Peter Pan in that Jackie Chan-in-Chinese-drag getup of hers.”

“So you’ve never seen her face, without makeup.”

“No, and I like it that way. She’s probably as ordinary as I am underneath the costume.”

“Just Clark Kent and Lois Lane?”

“Not even that interesting. Listen, there’s nothing…whatever between us. It’s a working partnership, like with the big cats.”

“And you like her little cat?”

“Hell, no. That thing gives me the creeps. Have you seen the painted claws on it? Reminds me more of a monkey than a cat sometimes. Besides, I’m partial to the big boys. Those are the real cats. These domestic versions are like toy dogs, a perversion of the original.”

“
Hmmm
.”

“You can’t say you’ve seen a street cat that could compare to Osiris or Mr. Lucky.”

“As a matter of fact, I have. But then I know a better breed of street cat than you.” Max smiled, stretched. Like a cat. “Speaking of Osiris, how is he doing now that he’s out of captivity again?”

“He’s one happy cat.”

“I see that. Quite an operation you have here.”

“And how the hell did you find it? I’ve spent millions keeping my residence secret.”

“And I’ve spent a lot of time learning how to find out what I need to know. How do you suppose I got Osiris back for you?”

“I paid you well.”

“True. But we both know that the story isn’t over. Osiris was taken to damage you. Your enemies are still out there.”

“Everybody successful has enemies.”

“Not enemies like these. Rogue magicians. You think I can surprise you? I
know
they can surprise you more.”

“And you?”

“They can surprise me, too.”

“Why do you think I’m the key to whatever will-o-the-wisp you’re chasing?”

“Because my prey are your enemies. They flutter around you like fireflies. Taking Osiris was just an opening shot. Besides —” Max grinned. “You’re about the only person in Las Vegas who can afford to fight them. And you’ll need to.”

“And I’ll need you to do it, I suppose.”

Max nodded. “If I found you here, don’t you suppose that they already have?”

The mask he wore hid the Cloaked Conjuror’s every expression, but his body language spoke for him. His massive form was still, mute. Max’s point had stabbed home.

Nowhere was safe.

In the distance outside, one of the big cats roared, a deep, ragged, sharp sound like nothing on earth.

“Do you hire out as a bodyguard?” CC asked at last.

“No. I’m just a guardian angel. I’m not allowed to be on anyone’s payroll, but I’d be interested in who’s on yours. Let me guess. I bet you just hired a new guy, a new bodyguard, am I right?”

Could a mask pale?

No.

But it could nod, very faintly, “Yes.”

“I’m feeling lucky.” Max paused to pick up a large painted globe. With a twist of the wrist, he separated it into halves filled with colored scarves. “Is the new bodyguard’s name Nadir? Rafi Nadir?”

“I’ll get rid of him,” vowed the Cloaked Conjuror’s growling mechanical voice, flat and lethal.

“A mistake. I’d rather know than not where that particular gentleman is.”

“I’d rather not be surrounded by treachery.”