Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “Thanks.” We started to leave, but I turned back and said, “Oh, and Gina?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh… that's my only copy.”

  “Got it.”

  Like I promised, I took Holly to the stairs. But when we turned into the stairwell, she pulled back and said, “Eeeegh.”

  I laughed and said, “Told you,” because the Heavenly has the pukiest stairwell known to man. There are old, warped mirrors lining both sides from top to bottom, which makes weird reflections that go on for ever and ever in both directions.

  Holly started down, saying, “It's making me seasick!” But once she got the hang of it, she said, “What a trip!” and moved a little faster.

  So there we were, thumping along, joking about what drugs some interior decorator must've been on to actually do this, when all of a sudden me and my mutant reflections stopped dead in our tracks.

  “What?” Holly asked. But then she saw him, too, coming up the stairs. “Who's that?” she mouthed.

  “The Bulldog,” I mouthed back.

  “Who?”

  He was close now, so I waited until we'd passed each other to whisper, “The guy I followed into Slammin' Dave's. When I hid under the ring, remember?”

  “Oh right. But I thought you said that psycho cat lady said the guy who snatched her cat looked like a pit bull, not a bulldog.”

  “I know.”

  “So? Why'd you freeze up when you saw him?”

  “I don't know. Something about him seems… off. Plus, I wasn't expecting him. It's like he disappeared inside Slammin' Dave's, and now poof, here he is walking up the steps of the Heavenly.”

  “Carrying a gym bag.”

  “And smelling like a shower…”

  We both stopped and stared at each other.

  “No … !” Holly whispered.

  “Same build, same, you know, demeanor..”

  “It's gotta be him!” she whispered.

  I grinned. “El Gato is the Bulldog—kinda ironic, huh?”

  “It fits, though.”

  “And it explains why he's at Dave's so much—he lives right next door!”

  “Well!” she said. “Now we know who we're dealing with!”

  I nodded. “And the cool thing is, he doesn't know we know.”

  Holly grinned. “He probably thinks we're just a couple of stupid kids.”

  I grinned back. “Ha!”

  By the time I got back to the apartment, the bat had swung past the ball, but not by much.

  “I was just starting to worry,” Grams said when I slipped through the door.

  “Hey, I'm home on time,” I said, and tapped my watch. “It's not a home-run watch—it's a run home watch. And when it was time to run home, I did.”

  She laughed and said, “Well, good!”

  So I buckled down and did my homework while I ate a giant slab of leftover birthday cake. And by the time I'd taken a shower and put some more anti-itch stuff on my flea bites, it was way past time for bed.

  The next morning started normally enough—I had to gobble down breakfast and ride like crazy to make it to homeroom before the tardy bell rang, Marissa waved at me, Holly waved at me, and Heather gave me the evil eye.

  Definitely a typical morning.

  But after that strange things began to happen.

  First, I aced a math quiz. I got none wrong. And believe me, when it comes to pop quizzes, I never get 100 percent. Now, if everybody had done great on it, that would have been one thing. But half the class totally bombed it. Rick Lopez was the only other person to ace it, and as a reward Mr. Tiller gave Rick and me homework passes. That's like a get-out-of-jail-free card. Math homework is the worst.

  So I left Mr. Tiller's classroom in a great mood, which only got better in history. Mr. Holgartner was absent. Absent! You have to understand—Mr. Holgartner is like the Noise Nazi. He sends you to the office for breathing too loud, which is a real hazard, seeing how his class is always a total snooze. But he was absent, and the substitute turned out to be a laid-back guy who let us work in groups. Marissa and I talked the whole class period.

  Then after history I found a five-dollar bill on the ground. There was nobody around it or I might have said, Hey, is this yours? But it was all by its little lonesome, and since a five-dollar bill isn't exactly something you turn in to the Lost and Found, I stuck it in my pocket alongside the two twenties.

  And as if that wasn't enough to keep me smiling for the rest of the day, Mr. Pence caught Heather copying homework during science and sent her to the office. I was so jazzed that he'd nailed her that I actually paid attention to his lecture on the anatomy of an amoeba.

