Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Oh, he's so cute,” Holly said.

  “Do you think it's that crazy cat lady's?” Marissa asked. “You said you saw her on this side of town last night, right?”

  I checked the phone number on the flyer. “It's not Psycho's number—I don't remember it exactly, but I know hers has three sevens in it.” I pulled down my flyer and muttered, “But what's the deal with missing cats?”

  As we continued walking, Marissa said, “Maybe you're just noticing it more?”

  “What, you think there are always dead cats in trash bins, we just haven't noticed them?”

  “No. But people lose their pets all the time.”

  “That's true,” Holly said. “The Humane Society gets calls all the time. And the pound picks them up, too.”

  “But doesn't this seem like a lot?”

  “You're always looking for the sinister,” Marissa said.

  “We found dead cats!”

  “But you got Dorito back, alive and well! And this little Zippy kitty will probably turn up, too. Cats go missing all the time! There's no cat-hater conspiracy. And no one's skinning them alive and putting them out as buffet food—that's just an old folk tale.”

  “Oh, is that so,” I said.

  And Holly snapped, “So we're supposed to think it's normal to find dead cats in the trash?”

  Marissa put both hands up. “Hey, sorry! I'm just saying maybe they got hit by a car. Or ate rat poison.” She pushed her bike along, saying, “You know what rat poison does, don't you?”

  “No, what?”

  “It makes animals thirsty. They go crazy looking for water. That's why people use it in their attics. Rats eat it, then they go outside looking for water and die.”

  “How does it kill them?” Holly asked.

  Marissa shrugged. “I don't know. It explodes their insides or something. The point is, there is no cat-killing conspiracy.”

  “So you're saying you think finding dead, spazzed-out cats in trash cans is normal?”

  Marissa stopped and looked right at me. “How should I know? I don't dig through trash!” The instant she said it she was sorry. “I… I didn't mean anything by that, okay? It's just not something I want to worry about. Dead cats. Dead mice. I don't like dead stuff.”

  “Neither do I,” I said.

  “Especially unnecessarily dead stuff,” Holly muttered.

  So the three of us walked along, taking down posters in silence for a while. And almost every place there was a Dorito poster, right next to it was a Zippy poster.

  When we got to the brickyard, the place was bustling and loud. A big truck about ran us over turning into the yard, and a forklift beeped us out of the way as it moved a load of cinder blocks into the street and onto a flatbed truck.

  “Good grief!” Marissa said as we hurried to the quiet safety of the Kustom Heat and Air property. “Were they trying to kill us?”

  Holly laughed, “Seemed like!”

  So we're just hurrying along when a voice behind us says, “Hey, chiquita, what brings you back to this wonderful part of town?”

  We turn around and there's Tony, locking up the door to Kustom Heat and Air. “Oh hi,” I tell him. “We're just taking down posters before someone calls the cops on us.”

  He nods and says, “Smart girl. I overheard the bank tellers at First Valley gossiping about it when I was cleaning there this morning.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You know those corporate types—they're big on rules.”

  “Well, I'll have all my flyers down soon, but somebody else's are up now.”

  He hesitates, then asks, “For another cat?”

  “Yeah. Only their flyer's better because there's a picture.” I point down the wall at the poster. “His name's Zippy—who knows? Maybe you'll spot him, too.”

  He shakes his head. “I'm not in the cat recovery business.” Then he frowns and lowers his voice. “But I sure hope those rumors about the Kojo Buffet aren't true.”

  My eyes bug out. “You heard that, too?”

  He nods. “In my line of work you hear a lot. And according to several of my customers, that's a place the cops ought to keep a better eye on.” But then he smiles and says, “But hey. Cats run off every day. It's usually nothing. They get hungry, they come home.”

  “See?” Marissa says. “That makes sense.”

  Then Holly asks, “Hey, Tony? Have you happened to have heard anything about that El Gato dude?”

  He shrugs. “Just rumors.”

  “Like?”

