In the leafy ’burb of Airedale, Pompey lived in a gaudy Roman temple full of armored-dog murals and inscriptions in Dog Latin. I didn’t rightly care if he agreed to see me or not—I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be asking—but it was just my luck that two of his whelps had just had their first rabies shots—it’s a gangster tradition that no pack boss can turn away a visitor on Vaccination Day.
“What can I do for you on dis special afternoon?”
Pompey was a giant Neapolitan Mastiff with undershot teeth, a slobber problem, and a clouded left eye where he’d run into a stick. He sat in a tuxedo on the other side of a huge marble desk, his dribble spilling in strings, his great bobble waving between his lumpy shoulders. In the wine-red shadows behind him stood his caninesigliere, a Wolfspitz–Irish Setter cross, and the eldest of his pedigree whelps, a real chain-chewer. I’d already been frisked, sniffed, poked, and told to behave—all this just to get past the porch—but I wasn’t going to let anybody, packland boss or not, think a bullie would ever shrink before a mastiff.
“What can you do for me?” I echoed. “Depends. How much bark you got behind that underbite?”
Pompey was known to chew the heads off goats, so he didn’t need to take any lip from some flatpaw. But if he was offended he harnessed himself. “Detective,” he said in his kennel-cough snarl, “in dis city power belongs to dose who open and shut de gate. And ’round here dere are all sorts of gates—not dat you’d always wanna know what’s behind.”
I snorted—it was the way of packland bosses to speak in riddles. “Whatever you say, pal. I’m just here to sniff the wind. You must’ve heard what’s been going down, last couple of nights?”
“I read de rags.”
“Any idea what a couple of ’weilers might be doing out on the town with a feral cat?”
“De ’weilers worked for Cujo Potenza once, never for me. Why come here?”
“Because Cujo’s not giving out with much lately except earthworms. Because everyone tells me Pompey the Gross has got a sniffer over every cesspit in town. They tell me a centipede can’t tickle himself without the Gross finding out. So I figure a great and powerful dog like this, he must’ve heard something by now. And he must be willing to pass on what he knows, in the interest of public safety.”
The caninesigliere suddenly leaned out of the shadows and muttered something in Pompey’s ear. The packland boss looked me up and down like I’d just asked if I could mount his daughter.
“I just been informed you been sharing your wheels wit’ a member of the mewing species,” he said.
“Seems it wasn’t wrong, what I was told about you.”
“A mewer wit’ a badge and a black tie.”
“Could be.”
Pompey sucked in some drool and rolled his shoulders. “It makes me uncumfable,” he said, “knowing my words, dey might end up in de files of the FBI.”
“Nothing said here has to waft any further than these walls, if that’s the way you want it.”
“Why should a mastiff trust a bullie?”
“Bullies don’t turn nose on anyone. Don’t need to. I figure a mastiff knows that.”
Pompey waved a paw at his caninesigliere, who bent forward again so the two could mumble in private. In the background his number-one whelp kept licking his flews, like he’d missed out on his own rabies shot and couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into something. Pompey arrived at a verdict.
“I gotta liking for you, Detective. You don’t chew on rubber bones. So here’s what I’m gonna say to you now. You ask about a feral cat. You ask why a cat like dat might be getting a slug between de peepers. Well, I tell you dis—read de rags.”
“I don’t get it.”
“‘All de news dat’s fit to sniff’—ain’t dat what dey say? Well, Pompey asks you to tink about dat. If it ain’t in de rags, did it really happen?”
“I still don’t get it.”
“Buy de rags, Detective. See de truth—or don’t see it—for yourself.”
In the shadows the caninesigliere wore a creepy little smile. The number-one whelp was giggling and slobbering.
I shrugged. “That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say?”
“Dat’s all. Anythin’ else I can do for you dis bewdiful day?”
“Not for now.”
“Den my son Brutus will chase you to the gate.”
“That’s okay—I’ll chase myself. Canem te esse memento.”
They looked at me quizzically as I headed for the swinger.
I PARKED AROUND the corner and had a secret snooze—fang Lap if he was waiting. But when I finally got to Patriot Place I couldn’t see any sight of him anyway—not at ground level, not in the steelwork of the radio tower. I did a few circuits and was about to head back to the cophouse when the passenger door flew open and a shape slid inside. I hadn’t even stopped.
“Greetings,” said Lap, like it was all prearranged.
“Where you been?” I snapped. “Been looking for you.”
“I’ve been scrounging around the neighborhood—please forgive me.”
“You’ve been scrounging around? Out there?”
“Don Gato is in possession of an extremely effective distillation—I believe it’s called eau de chien. A spritz around the ears, and a little extra around more tender parts, seems to be enough to forestall canine antipathy. The master of the dog’s nose is, I’m sure you’ll agree, the master of his mind.”
I grunted. “And what were you looking for, anyway?”
“Newspapers.” Lap held up the Daily Growl. “Don Gato instructed me to ‘read the newspapers.’”
