Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  He's grinning through the windshield at me. And since he's looking like such a, you know, smarty-pants, I almost stop and hurl my dead-cat anvil right through his windshield.

  But in a flash I realize that, smarty-pants or not, Officer Borsch tailing me means that Butcher Boy won't dare carve me into buffet bits right there in the street. But then when I glance behind me, Butcher Boy's gone. No bloody apron, no gleaming knife, no nothing. Just Officer Borsch grinning at me like a doggone smarty-pants.

  So I drop the sack off my shoulder and sort of crumble to a halt while Officer Borsch lowers the passenger window and calls, “You know how ridiculous you look? All you need's a striped shirt and a mask to make the whole burglar-look complete.”

  Before I can tell him that he's being about as helpful as a ball and chain, Holly's beside me, saying to him, “Did you see that guy with the butcher knife?”

  Officer Borsch's eyes open a little wider. His lips push forward a tad. Finally he says, “A guy with a knife?”

  “He was chasing us!”

  “Ah,” he says. “And why would a man feel compelled to chase the two of you with a butcher knife? Did you, perhaps, take something of his?”

  That did it. I picked up my sack, walked over to his car, and shoved it through his open window. “Yeah. We stole his cats. But not until after we killed them.”

  Holly followed up with her sack, shoving it in right after mine. Then we both stepped away and I called, “And since he's so hot to get them back, why don't you go be a hero. He works at the Kojo Buffet.”

  “Yeah!” Holly calls. “And while you're there, ask him why his Dumpster smells like dead bodies!”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Officer Borsch says, struggling to lean past the sacks on his passenger seat. But I was too ticked off to wait a minute. I just dusted my hands off and headed up the sidewalk.

  Holly was right beside me, laughing under her breath. “Man, you've got a lot of nerve.”

  “Me? Like you didn't just shove a dead cat in a policeman's car?” Officer Borsch had thrown his squad car in gear and was following us, so I picked up the pace, grumbling, “After all the times I've helped him, he still thinks I'm a criminal.”

  “Ladies!” Officer Borsch was calling out the window.

  I spun around and snapped, “Oh, now we're ladies? A minute ago you accused us of stealing stuff.” And before he could say anything back, I started running. Not running-like-I'm-guilty kind of running. Just an easy jog away from him.

  But ol' Borschhead floors it to catch up, and get this— he puts on his revolving lights. Like he's pulling us over for jogging on the sidewalk.

  I just roll my eyes at him and keep on running. But then I about jump out of my pants, because he chirps his siren at me. “Sammy!” he yells out the window. “Stop right now!”

  I spin on him and punch my arms down at my sides. “You stop! Stop accusing me of stuff I didn't do! Stop implying that I'm guilty of something when I'm only trying to help! Holly and I have spent hours digging through trash cans for evidence and all I get from you is attitude.”

  “Attitude? Me?” Then he says, “And what evidence are you talking about?”

  “What do you care? You probably never even owned a cat in your life. You probably—”

  “Hey. Hey, I don't know what this is all about. Why don't I meet you at the Pup Parlor, okay? We'll straighten everything out.”

  I just stood there, sputtering and spattering like an egg in hot oil, until finally I said, “Fine!” and stormed off.

  Now, when you're a cop, you don't have to worry about red lights or double yellow lines or illegal U-turns. You just put on your siren and boogie. Which is why Officer Borsch was already waiting in front of the Pup Parlor with the sacks unloaded when we arrived. “You weren't kidding about what's in here,” he said.

  I felt like saying Duh! but rolled my eyes instead.

  “Look, Sammy, I thought we were past all this hostility. What's going on? Is puberty kicking in?”

  “Puberty?” I flew at him. Just launched myself at him and started pounding on him with both fists. “What kind of stupid—”

  Holly grabbed me. “Sammy!”

  “pea-brained—”

  All of a sudden Meg and Vera were there, too, scrambling to help pull me off him.

  “ignorant—”

  “Sammy!” Vera shouted.

