Cat In An Alphabet Soup (Catnap)

“Excuse me,” a female voice said pointedly from the doorway.

Temple forsook her “Abandon Hope” pose and took in the visitor—visitors, plural. A man stood on the threshold, too, a darkly handsome man. The woman was petite, blond and looked as though she meant business in a Dresden kind of way.

What now, Temple wondered.

The woman marched to Temple’s desk. “We saw this in the evening edition.”

“Oh, the cat story.”

The man had followed her. “The story’s wrong. We know the cat. It’s not a stray.”

“Not a stray? You mean it’s... your cat?” Even Temple heard a rising note of denial in her voice.

The couple was too busy exchanging mute, consulting looks to note Temple’s fraying control.

“Not exactly ‘our’ cat,” She admitted.

“It’s the house cat,” he said.

Temple just stared at them.

He recognized an opening and uncorked a 150-watt smile. “Our ‘house’ happens to be the Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino on the Strip. Louie hangs out there, always has since before we reopened the place. I don’t know how he got way over here, but—”

“Louie?” Temple interrupted.

“Midnight Louie,” the blond woman elaborated. “The cat.”

“And who are you?” Temple said.

A tanned hand extended. “Nicky Fontana, and my wife, Van von Rhine. She manages the Crystal Phoenix. I own it.”

“And Louie is the house cat,” the woman said firmly. “When we saw his photo, we thought we’d better bring him home.”

“Home.” Temple didn’t know why thinking was so hard; maybe it was trying to find believable excuses for the cat’s supposed absence, like she’d sent him to the pound, or a Hollywood animal trainer had already claimed him or— “He’s in the storeroom. I’ll get him.”

They followed her to the storeroom door. Maybe they didn’t trust her; maybe they were just eager to see... Louie. Stupid name for a cat, Temple fumed; why not Whiskers or Schwarzenegger if they wanted a really dumb name?

The cat unloosed a long rouwwwl of welcome. Temple watched it stalk past her, pause, then thread itself around Van von Rhine’s legs before giving Nicky Fontana a greeting nip on the knee.

“Hey, those are my best Italian silk-blends!”

Van von Rhine squatted before the huge cat. “Louie! You’re famous now, but how on earth did you get into the convention center? Where have you been all week? We missed you!” She looked up at Temple through limpid blue eyes. “I really did panic when he hadn’t been seen for a while—imagined he’d been run over or worse. I guess it’s from having an infant around. Mother’s nerves.”

“Father’s nerves,” muttered her husband, “aren’t too calm at the moment, either; must be those nighttime serenades. We’re sure glad we found Louie. We’ll take him from here. He eats a ton, not to mention weighs one. Thanks for looking after him.”

“Sure.” Temple’s weight shifted from foot to foot. Her precarious high heels felt like true needles, as if they would puncture the floor and drop her another six inches.

The cat obviously knew the couple, was glad to see them, glad to be out of the storage closet, her apartment, her life, the limelight even, who knows what a cat thinks? Temple knew what she thought. That it was ridiculous for an almost-thirty-for-heaven’s-sake career woman to be standing in front of strangers with a sock-size lump in her throat.

“Wait!” she said past the sock. “The cat’s been really important to the center. The publicity he got took the spotlight off a rather unfortunate event here. I’d like to keep him a while, until I’m sure we won’t need him anymore.”

“You don’t understand,” the woman said gently. “Louie’s not a pet. He adopted us, to tell the truth, and the whole hotel to boot. Everyone from bellboys to visiting celebrities expects to see Midnight Louie around.”

“He’s an alley cat, Miss Barr,” the man added with a glance at the nameplate on the desk. “He needs to come and go as he pleases. Sure he’ll cadge what he can from the staff or raid the carp pond in the hotel gardens if he can get away with it, but he’s not really domesticated. He’s not used to being”—Nicky Fontana eyed the empty cat carrier with distaste—“kept. It’s not fair to him.”

“Did I say that? No, of course not.” Temple’s voice sounded forced. “I understand.” A sinuous form wove against her legs. She bent down to stroke the glossy black fur. “Well, Louie, thanks for helping save the day. Take care of yourself, you big lug.”

Temple straightened and turned quickly to get the carrier.

“Naw—we won’t need that,” Nicky Fontana said. “It won’t fit in my ’vette. Louie’ll ride in the rumble seat, right, fellah?”

Temple turned back to see the cat occupying most of Nicky’s arms, being borne away like a big, black, furry baby.

Van von Rhine’s blue-sky eyes had clouded with knowing sympathy. “Don’t worry. I’ll call and let you know how he’s doing. You can always come to visit him.”

“I will.” Temple saw them to the door, the cat’s green peepers regarding her soulfully as its huge head lolled over Nicky’s elbow. Louie looked supremely comfortable.