Cat In A Sapphire Slipper

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Lives and Times . . .

There are lots of fat cats in Las Vegas.

These glitzy media-blitzed streets host almost forty million tourists each year and a ton of camera crews. If lights, action, and camera are not recording background shots for CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, they are taping any of thousands of personal videos. People think they know this town—from film if not firsthand experience—know it from the flashy hotels to the seamy side of the Strip.

And a good number of them know one particular Las Vegas institution.

That would be me.

Every last neon bulb and grain of sand in Greater Las Vegas is my personal territory. Oh, I keep a low profile. You do not hear about me on the nightly news. That is the way I like it. That is the way any primo PI would like it. The name is Louie, Midnight Louie. I like my nightlife shaken, not stirred.

Nowadays, though, I am in an unprecedented position. I am torn between two assignments. Usually I am torn between two Persian showgirls, so this is a new predicament for me.

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