Bad Kitty

by Michele Jaffe

  I dialed Polly’s number as I changed into my swimsuit.3 When I got her voice mail, I whispered, “Polly, I need to talk to you urgently. Call me as soon as you get this.”

  Then I put the note carefully into my underwear drawer to deal with later. It was my first piece of evidence.

  Good-bye, Model Daughter, we hardly knew ye.

  Nine

  Despite wearing my lucky bikini with the padded top and my lucky Urban Decay lip gloss and my lucky black cowboy boots with the red broken hearts stitched on them (a precautionary measure; I did not want to have to run in flip-flops again), things were not going my way. Polly didn’t call back, and Tom and Roxy’s cell phone bounced straight to voice mail, and I hadn’t had time to get online before the Thwarter dragged me out of my room, so my major sources of information were out. I would even have been happy to see the Evil Hench Trolls, since if I was right about what “it” was that I was supposed to stay out of, they knew something about it, but apparently recovering from the ordeal of the previous night required them to spend the day at the spa.

  Which left me stuck with the Thwarter and Sherri!. I have never been stranded on a desert island by myself with no sign of another soul in sight, but I would imagine it is much more pleasant than being trapped on a lounge chair next to Sherri! and my dad. Sherri! says she loves my dad because he is the funniest, most charming, and most thoughtful man she’s ever met, and while I suspect this is a sign of intense mental illness on her part, I think it’s great. And Sherri! makes my dad smile and laugh in a way I didn’t even know he was capable of. I am thrilled that they have found bliss with each other. Honestly. I wish them all the best. But sometimes I wish they would bliss themselves a little farther away from me. For one thing, they feed each other.

  For another, they finish each other’s sentences.

  And they coo.

  But that’s not the worst part. Sometimes they giggle to each other in this conspiratorial way like they’re remembering fabulous sex acts they performed the night before.

  And really? I do not want to think of them performing sex acts. Especially not fabulous ones. I have a very active and delicate imagination and I think it would be only fair of them to respect it, rather than contribute to its downfall. I could become a degenerate with the things I was thinking because they made me.

  When we first sat down, they mostly were whispering, and I could ignore them by concentrating on saying the alphabet backward in my head and making myself remember irregular verbs from French class and writing haikus like:

  Jack, my one true love,

  Where are you hiding yourself?

  My eyes must have lunch

  And

  Ms. Bristol, is your

  Cabana as oh-la-la

  As it looks from here?

  But time passes. Concentration wanes. Hunger sets in. My investigation called to me. And also, Sherri! and the Thwarter started getting louder.

  After we’d been outside for an hour, my father began to make audible growling noises. Not the kind he makes at me when he is mad. No, these were some other kind. A kind that made Sherri! go, “Oooh, Mr. Tiger. Are you feeling frisky?”

  That was it. That is an image no daughter should ever, ever have.

  No no no no no

  No no no no no no no

  Mr. Tiger no!

  Think of my tender ears! I could have died of cardiac arrest right then and there.

  But, unfortunately, I did not. What I did do was get up from my lounge chair, which immediately put a stop to the growling. My father returned to his human form to snap, “Where are you going, Jasmine?”

  Ah, this must be a sign of his thoughtfulness. I said, “I was just going to hop in my personal spaceship and go orbit the moon.” It sounded like a good idea. There was no noise—and therefore no MR. TIGER—in space.

  My father put on his Frown of Great Menace. “If I were a young lady in your position, Jasmine, I would not be so blithe.”

  I hadn’t even known I was being blithe! “If you were a young lady, Dad, a lot of things would be different,” I said. Blithely.

  “I am being serious.”

  “Me too. Think of the advantages—with me off in space, you won’t have to buy me any new clothes. Or pay college tuition.”