  “chowder-headed—”

  “Sammy!”

  “thing is that to say?”

  Officer Borsch held my wrists and kept me at arm's length while I struggled and flailed and turned red in the face.

  “Take a deep breath, Sammy,” Officer Borsch said, his voice calm and low. “Take a deep breath.”

  I wasn't used to him being calm. I was used to him being the one to get red in the face and lose it. So I just stood there a minute, looking at him, then Holly, then Meg, then Vera. Then I noticed that cars were slowing way down on Broadway, checking out the action in front of the Pup Parlor.

  So I did take a deep breath. And another. And another. But they were choppy, and hurt going in. And pretty soon my chin was quivering and my throat was pinching off and my eyes were stinging.

  “Come on,” Vera said, taking me by the shoulders. “Come on inside with me.”

  She took me through the Pup Parlor and upstairs to their apartment, where she parked me at their kitchen table. And I tried so hard not to cry, but it was hopeless. I just sat there and sobbed.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Vera said with her arm around me. “This has been one rough day, hasn't it?”

  I nodded.

  “Is ol' Borschhead causing you grief?”

  I grinned through my tears. How sweet was that? Trying to get me to smile by calling him ol' Borschhead.

  “Is he?”

  I shrugged and nodded. But she knew it wasn't really him.

  “It'll all work itself out,” she said gently. “Give it time. You'll see.” She walked me over to the couch and said, “You rest here a minute. I'll bring you some juice.”

  The juice did help. A lot. Vera just sitting beside me helped, too. But even when I was calm on the outside, inside I felt all… sputtery. Like some wild-haired chemistry professor was playing with steaming test tubes inside me, going, Hmm, I wonder what'll happen when I mix these together….

  But I tried to lock the chemistry guy up because I did want to feel better. I mean, Officer Borsch can get to me sometimes, but it was no reason to pound on him.

  So I nodded and I got up and I smiled, and when we joined the others outside and Officer Borsch asked me if I was feeling okay, I nodded and muttered, “I'm sorry about before.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  “Where'd the cats go?” I asked, looking around.

  “I had Animal Control take them away,” Officer Borsch said.

  “But… I want to find out what killed them! Did you see them? They look like they've been electrocuted!”

  “Sammy, Sammy,” Officer Borsch said, trying to calm me down. “We'll investigate. I just thought we should get them out of here, because they've obviously upset you.”

  “But—”

  “And I promise you I'll let you know what we find out, okay?”

  “But—”

  He turned to Meg. “Watch after her, okay? And keep her out of the trash!”

  “Will do,” Meg said.

  And with that, Officer Borsch went back to his car and zoomed out of sight.

  “Did you guys see the cats?” I asked Meg and Vera.

  They nodded.

  “What do you think happened to them? Who do you think's doing this?”

  “Not some ordinary predator, that's for sure,” Meg said.

  “Is that what Officer Borsch said?”

  “He doesn't know what to think.”

  “They weren't drowned, either,” Vera said. “Drowned cats are much more matted than that.”

  Meg turned to Vera. “When have you seen drowned cats, Mom?”
>
  “Oh,” Vera said all matter-of-factly, “when I was growing up our neighbors used to drown whole litters.”

  Meg eyed me, then said through her teeth to Vera, “Watch what you say!”

  “Well, you asked!” Vera said back. “It used to be a very common practice.”

  “Well,” I said, “I'd better get going.”

  They all fluttered around a little, saying stuff like, “Are you sure you're all right?” and “Are you going home to straighten things out with your mother?” and “Promise us you won't go looking for more cats?”

  I told them, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” like everything was cool and I was fine, but the truth is, I just wanted to get out of there.

  And no, I didn't go back to the apartment. I walked past Slammin' Dave's and the Heavenly Hotel, crossed the street, and headed for the one place I always go when I feel like I'm caught in a twister—Hudson Graham's.

