Well, this was the night the lights were blazing in Georgia, but they sure went out in Maylords. Here is how it all went down from my point of view. My own personal lowdown, so to speak, which is as low down as you can get. Ankle level, in point of fact.
As soon as the blasts of gunfire turn Maylords into an exploding glass factory, Miss Midnight Louise and I swing into action.
We streak from the anticipated chow line out back to the firing line up front.
Luckily, we operate well under the line of fire and are able to tiptoe through the broken glass and into the besieged home decor store. Only in America.
We still have to keep under the sofas, being careful to avoid being seen by carpet-hugging humans who are crawling around on our level for once. It is not a pretty sight. I find that I much prefer socializing with various brands of sniffy footwear than ineffective applications of underarm deodorant.
Although, to be fair, these humans are in a state of primal fear.
They are not used to being hunted on the streets of Las Vegas, as Louise and I have been, merely for the simple sin of being homeless.
Nowadays, of course, we have whole buildings to call home. Louise has bagged the elegant Crystal Phoenix Hotel and Casino, where she has taken over my old job as house detective. I hang my unused collar at the retro-funky Circle Ritz apartments and condominium, where I am in permanent residence with my live-in, Miss Temple Barr.
Still, our roles in law enforcement matters are not self-evident. When we boogie around the city on business we are in constant danger of being snagged by Animal Control and treated like disposable nobodies. Makes one almost succumb to wearing a collar, but give one inch and pretty soon Big Brother Vet will be imbedding eavesdropping chips in our brains.
Anyway, before we can thoroughly scout the place, the lights go out.
Immediately the downed humans start mewling and whimpering like whipped curs. Louise and I roll our eyes at each other in the dark. We come equipped with night vision, like the Rangers.
Now we can paddy-foot where we please, as long as we avoid using a prone human as an area rug. (Which role reversal, actually, would be kind of fun, but I know what Miss Louise would think of such unprofessional behavior.)
We soon make our way to the abandoned entrance area, where tender curls of fallen shrimp strew our path like rose petals carpeting the footsteps of conquering heroes.
Should we help ourselves? I do not mind if we do, for night troops travel on their stomachs. Or so I hear.
Of course, we must chew our morsels well, as ground glass is not a seasoning for the weak stomached. However, both Louise and I grew up on Dumpster picnics. We are pretty savvy about avoiding slivers of glass and tin cans, not that anything from a can would be found in a Chef Song buffet.
A voice booms out in the darkness with such authority that for a fleeting moment I fear the world will be created again.
Miss Louise hunkers against me, not from fear but the better to whisper in my ear. “Who is on the loudspeaker?’
“That is no loudspeaker, dear girl, that is a theatrically trained voice projecting. Sometimes I envy these humans their immense, and immensely wasted, vocal range. In fact, I know the possessor of that stainless-steel foghorn.”
“You always claim to know everyone in this town.”
“Mostly, they know me,” I retort modestly. “That happens to be the commanding voice of Danny Dove, the eminent choreographer. At least someone two-legged in the place has the sense to call for the lights to be put out.”
As we listen, we hear the answering scrabble of a few footsteps. Someone besides us is up and about now.
Louise and I dispose of the last shrimp within reach and duck under the floor-length tablecloth as a new burst of gunfire rakes across the china, making for a rainfall of chips that are useful at no casino in town.
In the fresh quiet after the storm, I hear at least two or three people in motion. Peeking my nose out from under the water-soaked linen, I spy a sight that would turn my whiskers whiter, were they not already so colored.
“What is it, Daddikins? You have stiffened like roadkill.”
“Roadkill. That is a good name for it. My roomie has lost her mind and is on the move in this shooting gallery.”
“How do you know?”
“I have glimpsed the fugitive sparkle of what can only be my Austrian crystalized Stuart Weitzman signature shoes. Miss Temple must be looking for the light-control mechanism in answer to Danny Dove’s clarion call. I must go to her aid.”
“And what can you do?”
“I do not know, but I can be there in case. Stay here, under the tablecloth. And do not eat all the shrimp!”
Without a backward look, or a burp in mourning for the abandoned shrimp, I streak in the direction I last saw Miss Temple’s shoes crawling in four-four time. At least she has the sense to assume a four-limbed mode of locomotion. On the other hand, I hate to contemplate my namesake shoes scraping their delicate crystals on all this scattered glass . . . speaking of which, ouch! I might be better off with some protective booties myself.
Sure enough, the megawatt glimmer of those dazzling white Austrian crystals are as easy for a seasoned tracker like myself to follow as breadcrumbs for a bird.
Ker-plough ack-ack-ack. Whoever is shooting has a lot of ammo, not to mention nerve. I crouch down, hoping my Miss Temple has had the sense to do likewise. But someone else is moving despite the fresh shots.
Someone pale and sensibly low is following Miss Temple too.
I scramble right on those vanishing heels, which are dull brown leather and not nearly as simple to tail as synthetic diamonds.
And then all the lights go out.
Luckily, I am blessed with phenomenal night vision.
So it is a bit of a surprise when I hear thumps and whispers ahead in the dark, and find myself forced to screech to a stop.
That is a only a figure of speech. Were I truly to “screech to a stop,” the entire set of hunkered-down humans in this building would be clapping their hands over their ears. I have quite an effective screech in my repertoire.
No, this is a metaphorical screech. It means that were I a motor vehicle stopping so quickly, my brakes would scream bloody murder.
As it is, I stop on a dime without a sound, a master of the feline change of direction in midair. I am only sorry that all the lights are out and no one is here to see it. Especially Miss Midnight Louise.
I land silently, but not without great effort. There is a lot of me to land silently.
Although the most immediate humans in the area are right in front of me, I must do a sniff test to make sure of their suspected identities.
This I manage with my usual undercover delicacy. My supersensitive vibrissae (whiskers to you crude human types) twitch near the presumed face of my lovely little roommate.
It is Miss Temple indeed, flat on her back and utterly safe from flying bullets, even in the dark.
My delicate vibrissae reach out again . . . to confirm the near proximity of Mr. Matt Devine, who has rushed to my Miss Temple’s rescue with my own admirable speed and dedication.
In fact, he has covered her body with his to protect her from flying bullets.
This I too would do, save he is much bigger and better suited to the task.
All is well, so I retreat into the dark that disguises my watchful presence.
I am sure that they do not need me.
In fact, I am urgently needed elsewhere: at the scene of the crime.
Somewhere out there. In the dark Las Vegas night. Under the bright desert stars intermittently lit by the bright Las Vegas neon.
Assured of my Miss Temple’s safety, I am free to be fully feline and embrace the dark night; to track down the perpetrators of this uncalled-for assault on Miss Louise’s and my midnight snacking buffet.
You might call it a snack attack, as far as I am concerned.
And that is motive enough for swift and merciless pursuit.