Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

“I thought it was a corporate inquiry,” the angel-baby in blue woman says in defense. “The woman who called sounded like an executive assistant. I thought it was one of the big hotels going all out for a celebrity high roller and his posse.”

“She was an executive thief,” Emilio grumbles. “They have got a hundred thou in our Rolexes alone. Rolexi?”

“You never were any good in Latin class in high school,” Rico says.

“Who needs more Latin than ’veni, vidi, vici’?”

The madam, who must have had high school Latin too and learned Caesar’s boast: “I came, I saw, I conquered,” laughs again.

“Not tonight, boys. Besides, surely the Fontana brothers can disarm an army of men in tights.”

That is just it. The madam has not had a close look at our captors. These are not men in tights, but girls in guns, an even uglier thought. Those delicate ladyfingers are not used to packing trigger-sensitive iron. They could break a nail and spray the room with bullets without even meaning to.

“It sounds,” says the madam, “like we all will be here for a while. We should introduce ourselves. I am Miss Kitty.”

Satin and I exchange a glance. It is sad how often our kind’s various nicknames are borrowed for ladies of the night and shady activities. The ancient Egyptians stuck to a simple “Meow” when naming us.

The ladies give their first names in turn. There is an Angela, Babette, Crystal, Deedee, Fifi, Gigi, Heather, Inez, Jazz, Kiki, Lili, Niki, and Zazu.

Satin hisses into my ear. “Only thirteen are working tonight, a bad sign. The reservation was for that number.”

Meanwhile, I am doing some math of my own. There are the ten Fontana brothers, Mr. Matt, and Uncle Mario, the big kahuna, who has been detained, bound, in the archway to the barroom. That is twelve. “Who is the thirteenth of these ladies for?” I wonder.

“The limo driver,” Satin hisses back.

But the limo driver was replaced, so why order the full house? And where is the limo driver, anyway? Obviously, someone else took over for him and drove the whole crew here to this unexpected destination.

Was he bribed, led astray, or waylaid? I can only hope they knocked him out back at Gangsters’ and he is now raising the alarm in Vegas.

Except who is he going to call when the whole clan Fontana is under lock and key and gun sites here at the Sapphire Slipper? And he would not know where to send anyone, anyway.

Who you gonna call? Crimebusters!

I turn to Satin. “I am going to, uh, deputize you for the duration. Midnight Inc. Investigations needs a little beefing up at the moment.” I notice the airy vibrissae over her eyes waft. “Nothing personal. Just an expression we use in the private cop trade.”

“I will be your undercovers partner, Louie,” she says, rubbing the side seams on my slinky black satin coat the right way.

I swallow. “Undercover partner, Satin. That is the expression we use in the private cop trade.”

I must admit, though, that the atmosphere here puts a wild hair up my nose. And it is black satin.

Name Day

“Mike, my lad!” The greeting boomed from the doorway with theatrical gusto.

There’d been no name on the chart dangling from the foot of his bed. He’d checked after the psychiatrist had left. There had been no chart left. Strange.

The late-middle-aged man beaming at him from the doorway looked nice enough. A civilian in rumpled suit and tie; good quality but rode hard and put up wet, like a saddle horse. A little overstuffed he was, but with a sharp, shrewd nose and chin. He was clean-shaven, but the graying hair was longish in back. Sharp hazel eyes were packed in weary pouches. Looked a little like a brilliant conductor focused on so much the rest of us—we the audience—didn’t see, that he appeared a bit scattered.

“Glad to see you sitting up.” The fellow bustled over to sit on the bed’s foot and dig in the net grocery bag he carried.

“Chocolate, some English-language newspapers.”

He studied the chocolate wrappers handed to him. “Swiss. I thought so.”

“Of course, my bright boy. Only the best for your recuperation.”

“And just how am I ‘your boy’?”

The man froze, then leaned in to whisper, so he was forced to wheel closer to hear.

“I know we need to be discreet,” the man said, “but I doubt this room is bugged.”

“I don’t.” Suddenly his feeling of unease made sense.

“Ma . . . Mike?” The furrowed brow was a washboard of worry lines now, the man’s eyes darting around the room. “When I last saw you, you were out cold, but—”

“When did you last see me? After I fell off a mountain?”

“No. Here. After you were flown in.”

“From Nepal.”

The man ducked his head in vague agreement. “Mike, don’t you remember the accident?”

“No. I don’t remember Mike either. Or you.”

“I’m Garry Randolph.”

“A relation, then?”

“More of choice than of blood.”

“Then why the bloody hell did you give me your surname when you checked me in? Don’t I have any relatives, family?”

“You’ve been estranged from them for almost two decades.”

“Why? What did I do to estrange my entire family?”