The Unscratchables

by Cornelius Kane

  I started dragging over a generator carcass. “Help me out here, angel face.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  “I can’t outrun a whippet,” I said, “but I can sure corner him.”

  We blocked every exit in the yard with an assortment of wrecks and metal sidings. Then I ordered the pug to bolt the gate. And I went whippet-stalking.

  I upended trash, trundled over corrugated sheets, made sure everyone knew I was there. And there was no shortage of worthless mutts kenneled into the trash—“junkyard dogs,” they called themselves. Fleabags on the lam, scumlickers without a biscuit to their name, curs with a taste for garbage. I glimpsed their slitted peepers and smelled their soaking filth. And I enjoyed scaring the ticks off them.

  “Flasha Lightning!” I kept hollering. “I’m looking for a fish packer called Flasha Lightning!”

  Eventually I heard a clatter of old pots, smelled a waft of sardines, and from the corner of my eye saw an eel-like figure spring out from a nest of old washing machines and streak for the fence like a genuine flash of lightning. I scrambled over a pile of spring mattresses and zigzagged after him. As he curled around a wall of busted shopping trolleys, I barked, “Flasha!” just to make him run faster.

  There was a sound like a spoon gonging a dinner can—my mouth actually watered—and I knew I had him.

  When I rounded the trolleys I saw him with his bobble in his paws: he’d bolted blindly for a hole and rammed headfirst into an old filing cabinet. I ripped out a choker chain and had it looped around his neck before he had a chance to whimper.

  “Whatsa matter, Flasha, lost your thunder?” I jerked the chain so hard that he flew up into my face.

  “I didn’t do nothing!”

  “You’re coming with me to the cophouse, junkie.”

  “I don’t wanna go back there!”

  “Not like you got a choice, is it?”

  I belted him on the bobble with my skull—nobody was around to see us—and dragged him to the tooter scratching and squealing like a poodle on the way to the vet.

  “I DONE NOTHING wrong.”

  “Snip it, whippet.”

  “I got no reason to go back there.”

  “You’ll be going to the pound if you don’t play ball. And you know where they send you from there.”

  I shot a glance into the mirror. Chained to the security bar, Flasha was looking left and right, licking his chops, shaking—a typically shiftless junkie.

  “And don’t get any ideas in your poky little head,” I added. “You ain’t scampering anywhere on my watch.”

  At the cophouse I banged him through the front swingers like a hospital gurney, hoping to get to the grill rooms before I got noticed. But I’d only made it to the front desk when an old blowfly buzzed out of the shadows.

  “Crusher—just come from the lost luggage office?”

  I cursed the desk sergeant for letting him in. “Nipper Sweeney,” I sighed. “Shouldn’t you be sniffing in the gutter?”

  He sniggered. “Got any scraps for me?”

  “Nothing worth swallowing.”

  “Come on, buddy, you owe me one!”

  “I owe you nothin’, pal—not after the front page.”

  “What did I say that was wrong?”

  “You bit off more than you can chew, sunshine.”

  A guffaw. “I ain’t nothin’ but a newshound, Crusher.”

  But I was already around the corner.

  In the grill cubicles I found a young retriever sniffing his paw and told him to clear out. The room was made of cinder blocks and stank of urine. There was mirror-glass along one wall and a bony table in the middle. I flung Flasha into a plastic chair and shot a glance at the ticker.

  “Okay, junkie, it’s seven-thirty. By seven thirty-five I want a full witness report, exactly like you saw it—no gravy, no trimmings, just the meat, get me?”

  He was rubbing the bump on his bobble. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  “Shut up and start yapping.”

  He gulped. “Have I got your promise that—”

  “Only promise you got is that I’ll bite your sniffer off if you don’t make with the meat.”

  He glanced at the two-way mirror. “But I told you what I saw…at Slinky Joe’s, I already told you.”

  “An impression of movement?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that?”

  “You said you heard two gunshots, a cat squeal, and a splash—that right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Whaddaya mean, maybe?”