  “Jasmine,” he said in what he thinks of as his Warning Tone. “We had an agreement. You are to stay—”

  “I know, Mr. Tiger, I mean, Dad. But truthfully?” I was interested to hear what came out of my mouth next. I hadn’t really had any destination in mind when I stood up, so I tried to come up with the most innocent thing I could think of. “Truthfully, I was going to go see if Fred Bristol, who I just saw go into his mom’s cabana, wanted to go get an ice cream with me.” Only after I spoke the words did I see what a genius idea it was.

  Not only did ice cream suggest innocence more than any other food ever, and not only did I actually want some, and not only would an eight-year-old understand eating ice cream before you’ve had lunch, but buying a child ice cream seemed like a sure way to get him to tell you his life story. And his mother’s.

  Because there was little question that the “It” the threatening note wanted me to stay out of was connected to Fiona Bristol.

  It also meant I had to be careful. But whoever had warned me to stay out of “It” could not possibly think I was in “It” if I was just buying a young boy ice cream. Could they? Ice cream was above such petty things as “It.” Ice cream was like saying, “Move along, friend, no ‘It’ to see here.” But in creamy goodness form.

  In fact, I reasoned, I was probably even safer taking Fred for ice cream than with my dad and Sherri!. How much danger could Fred and I get into just getting ice cream?

  And even as I thought that, a part of my brain—a part which I have to say is really too small. I mean, hello, Part, couldn’t you have spoken up?—whispered, “You know, in books, anytime a heroine thinks, ‘How much danger could I be in if I just went for a short swim in the pretty blue ocean,’ she always ends up being mauled to death by hungry sharks. Just FYI.”

  But as I said, it whispered all that information, so pretty much all I was aware of was the fleeting thought “hungry sharks.” And since there are no sharks at the Venetian, and since I was feeling the need for speed away from Coo, and since the Thwarter actually agreed to let me go, I pulled my black terry-cloth dress over my bathing suit, slid into my cowboy boots, and went off to invite Fred for ice cream—well, blithely.

  Little Life Lesson 15: Blithe is bad. Blithe is really, really bad.

  Little Life Lesson 16: If you’re looking for a good time, don’t call an eight-year-old boy for a date.

  After a brief consultation with the Fabinator and strict instructions on the use of Kleenex, Fiona agreed to let Fred go with me. I am sorry to say, however, my pleasure in this privilege was short-lived.

  Maybe because I am an only child, I haven’t really developed my “take an eight-year-old for ice cream” skills. It was okay while we were walking from the pool area into the hotel and then riding the elevator down to the lobby where the ice cream store was, because we could talk about what our room numbers were and how hard they were to remember because there were five digits and what kind of view we had and whether we’d been on a gondola yet, but when Fred and I sat down with our sundaes at a table next to the casino floor, one of those kind of long and awkward silences came up, the kind that make you convinced everyone can hear you digesting. Strained is what it was.

  Until Fred paused in the middle of a bite and stared at me and said, “What is wrong with you?”

  Which was sort of a relief because it put my fears to rest that Fred’s superpower involved small talk. Nope, he wasn’t going to be stiff competition for me in the Tact and Small Talk event at the Charm Olympics.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, hoping he’d narrow the field. I mean, there are A LOT of things wrong with me. My boobs, for example, and their inability to grow. And the fact that my father tre
ats me like I’m six years old. And that I am taller than almost all the boys I know. But I didn’t especially feel like sharing any of that with an eight-year-old. Even one who was apparently as conversationally inept as I was.

  He said, “Well, for one thing, your dad is white and you aren’t.”

  Whoa, that was MasterCard! Eight-year-olds are neat! Giving Fred my most cool “don’t worry, I forgive you for your grave social gaffe” smile, I explained patiently, “My mother had dark skin. She was from Jamaica.” And waited for him to apologize.

  Instead he sat up and said, “Is she dead? Your mom? Did she die?” like he was all excited to feast off her corpse or something.

  So I said, “Fred, could I give you a tip? That kind of question can be sort of sensitive.”