  But as I was trucking along Main Street, a bright red convertible tore by, zigzagging through traffic like it was part of a video game instead of real live downtown traffic. And it wasn't just the car that distracted me. It was the car along with the bright red hairdo behind the wheel. See, there's only one person in Santa Martina who looks and drives like that—Candi Acosta, Heather's mom.

  Let's just say the lemon didn't fall far from the tree.

  Anyway, half a block ahead of me, Mrs. Acosta flipped a U-ie across Main Street and started coming back my direction.

  My instinct was to dive in some bushes, but before I could, Mrs. Acosta parked along the curb right out in front of the Red Coach.

  The Red Coach?

  Whoa, now! I moved a little closer. And let me tell you, my mood was doing a U-turn about as quick as Mrs. Acosta had. I mean, the Red Coach is the seediest bar in town, and believe me, that's saying something. Men hang out there from the time it opens ‘til closing—I'm talking one or two in the morning. The kids at school call it Wino World, and Grams doesn't even like me walking on that side of the street.

  And Candi Acosta was going in there?

  Boy! Was I going to have some great ammo against Heather!

  Now, the minute she hits the sidewalk, Mrs. Acosta gets a whole chorus of catcalls from the slobs hanging out front. And she sticks her nose in the air and pretends to ignore them, but boy, she's shaking her back end from side to side like she's on a fashion show runway instead of a puked-on sidewalk.

  Only she doesn't go to the Red Coach. She struts right past it and goes into the place next door—Madame Nashira's House of Astrology.

  Rats! But, I tell myself, that does make sense. People like Mrs. Acosta believe in fortune-tellers. Shoot, she probably decides what to do each and every day based on the astrology column in the paper. But still, something about her going in there made me feel uneasy. Like she was trespassing into my territory.

  Which I know is stupid, okay? It's not like Gina's really a friend or anything. And just because I've been inside her House of Astrology a few times doesn't mean I own the place.

  But still. It bugged me. And I actually considered sneaking down to the House of Astrology and taking a peek inside, but there were all those guys hanging out in front of the Red Coach, and what did I care? I had bigger problems than Heather.

  Which, believe me, is saying something.

  So I got back on track and headed over to Hudson's. Trouble is, when I got there, who was sitting on his porch?

  The Psycho Kitty Queen.

  I turned right around. I was not in the mood for another run-in with her! But Hudson chased after me, calling, “Sammy, don't rush off. Wait!”

  “Forget it, Hudson.”

  “Sammy, please come back! Your grandmother called and told me what's happened.”

  I pointed back at the porch. “That maniac blasted me with a hose! I tried to help her, and that's how she thanked me! If she's here, I'm gone.”

  He waved his hands back and forth a little, telling me to calm down. “I'll tell her to go.”

  I looked at him, then the porch. She was sitting in my chair. Man! I wanted to hose her down! “What's she doing back here, anyway?”

  “She claims to have seen a man snatch her cat.”

  I hesitated. “Another cat? Really?” But then I scowled and said, “Like I should even care.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders and started leading me back to the house. “That's one of the many reasons I like you, Sammy. You do care.”

  “You're going to make her leave, right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So what did the guy look like?”

  “According to her? A bulldog.”

  I let Hudson lead me up to his porch. And I don't know if she was daydreaming or what, but the Psycho didn't seem to recognize me until I was coming up the steps. And then, boy! She jumped up and said, “You? Again?”

  I rolled my eyes at Hudson, who cleared his throat and said, “I was just telling Sammy about the fella you saw snatch your cat—how he looked like a bulldog.”

  “That's right!” the Psycho said. “He snatched Ebony right off my back fence. He was gone before I could stop him.”

  She was staring at me, but I wasn't about to lock eyes with her again. I looked away, saying, “Ebony's the white one, right?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How'd you know that?”

  “You called him that when I delivered Snowball.”

  “Snowball?” Hudson asked. “You found Snowball?”

  “She delivered him dead,“ the Kitty Queen said.

  “I shouldn't have delivered him at all,” I shot back. “Not for the thanks I got.”