  He was sweating. “I don’t want no trouble.”

  I leaned across the table and dragged him into my face. “You want a deathshake, pal? You wanna feel your bony hide hit the tiles for the last time?”

  He looked left and right, up at the ceiling—every which way—like he’d just eaten someone’s homework.

  “The truth, whippet.”

  He started to splutter. “It…it was much like you said.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you said, but no cat squeal.”

  “What’s that mean? You heard no squeal?”

  “No, not that. I—”

  “What?”

  He gulped. “I heard a squeal, but it wasn’t no cat.”

  “Come again?” I barked. “No cat? You never heard a cat?”

  He looked like he was sitting on a hot plate. “No,” he squeaked.

  “You didn’t see any cats at all? Didn’t hear them?”

  “No.”

  “So two gunshots, a whirl, and a dog squeal, and then a splash? That what you’re yapping?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shook him. “Then why’d you lie?”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Why’d you run?”

  “Run from where?”

  “From here—from the station. Got something against cops?”

  A whisper. “I got a nose—”

  “What?”

  “I got a nose for trouble.”

  “You got a nose for popping balloons, whippet. You willing to go on the record? Or do I gotta slap you around some more?”

  He swallowed saliva. “Guess so.”

  The door creaked open and Flasha looked like he’d set eyes on a grizzly bear.

  I turned, but it was only Bud Borzoi, all out of breath. “Chief wants to see you, Crusher.”

  “You’re just in time,” I said, straightening. “Our choice-cut witness is going to make it official. Get the camera cranked up. And Bud.” I stopped long enough to give him a front-gate stare. “Don’t ever let a suspect out of your choppers again. It don’t look good. For anyone.”

  “Sure thing, Crusher.” His head was tilted, innocentlike.

  “Back in two shakes of a cocker’s tail,” I said.

  I shot a glance at Flasha on the way out, but I could see his own tail was tight between his legs.

  THE CHIEF WAS bristling. “What’s going on, McNash? I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “The barkbox wasn’t working, Chief.”

  “A fuse had blown—oh, right. Do I look like Goofy to you? That story’s as old as Anubis.”

  “I was busy, that’s the truth. I had to head back to—”

  “A cat?” The chief was glaring at me. “Dr. Barnabus tells me we’re dealing with a murderous cat? And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell me?”

  “I needed to verify it first.”

  “What’s there to verify?” He waved at a pile of printouts. “Saliva samples. Blood samples. DNA analysis.”

  I shook my head. “Have you spoken to the SI boys yet? I’m telling you, it don’t add up. There’s no evidence of a killer cat at the murder scene.”

  “Are you accusing Dr. Barnabus of error?”

  “He’s getting old, Chief—his senses might be drooping like everything else.”

  “What about forensic pathology?”

  “The
y never said anything about a cat killer. And SI’s the same.”

  The chief frowned. “So let me get this straight. Barnabus claims a cat killed the ’weilers. SI says there’s no trace of a cat at the wharf?”

  “No, SI says there’s a trace of only one cat—the victim, the lowlife who got dumped in the drink. So if there’s another cat, a killer, then where’d he go—into thin air? And now I’ve got the word of our number-one witness—I snared him this afternoon.”

  “The worthless whippet?”

  I ignored the worthless part. “And he backs it up, Chief. No killer cat. He saw no killer cat.”

  “He actually said there was no killer cat?”

  “Two gunshots, a dog squeal, and a splash. But no killer cat. And no reason to call the FBI.”

  “That right?” The chief didn’t look convinced. “Sure you’re not hearing what you want to hear, McNash? You’ve done that before.”

  I bit down the instinct to get snappy. “Think about it, Chief. The ’weilers have been paid to dispose of a scumbag alley cat, probably a powder dealer. Maybe they scratch him in the Lupus, maybe before. Anyway, he leaves some DNA on them in the process. Then he gets dumped in the bay. Then some rival goons spring up, there’s some gunplay, and the ’weilers get minced.”