  “You know. Obvious stuff—he's a criminal. He's a weirdo. He's in a cult…just stuff people say when they don't have much to work with.” He waves. “Anyway, gotta get to my next job. Be cool!”

  When he's gone, I say to Holly, “El Gato really creeps you out, huh?”

  “Well, he seems to pop out of nowhere. And he always gives me the evil eye.”

  “He wears those cat-eye contacts, Holly. They're supposed to look, you know, dangerous.”

  Marissa says, “That guy sounds like a trip—when do I get to see him?”

  Holly mutters, “He's probably there right now.”

  “Can we go look?”

  Holly shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

  Marissa giggles. “Cool!”

  So we finish pulling down the rest of the flyers, then head east on Wesler Street and cut across the field behind the Pup Parlor. But as we're approaching the back door to Slammin' Dave's, I stop in my tracks. “Is that…”

  Holly looks to where I'm pointing and gasps, “It is!”

  “Who?” Marissa asks. “Where?”

  “Crouched beside the trash can… see her?”

  Marissa squints. “Who is that?”

  “The crazy cat lady!” Holly says, then whispers, “What is she doing?”

  I shrug. “Spying?” Then I tell Marissa, “Why don't you park your bike here so we can sneak up on her.”

  “But why?”

  “Uh, because she's psycho?”

  “Oh,” she says. Like, yeah, that makes sense—even though it really didn't.

  So she ditches her bike, and the three of us move in on the Psycho Kitty Queen, trying to get close enough to figure out what she's doing before she notices us.

  And the funny thing is, she doesn't notice us. We circle way around her and are careful and everything, but still. Even when we're twenty feet from her…ten feet from her… even when the ground's crunching behind her and our shadows are falling over her, she doesn't turn around. She just keeps looking past the trash can into Slammin' Dave's.

  So we sneak forward another few feet, and that's when I hear purring.

  Purring.

  And it's coming from the Psycho herself!

  And then I see what she's watching.

  Or, I should say, who.

  It's the Tiger in Tights.

  The Furball of Fight.

  The one and only El Gato.

  Holly puts it all together about the same time I do and looks at me, mouthing, “Oh my god!”

  Then Marissa nudges me and mouths, “What?”

  I shake my head at her, ‘cause how can I explain that I haven't seen this kind of animal magnetism since a pig fell in love with a cop?

  How can I explain something this bizarre?

  But the more I listen to the purring, the more I know it's true.

  Psycho Kitty's in love.

  Now we manage to stifle our giggles for a solid minute, but finally I clear my throat and say, “Uh, Miss Kitty?”

  She tries to jump up and spin around, but her circulation must have been pinched off from squatting for too long, because she winds up just falling over. And since Slammin' Dave's trash can is now empty, it falls over when she stumbles against it.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she stammers. “Why are you here?” She straightens her tiara and tries to stand, but her legs aren't quite ready.

  “The real question is, what are you doing here?” Then, for once I lock eyes with her, and sa
y with a grin, “But I think we've figured that out on our own.”

  She lost the stare-down almost instantly. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “You and El Gato?” I said with all sorts of Espan-yolé flair.

  “Who?” she said, getting up.

  From the skittery way she was looking at everything but me, it was easy to see she knew exactly who I meant. But she wouldn't fess up, so I said, “You know—the oversized cat in the ring?” Then I couldn't help it—I purred real loud and wiggled my eyebrows.

  Marissa nudged me and whispered, “Sammy!”

  The Psycho Kitty got all indignant. “I'm here because this is where you claim you found Snowball.”

  “So you and El Gato aren't, uh, friends?”

  She crossed her arms. “No!”

  “So why the little rendezvous with him last night?”

  Her eyes shifted from side to side. Then she said, “It's true, isn't it? You killed Snowball and brought him to my house just to torture me!”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “You think I don't know what a satanic cult is? How long do you think you can go on torturing cats before you get caught, huh? How long do you think you're going to get away with this? The police are on to you, I've made sure of that.” She backed away from us, hissed at us, then she snarled, “Stay away from me and my cats, or you'll… be… sorry!”

