About the Author
In addition to tales of Midnight Louie, Carole Nelson Douglas is also the author of the historical suspense series featuring Irene Adler, the only woman ever to have “outwitted” Sherlock Holmes. Douglas resides in Fort Worth, Texas.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
An Offer Not to Be Refused
"Don't move! Just listen. You've got to get an agent, pronto!"
Temple listened to the voice on the phone, still numb from the import of the previous call, one made to her, not like this one that she had made immediately afterward.
"It's such short notice, though," Temple answered the urgency on the line's other end. "I'd been thinking about visiting you for the holidays--"
"Don't think. You can hire someone to do that for you. This could be very, very big."
"Not at one hundred and fifty a day."
"That was last week. This is…this week. From what you said they said, this is a whole new ball game."
"I hate ball games. I hate that expression. Could you try something less clichéd?"
"You're concentrating on trivia because the Big Picture is too new to take in. Look. I must know Someone who knows Someone. This is New York City, after all. Everybody's a specialist. Let me call around and get you a reference. Then we can talk housing arrangements."
"Yes, but I don't see--"
"Yes, but. You don't see. That's the problem. Just hang up. Sit tight and let Aunty Kit handle it. I'd love to see you for Christmas, sweetie, but I'd much rather see you with a decent contract in your hand. Cheerio."
Temple couldn't tell if her aunt was under the influence of a food craving or simply wishing her good-bye. But she did as instructed, she hung up and looked at Midnight Louie, who had actually exchanged his comfy sofa for the hard kitchen countertop when the call had come half an hour ago.
"Looks like we'll be seeing Kris Kringle at Macy's this year, Louie. You know, Miracle on Thirty-fourth Street Macy's. Except they might not let you in. Oh, golly, I hope Aunt Kit knows what she's doing. If she blows this deal…but she's a novelist and she used to be an actress, and they both use agents, so I guess she's my nearest expert, besides being a contact in Manhattan. Just think, Louie! You and me, living it up for the holidays in New York, New York."
I yawn. I have interrupted my nap, after all, to rush over and eavesdrop. The first call was a lot more interesting, because it was mainly all about me.
"Poor fella! You're so pooped from your medical nightmare, and now I'm supposed to whisk you off to New York and all the performance pressure, in pursuit of mythical beasts: cruel chimeras of Fame and Fortune. I wonder if we need another agent to look after your interests alone? Like in messy divorce cases. You are going to be a 'party of the first part,' after all."
I got a late-breaking headline, doll. I have always been the Party of the First Part, especially now that I still have all my parts--by some miracle and a dopey blonde's mistake. And they call us dumb beasts!
"I do not know." Miss Temple kicks off her magenta suede high heels so I can read the label. Some dudette named Nicole Miller. It is nice to see the little dolls coming up in the world nowadays and becoming majorettes of industry and design.
She wiggles her toes, a gesture I can appreciate, and I do not even wear shoes, much less skyscraper shoes. I wonder if she will take her designer stilts to New York, New York. It is an either-way call: heads she wears 'em and is not fit to flee a mugger, and tails she does not, and is therefore unarmed with a sharp instrument when attacked in Broadway daylight.
"Will any hotels let you in? Maybe the Algonquin. It has always had a 'house cat,' after all, along with a house tie for errant gentlemen in too-casual attire. Kit says we could stay with her, but I hate to impose."
Say, this Indian joint is my kind of place. I am always dressed in formal black. As for staying with Miss Temple's aunt, one Miss Kit Carlson, that is okay with me. Impose, impose! I am the only "house cat" on any premises I choose to honor with my presence.
She sighs. "I would consult Matt, but he has left for work, and Electra is officiating at a wedding downstairs…why does good fortune always strike when all your friends are AWOL?"
I am here. She must have heard me because she starts stroking my ears. I wonder if I am destined for the Mr. Clean earring. Well, all the rock stars have them. I suppose I could have something tasteful. Like a sterling-silver carp. Or eighteen-karat gold, if I am a star.