  So I had the most awesome day in junior high history. If every day could be like that, I would love school.

  Then after school Holly went to work at the Humane Society, Dot went home with her dad, and Marissa and I went to the mall to buy me a CD player. And when I found a really great one on closeout, and the CD I wanted in the “Like New” section for half off, Marissa just shook her head and said, “You are having the luckiest day ever.”

  Up to that point we had used the words awesome and amazing and unbelievable, but no one had said lucky. But when Marissa used that word, we both stopped what we were doing, looked at each other, then looked at my shoe.

  “Ohmygod!” Marissa whispered.

  “It… it's just a coincidence.”

  “Oh right,” she laughed. “Some coincidence.”

  I shook my head. “You watch. Any second now my life will go back to normal.”

  “Don't say that! Don't even think it. This is your new life. Embrace it! You now have unlimited luck.”

  I laughed. She was being so, you know, New Agey

  “Boy,” she chuckled, “my dad could've used you in Las Vegas.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her voice dropped. “I'm not supposed to tell anyone, but I can tell you. He lost two thousand dollars at the roulette table.”

  I cringed. “Ouch.”

  “Double ouch after mom found out. She laid into him, and then he laid into her about acting like a stupid teenager over Darren Cole.”

  I shook my head. “Sounds like you did some real successful family bonding.”

  She snorted. “It was a disaster.” Then she sighed and said, “I've gotta go kill some aliens—wanna come?”

  So I went with her to the video arcade, and while she took out her frustrations on electro-badguys, I assembled my CD player, popped on the headphones, and let the sound of distorted guitars, driving bass, and bashing drums power-massage my brain. And by the time Marissa was out of quarters, I'd listened to the whole CD and had started over.

  Marissa laughed. “You're going to be sick of that by tomorrow.”

  “It's so good!”

  “Yeah, but I'll bring you some others tomorrow.”

  Then I noticed my watch. “Uh-oh! I'd better get home.”

  She held my wrist and said, “That is the coolest watch ever. Find out where she got it, okay?” She hesitated a second then said, “You wouldn't mind, would you? If I got one, too?”

  “No! That'd be great. I was thinking we should get Ms. Rothhammer one next year if she coaches us again.”

  “Great idea!”

  “Anyway, I've gotta go.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  So off we went, me out the north end of the mall, Marissa out the south end. And I was having a great time cruising up to the intersection of Broadway and Main, listening to my very own CD on my very own player, when I noticed the Bulldog coming out of the Heavenly.

  I peeled off my headphones and watched. Don't ask me why, but it seems you can see better if you can also hear what's going on around you.

  The Bulldog had a black gym bag, but he wasn't heading north to Slammin' Dave's—he was walking south toward Main.

  I couldn't help wondering where he was going. I mean, if he was working out, why wasn't he going to Slammin' Dave's? Did he have some other place h
e worked out, too?

  Or maybe he was going someplace to switch into El Gato. If he didn't leave the Heavenly in his mask, where did he change? Some public bathroom? A gas station?

  A phone booth?

  I sort of hid behind the light post and waited out the light. And when the Bulldog got down to Main and turned west, I stuffed my CD player in my backpack, picked up my board, and crossed over Broadway.

  The Bulldog was walking fast. And since I was on the opposite side of the street, I decided that I was being stupid, trying to keep up with him on foot. So I tossed down my skateboard and hopped on. It's amazing how you can just basically coast along on a skateboard and keep up with somebody trucking along on foot.

  After I'd closed the gap a little, I noticed that his gym bag seemed heavy. Heavier than a cat suit and shoes, that's for sure. More like a cat suit and shoes and a dumbbell or something. Well, okay. Maybe not that dense, but, you know, heavy enough for him to switch hands a couple of times.

  And then I swear I saw the gym bag twitch. Actually, it was more a jolt.

  But… why would his gym bag be moving?