  “And the killers?”

  “Jump in the soup and dog-paddle away.”

  The chief’s brow was still furrowed. “Thin as a cracker, McNash.”

  “I’m telling you, Chief—the killers are mutts, they gotta be.”

  The jangler was sounding. “You got the whippet’s account on tape?”

  “‘Bout to.”

  “Then come back here when you do. I want to see the evidence. And I don’t want this getting off the chain.”

  “Count on me,” I said.

  But back in the grill rooms, I found the whippet all cagey again.

  “I don’t know what I seen…”

  I frowned. “Whaddaya yapping about now?”

  “I’m saying it was…too quick…I ain’t sure.”

  “What’s going on?” I looked at Bud, who shrugged, and back at Flasha. “Five minutes ago you made a statement. Two gunshots, a dog cry, and a splash. Did you say that or not?”

  Fleas were hopping off the whippet, he was so bloodless. “I don’t remember no more…I really don’t remember…”

  I bared my fangs. “What’s going on, Flasha? You playin’ games?”

  “I don’t know what I seen…”

  I thrust my muzzle into his crooked little ear. “You want me to hook you up to the slap machine? Or should I just take a bite out of you right now?”

  “Crusher”—it was Bud—“the camera’s on.”

  I pulled back, blood pumping. Bud was right. I couldn’t get caught on tape ripping a chunk out of a witness—not again. “Give yourself a minute to think about it, junkie,” I snapped, and went out the swingers with Bud.

  We spoke under a photo of Vice President Palomine. “I don’t get it,” I said. “The whippet was about to howl like a wolf. Now he’s clamped up like a cookie jar. Anything happen while I was gone?”

  Bud shrugged. “He’s a jukebox, Crusher.”

  “A jukebox?”

  “He plays a hundred different tunes. You just gotta know what buttons to jab.”

  I snorted—the pup had gotten himself some good lines. “You leave the room at any stage?”

  “Only to set up the camera.”

  “And no one got to him?”

  “I woulda seen if someone did.”

  I thought about it. “And what happened last night? When you first brought him in?”

  “We hadn’t even got to my desk—I was going to clacker up a report—when he sprang off like a jackrabbit.”

  “Nobody spoke to him? Nobody gave him a lip curl?”

  Bud shook his head. “I just think he’s allergic to cop hair. He’s as low as a dachshund’s pecker.”

  At another time I might’ve found it funny, hearing a borzoi buttsnipe a whippet. But I didn’t get much time to ponder it.

  “Crusher.” It was Chesty White, his head around the corner. “Chief wants to see you.”

  “Too late—I already seen him.”

  “This is new, Crusher. We got another witness—someone who saw the killer just an hour ago.”

  “What?” I said. “Who?”

  “A cat.”

  “A cat?” I blinked. “What sort of cat?”

  “A cat in a hat.”

  “A cat in a hat?”

  “Or something like that.”

  FIRST THING I noticed was that it wasn’t exactly a cat.

  Second thing I noticed was that it wasn’t exactly a hat.

  Third thing I noticed—it was clear from the way he was dressed, from the way he smelled—was that it was a thief.

  Everyone knows that cats make the best burglars. The way they prowl across roofs, drop through skylights, slink around corners, squeeze through security bars, and when necessary just wait and wait and wait. With all that irritating catty patience. They write books about such cats. They make movies about them. They get admired like no other criminals. Because they got smarts. And class. And because they’re cats.

  But what was sitting now in the carpeted reception room, wearing a beret and a black skivvy, was no cat. He was a two-toned papillon with shaggy butterfly ears. He had a little black mustache and pointy beard. He was sipping from a creamy drink. He was draped in a cashmere blanket. He was speaking in a French accent. And he clearly wanted to be a cat.

  “…eet was…not good! Pas bon! Never have I seen such horreur!”

