“So,” says Miss Midnight Louise the moment I amble onto the asphalt surrounding Maylords. “You call this a collar?”
She has been glued to the repaired display windows for the last hour or two, after patrolling the exterior for the last twenty-four hours. I observed her presence, but was busy breaking a major case within.
In a partnership, the work must be divided. Equally. And I am clearly the inside man for the Maylords job, as I had explained to her long and loud earlier.
This obvious fact does not quiet Miss Midnight Louise, but then what would?
“I have to pace around and around this twelve-acre store in the gritty wind and sun looking for phantom drug drops while you loll around on high-end furniture—its high end, not yours—in the air-conditioned inside waiting for your roommate to figure things out?”
“You forget, Louise, that I was there as indisputable triggerman. I literally nailed both perps. Actually, two perps and a stooge. All without uttering a word, or a growl, actually.”
“You were asleep at the switch, Pops. Miss Temple did all the work in laying out the precedents. You just shredded a few tailoring fabrics.”
“I doubt the human olfactory abilities would have sniffed out the betraying cocaine among the Wong flunkies.”
“A blind kitten could have sniffed that stuff, not to mention ripped that pocket free. Burlap, Daddy-o? Just the most loose-weaved fabric on the tailoring horizon. Kit’s play.”
“You are showing quite an unexpected fashion sense, Louise. The savvy operative can afford to overlook no field of knowledge. Consider Sherlock Holmes.”
“I have, Shredlock Homes! Why is Miss Temple letting Mr. Rafi Nadir get the credit for the collar?”
“Oh, some complex human territorial dispute. You know how that is. Now. Our duties here are ended. We can repair to a nearby Dumpster for a celebratory dinner or . . . I can escort you back to my digs at the Circle Ritz. I understand there is a full bowl of Free-to-be-Feline on ice there.”
“Free-to-be-Feline! You are speaking of the gourmet line, I presume?”
“Uh . . . yeah. You like that stuff? Do you not indulge in Asian cuisine daily from the cleaver of Chef Song at the Crystal Phoenix?”
“Yes, but it is not formulated for the feline epicure. Free-to-be-Feline. I must reevaluate your redheaded roommate. Apparently she has hidden depths.”
Well, knock me over with an ostrich feather and call me Sally Rand! Miss Midnight Louise actually digs that awful, dry, army-green feline health food. Far be it from me to disillusion her. Have I got a dish for her!
“The Circle Ritz it is, partner,” I say. “And en route I will reveal the scintillating clues and marvelous deductions that led me to shred my way to the truth.”
She sighs, dreaming of Free-to-be-Feline.
What a wonderful world.