"Despite the unrelentingly posh surroundings we enjoy, the only place these privileged tootsies of mine are allowed to land are atop the high-gloss mahogany conference table at the high-powered advertising firm of Colby, Janos and Renaldi, CJR to the cognoscenti.
"Even in this haven of affluence befitting a media spokescat, murder will out.
"Yes, your old man --I mean, your possible near-kin -- is once again the first on the scene of a crime. In fact, I saw the murder weapon before it was sprung, but of course no one would listen to me. Somehow the taint of those street days will not wear off, and I am still regarded as an unreliable witness.
"This was a bizarre death by hanging, from a golden chain, no less. Although one can concoct a likely scenario for a freak accident, I lean toward the freak murder. I not only suspected something of this nature, I served as town crier in this case, scaling a steep roof to halloo the horrible news from the chimney tops.
"Those present, being human and naturally obtuse, mistook my alarm for a cute cat trick.
"I actually heard mention of the David Letterman Show as I stood there in full cry, my coat fluffed to emergency fullness.
"Needless to say, the imbeciles present soon discovered the error of their assumptions, led by Miss Temple Barr. (I do not mean to include Miss Temple Barr among the imbeciles present, which the previous sentence structure might imply, but I am not about to strain my mitts by backwards-deleting my entire previous sentence.) I am not to the keyboard born, you know, even if I am swaddled in royal-purple velvet to keep the cruel northern wind and snow from my precious hide when borne outdoors.
"Anyway, my investigations have taken me from the cushy seats of power and influence in midtown Manhattan to the Lower Depths of the Village, where the sad domicile of a wasted life offered insight and a bad smell.
"So I am quite the celebrity on both the advertising and crime fronts. I cannot say that the female lieutenant in charge of the case is giving my opinions the proper hearing. But my Miss Temple is there, and I can usually make her see reason eventually
"As for the competition for the top spokescat position, I have had an edge over the 'other'candidate all along, even though the loathsome Maurice has had a fully effective politically correct operation since his indiscretion with the Divine Yvette.
"I have been gently twitting him by calling him 'one-ball'and more recently 'none-ball' in street patois. Oh, he snarls and hisses and growls, but he only undermines his chances at being selected as the most civilized, suave and sophisticated spokescat in the country. He is so predictable.
"I will not go into the new blonde in town. I realize that as a working woman you spurn females whose pulchritude is their ladder to luxury, fame and lazy days. But the Sublime Solange is a sweet, modest individual, and so shy she hardly seems aware of her stunning beauty. The Divine Yvette, Maurice's cast-off, is sadly disillusioned, but she is a wonderful mother to her scraggly quartet of yellow-bellied kits. I fear her unwed pregnancy will result in the loss of her fat television contract, but her heartless mistress, Miss Savannah Ashleigh, the same vicious bitch -- that is purely a scientific term for a female dog, so I am not using bad language here, only comparing the hussy to the species she most resembles, which is certainly not thine nor mine -- who hoped to end my masculine career, has forsaken Yvette for the rising star of her unsullied sister Solange.
"I assume that among humans the word 'unsullied' equates with 'cannot be proved, 'so am doing my politically correct best to see that Solange becomes a wiser but still winsome pussycat.
'Thus I prepare myself for an exotic Manhattan Yuletide, one brimming over with merriment, money and murder. If I have a minute, I will try to round up a trinket to bring home for you. We are, after all, possibly related, though such things are always difficult to prove, especially when there are residuals in question.
"Yours in mice, vice and lice on the run,
Midnight Louie, Esq
Chapter 30
Christmas Spree
"Should I call you 'Father Matt' or 'Cousin Matt?' "
Matt eyed his driver, who was wheeling the lumbering minivan in and out of freeway traffic as if it were a bumper car in an arcade.
"Just Matt will do."
"Okay." She flashed him a nervous, yet fascinated look. "I'm not sure if your cousin's kid is a second cousin or a first cousin once removed, but I gotta admit I wasn't too happy about getting assigned chauffeur duty during Christmas break. At least you aren't the usual outta-town-relative type. You know, the fidgety spinster aunt who tries to tell you how short your skirts are, and how to drive."
She swerved the wallowing vehicle across two lanes of bumper-to-bumper cars to avoid slowing down behind an old Volkswagen bug that was only doing the speed limit.
Matt had to clench his teeth to keep his mouth shut. Now was the moment to distract himself with an ejaculation to a favorite saint, such as Blessed Saint Christopher, keep us alive for the next ten minutes!
"I must admit," Matt said, vainly feeling for a handhold on the van door, "that when I asked Bo if anyone could be spared to take me around, I didn't expect a teenage chauffeur."
"Teenage, how gross. I'm almost out of high school, for God's sake. I can't wait to turn twenty, then nobody can refer to me by that disgusting term."
"Sorry."
"Oh, I didn't mean you! You've been off with all those priests in the rectory. It's not your fault you don't know what drives people my age nuts."
Seventeen, Matt thought. This was going to be a long afternoon.
"What do I call you?" he said.
"Thanks for asking. Not Krystyna with all the y 's! Too groady! Krys is fine. Some people think it's short for Krystal, which is cool. So what do you want to do at the mall?" she asked, switching lanes to beat a huge black pickup truck to the exit lane. "Dumb redneck!" Her eyes flashed venom into the rearview mirror. "These Southerners can't drive on ice and snow worth spit. What do you drive at home? And where is home?"
"Las Vegas."
"Really? Cool. Do they have churches there?"
"More than most cities. And a whole flock of wedding chapels."
"They hardly count as churches."
"They do for the couples who get married there."
The mall, a Monopoly-block array of massive beige rectangles, loomed like bunkers on the minivan's right. Matt didn't know why anyone called these motorized behemoths "minivans"; they were roomy enough to host camping parties of Cub Scout packs.
"So you drive a Civic or something in Las Vegas?" Krys asked as she turned into the parking lot.
"No. A motorcycle."
"A motorcycle?" She jerked her head to see if he was kidding.
"Watch out for that Blazer!"
"Oh. Yeah."
Ignoring the blare of an angry horn, she scooted the van down an aisle lined with parked cars, then suddenly swerved into an empty space that had been hidden by a massive custom van until they were practically past it.