Alley Kat Blues (Kat Colorado) Kijewski, Karen

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Courtney was dead and I was in Las Vegas. A guy with a chorus line of hot-pink naked girls on a jazzy purple-and jungle-green shirt jostled past me sloshing his beer, clutching a roll of quarters, and arguing with an ugly, thin, ageless woman. She wore black stretch pants, silver heels and a blouse accented by mauve lipstick and nails. Silver earrings in the shape of skulls with red eye sockets and a silver charm bracelet dripping with bad omens completed the look. Omens. The McCarran Airport in Las Vegas is like no other airport in the world. The sound of slot machines assaulted my senses. Cigarette smoke packed my nostrils, filtered into my brain, and began the process of wantonly killing off brain cells. Las Vegas, home of the Seven-Deadly-Sins-Advertised-And-Advocated-In-Neon-Twenty-Four-Hours-A-Day greeted me. Only the headliner this month wasn't a singer, or a show, but the Strip Stalker. A serial killer, not a long-legged dancer. Las Vegas is not my favorite place. And if you tough out the initial ugliness, it gets worse--not better. My eyes smarted as I walked past the slot machines to the car-rental agencies. Cigarette smoke. Sacramento, my hometown in California's Central Valley, seemed a long way from here. A long way however you measure and span it: in miles and culture, in neon, in feathers, and sequins. And more. I was in Vegas and Courtney was dead. But that comes later. Sacramento is famed for its tomatoes, camellias, and rivers, not for a high homicide rate. That comes later too. I picked up the car keys at the rental-car counter, although not, of course, without a hassle. The kids at the counter get younger and less experienced every year. This one didn't look old enough to drive, maybe not even to talk in complete sentences. It took me over thirty minutes to get out of there. Outside the breeze hit me and then the sunshine. Eighty-five degrees and I was in the desert in springtime. Wonderful. I found the rental, a current cliché in beige, climbed in, powered down the windows, and threw it in gear. I was headed for Hank's. It was that or putting his picture on a milk carton: Has anyone seen this missing boyfriend? And I was a surprise. Two can play the What-The-Hell-Is-Going-On? and the I'm-Not-Telling game. Hank wasn't returning my phone calls or letters, so here I was. Time to find out what was going on. I drove down a quiet street with a lot of cottonwoods, palms, and cactus in an older part of town where the houses were set on goodsized lots. There I parked in the shade of a cottonwood not far from Hank's house, a Spanish adobe with a red-tile roof. I couldn't see his car but that didn't mean anything. He kept the Mustang in the garage most of the time. I got out, pocketed the keys, left my bag in the trunk. I opened the wrought-iron gate and entered a small courtyard enclosed by adobe walls. A fountain in the courtyard splashed and sang, the fish swam, the greenery and flowers were lush and vibrant, the cactus spiny and aloof. I caught my breath at the sight, as I always do. Springtime makes it even more beautiful. The heavy wooden door opened into a cool interior. I didn't bother with the doorbell, just used my key. I looked around at the simple, lovely house I know almost as well as my own: whitewashed walls, worn wood floors with Mexican and Indian rugs scattered about, matter-of-fact furniture in earth tones, a stone fireplace with a bleached cow skull above the mantel, a Georgia O'Keeffe print, and handmade pottery and baskets. I sighed and tossed my purse onto the couch, glad to be here. The house felt quiet and empty. No Hank. I went through the kitchen to the back door. Mars, Hank's black Lab, was at the door, eyes alert, ears up. When he saw me, he went into ecstasy orbit. I played outside with him for a bit and then we came in. I toyed with the idea of making a snack but didn't. I wasn't hungry enough and I was too tire