  Well, just as I was formulating a horrible thought about what might be in his bag, poof, the Bulldog disappeared. One minute he was blocked from view by a tree, the next he was gone.

  I figured out in a hurry that he had turned down the same driveway that I'd used to get away from Butcher Boy. So I cut across the street, wondering, Does he really have a cat in that bag?

  I spotted him in time to see him turn left down the alley. So where was he going with his twitchy bag? To the Kojo Buffet? Did they pay him for cats?

  But how stupid would that be? I mean, buying chickens had to be cheaper than paying someone to snag you cats. Unless… unless they were a delicacy. Or maybe the Bulldog hated cats so much that he just wanted to rid the world of them. But then why dress up like a cat? It didn't make sense.

  Still. I was real careful going down the driveway toward the alley. I thought about ditching my backpack and my skateboard so I'd be more, you know, svelte, but decided against it. There wasn't a bush in sight, and the last thing I wanted was to lose my most prized possessions.

  And I'm not talking homework books, believe me.

  So I kept it all with me, but I knew it was going to make ducking out of view harder to do. So I was cautious. Careful.

  And, it turns out, slow.

  By the time I peeked around the corner and down the alley, he was gone. I moved out a few feet and checked left.

  No Bulldog.

  I checked right.

  No Bulldog.

  So I stepped forward a few feet, and when I didn't spot him further down the alley, I hurried to the back door of the Kojo Buffet.

  The door was propped open, and I was careful going up to it because I didn't want Butcher Boy or the Bulldog to spot me, especially if a cat was changing hands. Who knows what they'd do to me? Maybe I'd wind up in the cooler, and get turned into sweet-and-sour Sammy. I could hear people now, going, “Mmmm… tastes like chicken.”

  But when I looked inside the Kojo kitchen, I didn't see the Bulldog. Just Butcher Boy and his helper chopping and stirring and making steam.

  I watched for a minute or two, just in case, then gave up and moved up the alley, keeping my eyes peeled for the Bulldog. If he wasn't going to the Kojo Buffet, why did he cut to the alley? Had he spotted me tailing him?

  At the end of the block I abandoned the alley and got on a regular street. And as I wound through the West Side, I tried to make sense of things. Why would a guy steal cats? It couldn't be like stealing babies, where someone would pay a lot of money for them—there were cats everywhere! So what would motivate a person to steal cats? Love? Money? Revenge? And why kill them? Why did the cats all look so… terrified? Was there a cult making animal sacrifices? Was there some part of a cat that people wanted?

  The more I thought about it, the more nuts it made me. There had to be a reason. A connection.

  But what?

  When I came to the streets where I'd been with Holly and Marissa the day before, I noticed that the flyers for Zippy the Missing Cat were all taken down. But then I saw a lady across the street from the brickyard taping up a flyer. So I rode over and saw that they were flyers for… Zippy the Missing Cat. “Hey,” I said, “I was hoping you'd found your cat. I noticed your flyers were all taken down.”

  “Some jerk took them down,” she snapped.

  “They did? Well, uh… did you know it was against the law?” She just stared at me, so I added, “To post flyers.”

  “What are you telling me?” She looked angry. Suspicious. Like she was thinking that I was the one who had taken them down.

  So I said, “Stupid law, huh? I didn't know about it, either, but I found out when I put up flyers for my missing cat.”

  “Your missing cat?”

  “Mine was the speckled orange one—you put your flyers right next to mine.”

  “Oh!” She smiled, and it changed her whole face. “Did you find him?”

  “Yeah. I was so relieved.” I laughed. “He was only missing for a few hours, but when we got him back he was, like, covered with fleas. But at least we got him back.”

  “So he was probably at the pound, then?”

  “The pound? No, a guy who works around here found him over on Piños Street.”

  “Oh,” she said. “When you said fleas I figured pound. They dump house cats in with mangy strays.”

  “I take it you've already checked there for Zippy?”

  She nodded. “There wasn't one healthy-looking cat there. It was really sad.”