  There was a full minute of stunned silence as we watched her leave. And finally Marissa whispered, “You weren't kidding about her being psycho.”

  “I sure wasn't,” I said, still all amazed.

  Now, I guess our commotion caused some distraction inside Slammin' Dave's, because the next thing you know, El Gato is closing the back door. But before he does, he takes a few seconds to give each of us a hard stare. And maybe I should have pounced on him with, Hey! Did you tell her we belong to a satanic cult? but his eyes are so freaky, and he looks so spitting mad, that the door closes before I can get my act in gear.

  “Wow,” Marissa gasps. “Talk about a psycho kitty!”

  Holly laughs. “Yeah. How would you like to live next door to him?” Then she says, “Hey, I've got to get to work. I'll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

  So Marissa and I retrieve her bike, then yak our way over to Main Street. And while we're waiting for the light to change, Marissa eyes Maynard's Market and says, “How about a Double Dynamo?”

  I laugh, “Sounds good to me!” ‘cause there's nothing like the world's biggest, chocolatiest, nuttiest ice cream cone to make you forget about wackos and psychos and school.

  So we jet across Main Street, but when we pull on Maynard's door, it doesn't budge. “Huh?” Marissa says, and tries again.

  Then we notice, clear as day, the sign in the window:

  CLOSED.

  “Figures,” I grumble, peering through the glass to see if I can spot T.J.

  “We could get something at the mall…,” Marissa says.

  “Nah. I should get home.”

  So she takes off, but as I'm crossing over Broadway, I notice that there's already a group of men smokin' and jokin' in front of the Red Coach down the street. And seeing them reminds me of seeing Candi Acosta go into the House of Astrology, which of course reminds me of Heather and how we have the same stupid birthday.

  And all of a sudden I wonder what Gina's explanation to all this would be. I mean, if she's a star scientist like she says she is and not just some star charlatan like her made-up name suggests, then she has to be able to explain why Heather and I are so different, even though we were born under the same stars, or moon rising, or whatever.

  And the more I think about it, the more I decide that yeah, this is a question I not only want to ask, but I want a real answer to.

  So I truck down the street, right through the group of smokin', jokin' dudes, straight to Madame Nashira's House of Astrology.

  Bells jingle as I push through the door, and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I figure out that Gina is tied up with a customer, telling a fortune. I can't exactly see her, because she does her palm readings and fortune-tellings inside this gauzy curtained area, but I can see the shadows cast onto the curtain by the candles she's got burning, and with her hands moving over her crystal ball, it looks like an oversized Kabuki show.

  Madame Nashira's voice—which is deeper and, well, dreamier than Gina's real voice—comes wafting through the gauze. “Haaave a seat. I'll be with you sooooon.”

  So I have a seat. First on her red velvet love seat, then, because I feel stupid sitting on a red velvet love seat, I move over to a cushy side chair that is nearer the gauze zone. And I'm trying to get comfortable in that, ‘cause she's got three throw pillows on it and where's your body supposed to go with three throw pillows in the way? But as I'm wrestling around pillows, I notice that I can hear what Gina, uh, Madame Nashira, is saying.

  “I see a struggle … and darkness … there are people around … angry people … and who's this? A man … holding cash … lots of cash!”

  “What's he look like? Can you see?” It's a man's voice. Sort of tough.

  And, it suddenly hits me, very familiar.

  It's interesting enough, listening to a fortune-teller and all the bogus stuff they say, but when you realize that the person whose fortune is being told might be someone you know, well, your ears perk up, and forget about politeness—you listen.

  Madame Nashira's voice massaged the air. “I can't see his face … there's too much … what's that? Aaah, it's money! Yes, he's handing it out… he's throwing it around…”

  “When! When is this going to happen?”

  “It feels very near…”

  “Friday? Can you tell if it's Friday?” the man asks, and boy, does he sound spun up.