  “Oh. It’s just that I saw a dead body once.” He completely deflated in the chair and wiped his nose on his arm. “I thought maybe you did too.”

  Boy, did I feel awful. I said, “My mom did die. In an accident. I didn’t see her body because I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral. Whose body did you see?”

  “Mr. Phillips’s. But not at a funeral. In the bedroom.”

  This was the kind of thing I had wanted to know, but I suddenly felt really bad. It wasn’t fair to make a little guy remember stuff like that. Even if he was wearing Spider-Man sneaks and was sort of crusty around the nose. Fred had stopped eating his sundae and was staring at the table.

  I started to say, “Why don’t we talk about something else?” but he went on.

  “I was looking for Mother to show her how Mad Joe could dance if you held a treat over his head, and I thought I heard her voice in the bedroom, so I went in there and someone hit me on the back of my head.”

  What kind of eight-year-old called his mom “Mother”? Fred was a strange kid. Plus, his voice was calm, like he was telling me about his ant farm, not about seeing a dead body. I said, “Did it hurt when you got hit?”

  “A little. And it made me fall down and forget everything. And I let go of Mad Joe, which I wasn’t supposed to do. He ran out of the window and got in an accident with a car. That’s why he only has three legs.”

  “Oh.”

  “And after a little while I woke up and that was when I saw Mr. Phillips lying on his stomach. There was blood all around him, and Father was leaning over him holding a knife.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I was just staring at him, but he didn’t really notice. He went on in his little boy voice that had no emotion in it, saying, “For a long time I didn’t tell anyone about that because I didn’t want to get Father in trouble. But they said he was the one who hit me in the head. So it was his fault that Mad Joe got in the accident, not mine. Because the window was supposed to be closed all the time but he opened it. So I told.”

  I searched for something to say. “That must have been very hard.”

  “It was okay. Mad Joe had to go to the hospital and they took off his leg. And for a long time he was sick and wouldn’t eat his food. Even if I got down on the ground with him and showed him how. Like this.” At which point he leaned down and started licking his ice cream with his tongue. It was probably the most pathetic thing I’d ever seen.

  I couldn’t stop myself. I got up and went around the table and gave him a big hug and said, “Don’t worry, Fred. Everything will be okay.”

  His little body was rigid in my arms but when he turned his serious little face up to mine I thought I saw a glimmer of feeling. He sniffled and said, “Promise? I don’t want anything bad to happen to Mad Joe.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  Yes, I know that what waits for people who say stuff like that is way worse than the swimming-in-the-ocean-with-sharks stuff. And now I know why. But did I really have a choice? No.

  Besides, it was good that I was there because I felt it right away when Fred flinched like he was startled. Looking down, I saw that he had dropped his spoon and his face had gone completely white and his mouth was open but no words were coming out.

  “Fred? Are you okay?”

  He tilted his little head up and whispered, “Don’t let him come over here! Don’t let him get any closer!” and started to shake. I turned my head to see whatever he had been looking at, but all I saw were normal-looking people playing slot machines. Still, there was no question that the boy who could sit calmly talking about witnessing a murder was now terrified.

  Or having some kind of fit. Because at that moment he jumped out of his chair, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me into the casino. Maybe you’re thinking, how could an eight-year-old drag a six-foot-tall girl into a casino, and all I can say is, he had the strength of ten men.

  At least.

  He didn’t stop until we were in front of a slot machine, at which point he climbed up into the chair, held out his hand to me, and said, “Give me a quarter.”

  “Fred, how long have you had a gambling problem?” I asked. “You know as well as I do that it’s illegal for us to be—”

  “You PROMISED,” he reminded me. “Put a quarter in the machine. Please.”

  Suddenly everything that I’d overheard Fiona Bristol saying the night before about someone being after her and Fred, about being scared for her life, came back to me. I didn’t know who or what Fred was afraid of, only that he was, and he seemed to think a quarter would help.

