Despite myself, I am in a reflective mood, so I hop up to inspect the keyboard. It is the usual expanse of letters and numbers interspersed by arcane keys bearing such titles as "Pig Up" "Pig Down" and "Esc," which must be short for escalator and "Alt," which must be short for Altitude, because there are a bunch of F keys with numbers next to them, like F7 et cetera, and I believe those are designations of fighter planes or some such.
Many are the mysteries of the computer, but I do not sweat the small stuff. I know my ABCs and I know where the turn-on buttons are.
In this case the critter is only dozing on low power, so I give the big round mouse ball a bat or two, and the screen--a tasteful arrangement of flying toasters that I am tempted to have some fun with--is replaced by an image I well recognize: lines of words.
This is my mode, although I do not use the excessive number of exclamation points I see before me. Miss Kit Carlson's newest novel must be stalled in the middle of either an action scene or a sex scene. Only sex and violence merit this plethora of exclamations, in my experience, vicarious as it may be when it comes to human variations of such basic instincts.
So I paw the keys until the smeary or smoochy stuff is off the screen and I have a fresh expanse of gray.
It is hard to get up to writing speed on a foreign keyboard, but I soon get the hang of it and my agile pads are pounding out whatever crosses my mind, which is a letter to my ingrate offspring, Midnight Louise.
"Dear Daughter," I begin.
Well, it is a literaryative, but I am not sure I want to give the chit a legal claim on my worldly goods, especially now that I am on the brink of a media career breakthrough. Midnight Louise is likely to take a mile when she is offered an inch.
"Dear Miss Midnight Louise,"
No. Sounds submissive.
"Dear Distant Relative,"
Too cool for Christmas.
"Dear Girlie,"
That will get me four sharp ones across the nose.
"To whom it may concern,"
There, a nice lawyerly approach, no admissions, no obligations.
"I am here in the nation's most impressive metropolis for the holidays, and thought I should kill occupy some time by sending a post card without a picture. You know what I look like and you can always look up New York City in the library if you want pictures.
"Now that 'tis the season for reconciliation and all that mush, it has occurred to me that perhaps we do not understand each other. You do not seem fully impressed by my new (involuntary, it is true) state of reproductive restraint, and still seem to blame me for your presence on this planet.
"Frankly, I agree that the planet might be better off without you, but times change and even a surly, accusatory offspring who has snared her own (possibly) daddy's old job has a role in the overall plan, no doubt.
"I know that you are bitter because you believe that I deserted you and the other litter lice, not to mention your mama, at a bad time. What makes you think that I even knew you were a mote on the Mo-jave desert's vast sandbox under the sky?
"Your mama could have kept the advent of you and your siblings hush-hush, you know, for reasons of her own, such as not wanting to tie down such a magnificent specimen of feline free spirit as myself. Perhaps she saw that I was destined for greater things than wiping snotty little noses with these talented mitts.
"Whatever the reason, I have now had sufficient time to figure out who your mama was, and I think it is her you should ask a few key questions of. Like is she sure just who your daddy is? Not that I cast any aspersions her way (though I believe that there was a touch of Persian in her ancestry; I always was partial to a female who does not shave her legs). But you know that life on the streets does not encourage the exchange of visitors' cards in these matters. You may have been barking up the wrong dude all this time. Also, why do you not track down your dear old mama and ask her how it is that she seems to have vanished from your life? Perhaps you put too much stake in mere blood kin. In my experience as a master crime-solver, I have seen that the family that stays together, slays together. There is something to be said for an early and independent lifestyle, such as you and I have had.
"Frankly, I agree that the planet might be better off without you, but times change and even a surly, accusatory offspring who has snared her own (possibly) daddy's old job has a role in the overall plan, no doubt.
"I know that you are bitter because you believe that I deserted you and the other litter lice, not to mention your mama, at a bad time. What makes you think that I even knew you were a mote on the Mojave desert's vast sandbox under the sky?
"Your mama could have kept the advent of you and your siblings hush-hush, you know, for reasons of her own, such as not wanting to tie down such a magnificent specimen of feline free spirit as myself. Perhaps she saw that I was destined for greater things than wiping snotty little noses with these talented mitts.
"Whatever the reason, I have now had sufficient time to figure out who your mama was, and I think it is her you should ask a few key questions of. Like is she sure just who your daddy is? Not that I cast any aspersions her way (though I believe that there was a touch of Persian in her ancestry; I always was partial to a female who does not shave her legs). But you know that life on the streets does not encourage the exchange of visitors' cards in these matters. You may have been barking up the wrong dude all this time. Also, why do you not track down your dear old mama and ask her how it is that she seems to have vanished from your life? Perhaps you put too much stake in mere blood kin. In my experience as a master crime-solver, I have seen that the family that stays together, slays together. There is something to be said for an early and independent lifestyle, such as you and I have had
"I mention these things only because I have nothing better to do at the moment, and I wish you would get off my case. I am a normal dude. I just went my way and did my thing, and I think you owe me a little more respect, especially now that I am no longer in a position to produce disgruntled offspring like yourself. The buck stops here. You do not see me carping about my missing parents.
"So, in the spirit of the season, I wish you no in-grown claws or whiskers in the coming year, and a little mercy toward your fellow creatures, especially us poor reviled guys, who may be better than you think.
"Sincerely, your maybe-relative,
Midnight Louie, Esq.
Then I save the whole thing under the file name of "spitfire."
Chapter 12
Unwelcome Matt
Visitors to Las Vegas would find it hard to believe, but some of the city's zillion casinos weren't rip-roaring success stories.
The Gilded Lily was one of these lower nightlife -forms. The minute Matt entered he heard the telltale sluggish ring of too few coins hitting slots. True, it was only Thursday night. Luckily, his regular night off coincided with the first day that fit Kitty O'Connor's time line.
The dark interior struck him as under lit to save on electric bills, not as intriguingly dim on purpose. The low lighting also disguised a worn carpet, he discovered, tripping on a tear in the busy pattern underfoot. Curious and curiouser.