  “Oh…,” Madame Nashira says. “Oh dear, he's fading…”

  “Wait! Can't you bring him back?”

  “But someone else is appearing… Aaah, it's the same woman who appeared before…the one with the”—her hand swooshes around her head—“hair.”

  I snicker to myself as she drones on, saying, “And there you are beside her. She's reaching out… she's… oh, I see lips! Lots of lips!”

  “Can you get back to the guy with the cash? I need to know more about—”

  “Shhhhhh!” Madame Nashira whispers, swirling the air above the crystal ball. “I'm seeing lips, and… roses… and…white.”

  “White? You're seein' white?”

  “Long… flowing… white.” Her hands stop. “Are you considering marriage?”

  “No!”

  She swirls her hands over the crystal ball again. “So maybe it's a funeral.”

  “Same difference,” the man grumbles.

  “Oh… there she goes. She's floating… floating… floating away… !”

  “And?”

  “Oh, she's gone…,” Gina says. Like she's so, so sorry. Then she sighs heavily and says, “I'm afraid the spirits have retreated. Perhaps next time.”

  After a minute the man stands and grumbles something as he hands over some cash of his own. She takes it and says, “I can only help summon the spirits. I cannot control them. But here's another discount card should you decide to come back again.”

  “Aw, come on. How long do you expect me to keep doin' this?”

  “You can stop anytime,” Gina says in her dreamy Madame Nashira voice. “It's entirely up to you. The spirits do seem to have a strong connection to you. They seem to be trying to tell you something.” She laughs softly. “But life itself will tell you these things… in time.”

  The man grumbles something, but he takes the card anyway. Then the gauze curtain moves aside, and as they start coming through, I grab those three throw pillows, curl up in the chair, and cover myself the best I can. Then I hold my breath and wait. And when I see Gina's customer come through the gauze, I about bust up. I was right! And I'm dying to pop up and say, “Hey-hey, T.J.!” but I just stay curled up, holding my breath.

  “Hello?
” Gina's saying into the room. And lucky for me, it's a really dimly lit room with black walls, and she doesn't look my way. “Hello?” she says again, this time more firmly. And that's when I realize that she knows someone's still inside her House of Astrology because the bells on the door never jingled a second time, only that first time, when I'd come inside.

  Now, if I was trying to hide from Gina I would have been sweating it out. But I only wanted to stay hidden long enough for T.J. to leave. So the second he's gone I pop up and say, “Psssst! Over here.”

  “Huh?” Gina whips around, and when she sees me, she clutches her heart and says in her normal voice, “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Sneak up on me!”

  “I don't sneak up on you.”

  “The last time you were here you scared the livin' daylights out of me, too!”

  I laughed. “You're just jumpy.”

  “I am not!”

  I stood up. “So how often does T.J. come by?”

  “More and more all the time.” She grins. “That boy is hooked.”

  “You can say that again. And you were sure going for his weakness with all that guy-with-the-money mumbo jumbo—”

  “Hey, hey. No insulting Madame Nashira!”

  “No, I mean, you're good! You really had him going.”

  “Hmm,” she says, and she's not looking too pleased with me.

  So I say, “Sorry,” because I do like Gina and don't want her to be insulted.

  “Forget it,” she says. “And thanks for staying hidden until he left. Spotting you would've made him quit for sure.” She cocks her head. “So what brings you to the House of Astrology?”

  I plop down in the chair again and grumble, “Heather Acosta.”

  “Heather Acosta,” she murmurs, tapping her chin. “Why is that name so familiar?”

  “Because you just did a birth chart on her. Remember? A rush job for a ‘classy lady'?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” she says, snapping her fingers. “So? You know the girl?”

  “She happens to be my archenemy.”

  She studies me a minute, then sort of sways around. “So…?”

  “So Heather's evil. Wicked. Spiteful. Malicious. Deceitful. Dishonest. Mean.” I eye her. “Do I need to go on?”