  I looked around. The chief was keeping his distance. A secretary was taking notes. A couple of patrolhounds—probably the ones who’d netted him in the first place—were looking on with admiration. And the thief himself was sitting in the station’s “special chair” (the one with unscratched upholstery), sipping his little drink, and shaking his shaggy little head, happy to be soaking up the attention. It said a lot, that a common thief could get the royal treatment in a cophouse. It said it paid to be a cat. Or at least act like a cat.

  “What’s going on?” I barked.

  The others looked at me like I’d interrupted President Goodboy. The chief growled: “Good of you to join us, McNash. Monsieur Charrière here was just describing what he saw.”

  “That right?” I said. “And what did he see?”

  The chief stiffened, like he didn’t like repeating himself in front of a guest. “Monsieur Charrière was in the process of liberating some jewels from a storage facility in Chitterling. A burglar alarm went off and a guard—a Doberman Pinscher—went in to investigate. The guard was killed.”

  I looked at the papillon. “You saw it?”

  The thief shivered, like a cold breeze had sneaked under his blanket. “Quelle horreur! Never have I seen such a thing as zis! Eet was…how you say?”

  “An impression of movement?”

  “An impression?” He shook his head. “Mais non…I saw eet most clearly! A giant feral cat—a cat like I have never seen! Eet came from nowhere!”

  My pumper had started rattling. “You’re saying you saw the killer—the killer of the Dobie?”

  “His teeth, like razors! His claws! His greasy blue fur!”

  “A panther.”

  “Non, non! A cat! Un chat sauvage!”

  “You’re lying,” I said.

  The papillon looked insulted. “Porquoi? I do not lie, monsieur!”

  “You’re a lying dog. And a thief.”

  “I am a cat burglar!”

  “You’re a scumlicking thief—why should I believe you?”

  “Steady, boy,” growled the chief.

  I felt my pulse grinding in my head. “But this is gumrot, Chief—it’s a setup.”

  “The Dobie’s body is with Dr. Barnabus now,” the chief said. “A cursory examination suggests he was killed by the same cat who took out the Rottweilers. And that means we’ve got ourselv
es a serial killer. A cat serial killer.”

  I shook my head. “But it don’t add up. If it’s a cat, how come there’s no traces of him escaping the wharf?”

  “The reporting officers at the storage facility”—the chief gestured to the patrolhounds—“have already discovered cat prints leading away from the Dobie’s body.”

  “I saw eet!” the papillon insisted. “With my own two eyes. Ze feral cat! Le chat infernal!”

  I almost lunged at him, he was such a pest. But the chief stepped forward, swelled out in front of me, and jerked his head at the door. “This way.”

  In the corridor outside he made sure we were alone, then gave me his best killstare.

  “You really wanna be patrolling fences again, McNash? Never speak to a witness like that.”

  “Chief, he’s a gem-lifter.”

  “He’s our best witness so far.”

  “He’s as crooked as my hind legs.”

  “He turned himself in voluntarily. He wanted to help.”

  “That don’t mean we gotta clip his nails, does it?”

  “It means he deserves some respect. If he didn’t come forward, where would we be? Did you get a statement from that whippet?”

  Now my eyes flickered. “I’m working on it.”

  “You didn’t get a thing, did you?” The chief’s compost-heap breath was wafting over me.

  “Chief, these things take time.”

  “It’s too late, McNash. We’ve got a positive sighting now. From a reliable witness. And you—”

  “A reliable witness? Why should we believe a burglar? He wants to believe a cat could kill a Dobie. He wants to. Because he wants to be a cat himself.”

  The chief was shaking his head. “You’re all out of cookies, McNash. We’ve got ourselves a killer cat. And that means the FBI.”

  A wave of revulsion prickled my hair. “Just one more day, Chief—that’s all I need! We don’t need the FBI!”

  “It’s too late, McNash. I—”

  “I can work it out, trust me! Together, all of us, we can do it!”

  “I said it’s too late. I’ve already made the call. An agent is on his way from Kathattan right now.”