  Also, I am a complete sucker.

  I put a quarter in the slot machine. Fred’s little arm shot out like lightning and he pulled the lever. The wheels spun and the machine started making dinging noises and lights flashed before my eyes—

  And we were surrounded on all sides by Venetian security guards.

  Little Life Lesson 17: Even when you’re gambling illegally, standing behind a slot machine yelling, “Big money oh yeah, big money oh yeah” totally does help you win.

  Ten

  It turns out that the Venetian Gulag is more extensive than I thought. For one thing, there is more than one holding cell. The one I was shown into this time was nicer, or maybe it was the consciousness that this time I hadn’t done anything wrong. How could I be blamed for Fred’s little gaming addiction? Although that wasn’t going to play well with the Thwarter. The fact that I was clothed this time probably helped too.

  Plus, I only stayed for a little while. I barely had time to ask myself if maybe old-beyond-his-years Fred had actually been aiming for this outcome, aiming to attract the attention of Venetian security, when two members of that elite squad came in. Security Officer Kim and Security Officer Reese stood on either side of me as I got up from my chair, like they thought I might make some kind of getaway. Officer Kim said, “Come this way,” and Officer Reese said, “Wait here,” and before I knew it I’d been led down a corridor, pushed through a door, and locked in an office. I felt like we had really spent some quality time together.

  The office I was locked in was large and impressive, with wood paneling on the walls and a desk in the middle and a bunch of television screens on one side that showed different views of the casino. On the desk was a plate that read, L. A. CURTIS, CHIEF.

  But I was more interested in the things on the wall. One side was totally taken up with plaques. The earliest ones were from the navy and then there were several honoring Leonard Curtis for distinguished service in the San Francisco Police Department. So L. A. Curtis’s first name was Leonard. And he’d been both a sailor and a cop.

  Interesting.

  Another wall had two big stuffed fish on it and a bunch of photos of Mr. Curtis and other men on boats. There were also some pictures of him that could have been taken from a “Man on the Go” calendar: one with an old restored car, several in a wetsuit and scuba tank, and one of him wearing a ripped shirt and soiled pants, standing surrounded by a big group of people and gesturing manfully at a sign that said LAS VEGAS THEATER CLUB PROUDLY PRESENTS—LES MISÉRABLES. No wonder he kept his veneers up-to-date. I was just thinking that he certainly had a lot of energy when the door opened and that star of stage and sec
urity bounced in. Today he was wearing a beige linen suit and looking more than ever like he should be meeting private jets at a tropical resort.

  He really didn’t seem like a Leonard, even if he did walk kind of strangely.

  He settled into his chair, picked a dark thread off his cuff, and then said, “Miss Callihan. Another exciting surprise.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’m sorry, sir. I did not mean to cause trouble.” I also hadn’t really meant to apologize. I didn’t do anything wrong. But for some reason Mr. Curtis was the kind of person who could almost make me feel guilty for having arm hair. Probably his police training.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said. There was something about his tone and the long pause that followed that made me pretty sure it was going to be “Will we have to handcuff you, or will you go quietly?” So I was surprised when he said, “Why did you have Fred pull the lever on the slot machine instead of pulling it yourself?”

  “Uh, I didn’t. It was Fred’s idea.”

  Mr. Curtis looked at me without saying anything and I started to feel itchy. This was a taste of what I was going to be in for with my dad, I knew, which made itchy turn to desperate.

  “Really. I know it was wrong of me to let him,” I heard myself blustering on. “I did not mean to do anything illegal. He—”

  Mr. Curtis put up a hand. “Actually, I’ve got to hand it to you. Your quick thinking may be the only thing that stopped a serious crime.”

  Time for my second visit to Mr. Curtis’s parallel universe. “I beg your pardon? A crime? What crime?”

  Mr. Curtis flashed me a BriteSmile. “You know, I like your inquisitiveness.”