  “Well, I'll keep my eyes peeled for Zippy. He looks like a sweet cat.” Then I added, “And if I were you, I'd keep breaking the law—it worked for me.”

  She looked down the street and shook her head. “Why would anyone care if you put up posters? Half these places are vacant anyway.”

  I snickered. “Welcome to Santa Martina.” And I was about to take off, but stopped and said, “Hey, did a man with a blond buzz cut and a black gym bag happen to walk by here?”

  She looked at me. “Yes!”

  “Really? Did you see where he went?”

  “Well, he… “ She looked up the sidewalk. “He passed right by me, but no.”

  “Did he say anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did he read your poster?”

  She shook her head again. “It was almost like I wasn't here. Who is he?”

  Now, I didn't want to try and explain how he was El Gato the Cat-Stealing Cat because (a) I didn't know for sure that he stole cats, and (b) it sounded way too wacky. So I just said, “I'm not sure, but you might want to be, you know, wary of him.”

  “Okaaaaay…”

  I got on my board and pushed off, saying, “Anyway, I'll be on the lookout for Zippy”

  “Thanks!” she called, and when I looked over my shoulder I saw that she'd gone back to taping up flyers.

  That night I called Holly while Grams was in the tub and told her about running into Zippy's owner. She told me that she'd checked, but there weren't any cats like Zippy at the Humane Society. Then she asked, “But why were you back in that part of town?”

  So I told her about following the Bulldog and about how it looked like his bag had jolted and all of that. And when I was done, she said, “So if it was a cat… I mean, why?”

  “Exactly.”

  We were both quiet a minute, and then she said, “I'm starting to think the guy's not just creepy—he's sick.”

  “It does seem weird.”

  “Well, I can't wait until tomorrow.”

  “What's happening tomorrow?”

  “The pictures are going to be done. Vera took them in this morning.”

  “Great!”

  “Yeah. I tried to get her to do one-hour, but she didn't think the picture sounded incriminating enough to waste the money.”

  “Oh well. Tomorrow's good. You want to go to Slammin' Dave's t
ogether?”

  “Absolutely. You saw the whole thing, too.”

  “So after school?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  So we hung up, but ten seconds after I put the phone down, it rang. And since I figured it was Holly calling me back to tell me something, and since Grams was still in the tub and couldn't exactly answer it herself, I broke a house rule—I picked up the phone.

  But it wasn't Holly. It was a muffled voice that said, “Quit snoopin' around, kid, or I guarantee, you'll be sorry.”

  Now, right before the phone went dead, I heard a horn blare. And it took me a second to realize that what was weird about the horn was that I didn't just hear it through the phone.

  I also heard it through the air.

  I charged into Grams' bedroom, snagged the binoculars from underneath her bed, and scoured the area around the pay phone by Maynard's. I looked up and down Broadway, then Main. There were no cat dudes or bulldogs or psycho kitties out in front of Maynard's. Only T.J, standing in the doorway, having a smoke.

  My brain did a double take. T.J.? But then I thought, Nah. T.J. was grumpy but harmless. Besides, how would he have my number?

  Then I remembered—the flyers. He'd snagged one off the phone pole. Actually, now that I thought about it, anyone could have my number—we'd papered the whole West Side with flyers. Talk about a strategic mistake!

  Grams was still in the bathroom, so I hurried back to the kitchen. Maybe I was also making a mistake about the Maynard's phone booth. Maybe the horn honk had been just a coincidence. After all, there were pay phones all over Santa Martina—lots of them near busy streets.

  I picked up the phone and dialed *69, hoping I'd get lucky with automatic dial-back. Maybe I'd be able to figure out who had called, or from where.

  The phone rang. And rang. And rang some more. But I just let it keep ringing. And then all of a sudden, somebody picks up. First there's the sound of exhaling. Then a voice says, “Hello?”

  And my heart starts pounding, because even from that one little word, I know who's on the other end.

  I almost just hung up. But at the last second I gave my voice a Cockney accent and said, “‘Ello, I'm tryin' to reach Maynard's Market.”