Cat In A White Tie And Tails

The super-stiletto-shod stars can barely totter to David Letterman’s sofa to make knee-crossing a revelatory art on the scale of the now-common “wardrobe malfunction.” But here their footwear fans are now, courting bunions and surgery en masse.

All I will consent to nowadays is a discreet pedicure on an upholstered piece of overstuffed hotel furniture. I feel the Crystal Phoenix owes me that much for my services as unofficial house detective. I assiduously avoid leather as a nail-filing system, understanding that such furniture there is often high-design Italian and that my appropriating it as a scratching post would be courting extreme annoyance from the ruling Fontana family dynasty.

Meanwhile, here at the lower end of the franchise, Gangsters, I nimbly either avoid or blend in with the black-trouser-clad male and female waitstaff as I wend from table to table.

By the way, the word “waitstaff” is another favorite annoyance of mine. In the fever to eliminate the sexist terms “waiters” and “waitresses,” human society has come up with another nonsense word on the scale of “brillig.” Even Alice in Wonderland would be loath to “eat” and “drink” the many interesting concoctions of her expedition if they were presented by people called “waitstaff.” That always reminds me of a wizard standing by with a big stick.

Even as I muse, I blunder into sudden impact with a large furry lump like a muff dropped at a lady’s feet.

“Get your own table brushings,” a voice grumbles.

“You are the table brushing I am seeking.” I have finally tracked down my clan’s patriarch, Three O’Clock Louie.

“This is an order of New York steak I am staking out,” he says. “It is due hot and sizzling any minute now. Scram.”

“Too much marbleized fat for the senior citizen. Overrated. You will be wanting a well-done butterflied filet with truffle oil.”

“Yeah? Where is this mythical beast?”

“Already delivered and ripe for distraction and delectation at a table near the elevator.”

The way to a male’s brain is through his stomach. In three minutes I have a slightly seared but rare-on-the-inside Godfather’s investor away from the dining arena and poised on the brink of the way down.

“Louise,” he acknowledges me, boxing steak trimmings and shrimp crumbles from his midnight-black whiskers. “If you require my professional services, you should ask ahead of time, with a nice note.”

“I require your backup. If you respond ‘nicely,’ I will put in a good word for you with Ma Barker.”