She jumps so high when the phone rings again right in front of us that I nearly leap off the counter-top. Get a grip, girl! If you are going to be a big-time manager, you will have to be as cool as Ice T.
"Hello? Yes, I heard from your account exec and I'm giving it serious thought. Of course I have to consider all the ramifications--That is a lot of money, but I need to discuss it in person. Oh? On your tab? And the cat? Well, he has to fly too. Only in the cabin. I won't have him in the cargo area. All those horror stories--"
Cargo area? What does the geek on the other end of the line think I am, chopped liver? I would not confine Miss Savannah Ashleigh to a cargo area, and after what she had done to me, that is a severe indictment indeed of cargo areas.
"I'll call you as soon as I know something definite. Yes, I realize it's eight P.M. in New York. You work awfully late there, don't you? Oh, everyone does. We work hard in Las Vegas, too, only we get done three hours earlier. I'll call tomorrow. Yes, it has to be tomorrow."
She holds her hand over the receiver and finally asks me something. "Who can Kit dig up at eight on a Friday night?"
Beats me. Elvis, maybe. Or an out-of-work vampire. Now that's an agent after my own heart, a genuine bloodsucker.
Miss Temple hangs up and continues what she thinks is a monologue. "Oh, Louie! What a strange turn of events. You, a corporate mascot. I wonder if they know what they're letting themselves in for?"
Temple stared at the phone. Like a watched pot that never boils, a watched phone never rings. Public relations rule number one. Public relations rule number two: never work with children or animals; they're too unpredictable and they'll steal every scene.
But that was all right if scene-stealing was the name of the game, and Louie was a natural.
"I wonder if they know your proclivities for crime?" she asked her only audience.
My proclivities for crime? The only proclivities for crime that I have in these latter domestic days of my lives are your habits of tripping over dead bodies. Maybe if you gave up high heels you would trip over bodies a lot less.
"Maybe my strange affinity for murder only works in Las Vegas. Maybe in New York everything will be different. I sure get a high-pressure feeling from that vice president. I thought this town thrived on hype--"
The phone trills again. I cannot take this Grand Central switchboard act. I leave Miss Temple to her fate and jump down to inspect my Free-to-be-Feline bowl. Still pretty uninspiring. The couch calls.
"Yes!" Temple was relieved to hear her aunt's hauntingly husky voice. It was like eavesdropping on an aural doppelgänger. Temple cleared her throat, though it never helped to banish the frog from her voice. Why it should work by proxy, she didn't know.
"Got someone," Kit said. "Does this sort of thing all the time."
"What sort of agent?"
"An odd sort. Not an actor's agent. More like a personal-appearance agent."
"Is this person working for me, or Louie?"
"You. You're the only one who can sign a contract. Presumably you own the cat, not vice versa."
"Have you ever kept a cat?"
"No."
"Then you don't know how wrong you are. But I assume Louie will press his paw on the dotted line if I make him do it. The trip to New York will be the test. If he doesn't like traveling, it's no deal. I'm not going to cart a twenty-pound feline protestor around."
"This could be a major opportunity for you as well as the cat, Temple. Quince tells me big money should be in it. You could become like…Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop."
"Louie's no Lamb Chop. If I want to make like he's a hand puppet, he'll probably eat my hand."
"Are you saying the animal is vicious?"
"I'm saying he's determined; there's a difference. He was a street cat for Lord knows how long. He went his own way and still does to some extent. At least Savannah Ashleigh has made sure that he won't father any inconvenient kittens, but he'll still be interested in any available girl-cats he comes across."
Any? I think from the other room. Does she believe that I exercise no discretion in these matters? What does she take me for, an alley cat?
At this point Miss Temple launches into a dramatic description of my recent kidnapping and stint as an involuntary subject of a mad plastic surgeon. I doze off, having heard this story before, in person.
I know all the important stuff anyway. We will fly to New York City. We might stay at a tony hotel, or we might stay at the aunt-doll's digs. Miss Temple will take me places to see people neither of us know, who will give us lots of money. We will have an agent. We will be big shots. We will have to watch our hindquarters. So what is new?
Copyright © 1997 by Carole Nelson Douglas
