"Listen, whippersnapper," he snarls. "Get out of the way. I was baldly attacked by this back-alley scrapper, and no one keeps Three O'clock Louie from administering a well-deserved licking."
I whirl to confront Caviar. "You see? His name is Three 0'Clock Louie, not Midnight Louie.
This is the wrong dude."
"He could have changed his name," she spits, not a single hair going limp. I would like to know the name of her grooming products. "He might have heard I was looking for him. One thing was sure, he wasn't hanging out around the Crystal Phoenix any more."
"Crystal Phoenix?" Three O'Clock sounds confused. "What is that, a glass bird?"
"Sure, play innocent," Caviar says. "No doubt that is how you ensnared my poor deluded mother not a year ago. She may not be here to call you what you are, but I spit upon your whiskers! You are a faithless, irresponsible, dog-livered layabout I would be so ashamed to call my father that it Is better to wipe you off the face of the planet."
"Mother? Father?" Three O'Clock lets one dog-eared ear lift a little. "Am I hearing this right, young lady? You think I am the poor bloke who fathered you?"
"I expected you to deny it," she growls.
Three O'Clock shakes his massive head. I notice a scar running down his cheekbone. His muzzle is grizzled with years of knocking around an arbitrary world.
"I am not the dude you wish to denude."
"Your name is Louie!"
"True, and it always has been."
"But not . . . Midnight?"
He shakes his head again. "Nope. Midnight has never been my best hour. Besides, Miss, I could not be your much-hated sire. A year ago I was not even in Nevada."
"Prove it."
He sits down on his haunches. "That would be difficult. I would have to extract testimony from Mr. Spuds Lonnigan, the owner of Three O'Clock Louie's, and humans are decidedly dense when it comes to answering feline-cross-examinations."
"Then you are history, mister."
"What made you think I am your father?" he asks.
"I was named Midnight Louise when I was born, and my mother said I was the spitting image of my father. I figure him to be Midnight Louie, and such a personage is notorious around Las Vegas for begging a free meal, chasing every fluffball that came along and consorting with humans."
"Hmm." Three O'Clock relaxes enough to lift a paw and give it a considering lick. "Not a bad life. But who is this interloper who has dared to come between us?"
Caviar lets the gold of her glance flick over me. "Some has-been no-account house kitty.
Harmless if a bit meddlesome."
I am so speechless I cannot even muster a decent spit. Here I leap where wildcats fear to go, between two battle-mad combatants, and neither thinks much of my intervention, or myself!
"Listen--" Sister, I am about to say, but that is not quite correct under the circumstances.
"Listen, you little lynx. If you had half the brains of your old man you would not be here accosting the wrong dude. You would have figured out already that I am Midnight Louie!
Midnight Louise indeed. Your mama was sadly mistaken. You have not got the class for such a name."
"You!" She looks me up and down and back and forth as if she had never seen me before.
"You are just some overweight, would-be gumshoe with pretensions of grandeur. My father is a heavy dude. My father is the terror of the back alleys. My father is a rat, but he saved the Crystal Phoenix! and Johnny Diamond's life--"
"And fingered the ABA killer, and saved Baker and Taylor--the corporate kitties--even though they do have crumpled ears and awful accents, and nailed the stripper competition killer. There is a lot that has happened since your mama and I have parted ways."
"Parted ways! You deserted her, and all us kits."
"She wanted it that way. Said she did not like the hours I kept, or the danger of my job. Said she and the kits would be safer on their own. Would she have named you after me if she hated the sight of me?"
"She ... did not know what was best for her."
"Apparently you do. Listen, kit. My old man ran out on us kits, too. That is just the way it is.
It is better for everybody. I am not looking for him. I hold no rancor. In fact, I know where he is, and should I choose to be snarly about it, I could hunt him down and hand him a few swipes myself. After all, he is leading the sweet life on a Pacific Northwest salmon trawler, living on the high seas, sucking all the tuna and salmon and shrimp he could want, without a thought for me and my siblings, or you and yours. But do I blame the guy? No. We must all do what we must do."
All of a sudden I feel a tremendous swipe on my shoulder. I turn around, my temper ripe for a fight. I am saving this dude's neck, torso and toes, and he has to attack me from behind?
"What is your problem?" I ask.
Three O'clock tilts his big, battered head and gives me the green eye. "Just saying hello.
Son."
Chapter 32
Confidence Man
Matt sat staring at his phone. He had to consider the case of Father Hernandez closed, but another matter was not. He knew he was avoiding a last, unpleasant call in a life that was now half-lived on the telephone.
The number looked so innocuous, written in his compulsively legible grade-school hand on a mini legal pad. Blue ball point on pale yellow. Yellow pretty much described his mood of the moment.
He picked up the receiver, punched in the numbers. A soothing computerized female voice instructed him to punch more buttons to route his call. Matt usually used the phone to deal with raw human anguish. To him, voice mail was obscenely remote and cheerful, especially considering that many callers of this particular number would be far more anxious than he was at the moment, to say the least.
When he finally got a human voice, he asked for Lieutenant Molina. He was not relieved to be promptly transferred.
He gave her his name, which earned an infinitesimal pause.
''What can I do for you?" she asked.
''I need an appointment. There's something you should know."
''There is lots I should know, Mr. Devine. What about right now?"
"Fine." Now he felt relief; it would soon be over. "Are you ... is the police department located downtown?"
"Right. But you're calling from the Circle Ritz?"
"Yes."
"I'll come there. Fifteen minutes."
"I'll meet you by the back door."
"Why the back?"
"To avoid the late afternoon crush at the wedding chapel up front."
"That's right, Electra Lark's cottage industry, 'The Lovers' Knot.' I forgot. Back door, fifteen minutes."
She hung up, leaving Matt smiling ruefully at her brusque efficiency. She wasn't going to make this easy, but then, he supposed, that wasn't her job.
Matt went down by the pool to wait. That was one reason he loved the Circle Ritz, this peaceful pool area hedged by greenery. Maybe it reminded him of a monastery.
In a few minutes, he heard Molina's car idle up to the parking area outside the fence and went to open the gate.
She was wearing her usual casually formal outfit, solid-color A-line skirt and blazer, buff today, with a cream camp shirt. Matt wondered if she realized her mode of dress resembled a Catholic girls' high school uniform, except for the pale colors needed in hot climates.
Molina's emphatic eyebrows lifted as she viewed the scenery. "Shangri-La on the Strip."
"Let's sit here." Matt headed for the white plastic chairs planted on the shaded concrete.
Molina didn't budge. "I'd rather talk inside. What's wrong with your place?"
"This is just as private." Her eyebrows lilted again.
"And--" Matt produced the smile he used when he wanted to be disarmingly honest ''--in my former . . . profession, my room was the only private place I had. I guess I still feel that way."
"Too bad." She reluctantly moved to one of the molded chairs. "I prefer to see people's surroundings."