  Somehow we had locked eyes again. So rather than break down and look away, I started talking really fast. “And I don't know why I'm going to tell you this, ‘cause you've been nothing but mean to me, but yours aren't the only cats being killed. My friend and I found four others in trash cans around town this afternoon!”

  “See?” she said. “There's a cat killer in town! Why don't they do something about it?”

  “Why don't you go home and call the police and ask them!”

  Our eyes stayed locked until finally Hudson tugged on my arm and whispered, “Sammy, that's not polite!”

  “Tell her that! She's the one who starts it!” But him tugging on me distracted me, and I blinked.

  She stood. “I'll be going now,” she said. “I've got a phone call to make.”

  When she was gone, Hudson let out a sigh of relief. “Well, now. You've had quite a day, haven't you?”

  “Yeah.” I flopped down in my chair. “How can so much go wrong in one day?”

  “All I know from your grandmother is that your mother's in town and you're upset.”

  “Do you know why, Hudson? Do you know what that selfish airhead did this time?”

  He cringed but didn't reprimand me. He just shook his head and said, “I have no idea.”

  So I told him about my mom changing my birth certificate and how I'd been held back and all of that, and when I was done, I said, “So I had to do stupid ol' kindergarten twice, and now I've got to do lucky thirteen twice.”

  “Oh, Sammy,” he sighed. “I can certainly see why you're upset.” He smoothed back his left eyebrow. Then his right. Finally he said, “Your mother's mistakes aside, your age is relevant only in how it affects your state of mind.”

  “That's just theory, Hudson. I'm living the reality!”

  “Well, okay,” he admitted. “It does matter more before you're independent, I'll grant you that. But really, Sammy, the best thing you can do for your happiness is to live in the here and now. If you dwell on the past, or long too much for the future, you can't enjoy the present. A lot of happiness comes from your outlook—if you change the way you think about being thirteen, thirteen might not turn out to be so bad.” He shrugged and said, “Look at this as getting another shot at it for free.”

  “That's like saying I get another headache for free!”

  He shook his head. “Oh, it's not so
bad, is it?”

  I sighed. I mean, I understood what he was saying. But I couldn't seem to shake the feeling that my life was some crummy board game where I kept having to go back to the beginning and spin again.

  Then Hudson said, “I'd really like to meet that mother of yours.”

  I snorted. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I just would.” He eyed me and said, “I watch her from time to time on The Lords of Willow Heights.”

  “You've got to be kidding!” I could not imagine someone as smart as Hudson wasting time watching a soap opera as dumb as Lords.

  He grinned. “Your grandmother got me started.” Then he shrugged again and said, “Your mother's really quite good in the role of Jewel.”

  “I know,” I muttered, because it's true—my mother plays an amnesiac aristocrat to the hilt.

  “So you do watch it, then?”

  “No. Grams tapes it. And sometimes she makes me, but no.” I sat up a little. “It's a soap, Hudson.”

  “A little overly dramatic for you?”

  “It's just stupid. No one's ever happy. Everyone's always sabotaging their relationships. People leave and then come back with really lame excuses about why they were gone.”

  “Not nearly as credible as say… your life?”

  I blinked at him a minute, then backhanded him. “Hey!”

  He laughed. “So what are you going to do about your birthday?”

  “Avoid my mother,” I grumbled.

  “Come on, Sammy. You can't and shouldn't do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “She knows she was wrong, and she apologized. Now it's up to you to show her how mature you really are. Can you do that?”

  I let out a grumbly laugh. “No.”

  He laughed, too, then said, “Say, why don't I take all three of you out to the Santa Martina Inn for brunch tomorrow.”

  I scowled at him. “Because I don't want to worry about which fork I'm supposed to be using.”

  He leaned forward like he was sharing a secret. “I'll help you.” Then he added, “Besides, that way I'll be with you. I'll act as a buffer. Otherwise, I have a hunch it'll be just you and the ladies all day.”

  Talk about a persuasive perspective! “Okay,” I said, then pulled a face. “But does it have to be the Santa Martina Inn?”

  “Special occasions require special ambiance.”