“That’s exactly what Pompey said to me—‘read the rags.’ What did you find?”
Lap gestured to the paper. “When did you intend to inform me about this?”
Still driving, I glanced at a front page split into two headshots: Rocky Cerberus, the champion boxer, and Zeus Katsopoulos, the feral-cat challenger. The headline read: LET THE FUR FLY!
“Tonight’s prizefight? What about it?”
“Did it ever occur to you that I might be interested in a cat such as this?”
“Katsopoulos?” I said. “You’re not saying he’s the killer?”
“I’m saying he’s a feral cat.”
“So?” I said. “When you kitties put up a prizefight challenge, you always use ferals.” And wildcats, I could’ve added. Pumas, ocelots, lynxes—all of them disguised as regular cats. For a while the scandal had threatened to deck the whole industry. But boxing, like all sports, is too important to stay on the canvas.
“I’ll need to see this for myself,” Lap decided. “How does one acquire tickets?”
“Never been to a fight before?”
“I admit it’s not my favorite pastime.”
“Figures. But all the seats have been snapped up anyway. To get in you’d need to flash your tags.”
“I’d prefer to do this unofficially. Are you certain there’s no way to obtain a seat?”
“Scalpers,” I said, “but you’d have to sell your hide.”
“Money is no hurdle.”
“Or wait.” I thought of Spike. “I can probably score a couple of tickets. From an old pal.”
“Then please do.” Lap slapped the front page. “Read the newspapers, they told us. Well, unless the packland bosses—and my own feline instincts—are misleading us, there’s something decidedly suspicious about Mr. Zeus Katsopoulos.”
I stopped the car and called from the nearest public booth. “Spike, it’s me. About the fight tonight—”
“You can come?”
“I just need those tickets.” I winced. “For me. And someone else.”
In the silence I could almost hear his head tilting.
“I can’t explain,” I said. “But it’s real important. There’s a six-pack of Chump’s in it for you, pal.”
“Gee, Crusher, I don’t know—”
“Remember Seal Point? Remember who it was who dragged you out of t
hat pit?”
I didn’t enjoy calling up the war, and I especially didn’t enjoy swiping tickets from my oldest buddy, but the idea of seeing the prizefight for free—and as part of an investigation—was too drool-worthy to pass up.
“Crusher, you know what I owe you for that. But I already—”
“Then I’ll see you in twenty small ones,” I said. “You won’t regret it.”
Back in the tooter I turned my shame on Lap. “You’ll need a half-gallon of that dog scent, Tigger, if you’re going to a prizefight.”
“I’m not certain I understand.”
“This ain’t no symphony recital. There’ll be some mean door-scratching mutts there, and they won’t fancy no Zeus fan cheering in the middle of them.”
“I assure you I’m completely impartial to the result.”
“Yeah, just like a cat to sit on a fence, ain’t it? Well, that won’t help you.”
I didn’t say it, but I didn’t much like the idea of being squeezed next to a cat at the biggest show in town—if word got out, my pals would never sniff me the same.
I left Lap in the tooter and headed down Respect Street past a plastic-dish outlet and a dry-food distributor. Spike was a small-time importer of rubber squeakmice and chewtoys—a lot of puppy stuff that somehow sold like tripe to grown-ups—but his storehouse, like his home, was ringed with spikes and barbed wire, like he thought he was protecting the Declaration of Undying Loyalty. He was alone, as always, and happy just to have company.
“Here they are, Crusher.” He took the tickets out of his safe.
“Sorry, pal, I know how much this meant to you.”
“Forget about it, Crusher. I’ll find a safe bar someplace, watch it on RCN.”
“I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t extra-important. I owe you one.”
“Is it a hot date, Crusher?”
“Say what?” Spike was wearing an Elizabethan collar after a fistula operation, so it was hard to hear him.
“I said is it a hot date—is that it?”
“Yeah,” I said, “a hot date.”
“What’s she like? Does she stink?”
After the war Spike wasn’t so good with the bitches. I knew he lived a lot of his life through me, in fact, always asking about my love life, always giggling. “My eyes water whenever I hear her name,” I said, and sighed, thinking about it. “Anyway, you look after yourself, pal—don’t go biting any wooden chickens.”
“Smell you when I sniff ya.”
“Not if I sniff you first.”
But despite all the nudge-and-tickle I left with a curdled feeling in my gut, like I’d just run off with his sausages.
MY PAPPY FIRST took me to Solidarity Stadium when I was just a pup, but since the war I’d never felt fully at ease there. They were extending it outward and upward—they wanted it to hold one hundred thousand howling fans in time for the Globe Games—but it was still like one giant pit, and whenever I looked into a pit these days I got queasy flashbacks to that night in Siam. It sure didn’t help that I was arriving, right now, with a prissy Siamese.
He was still wearing his shimmering black suit, like he didn’t see any need to blend in, but he was positively reeking of dog juice, so if I closed my eyes tight I could almost imagine I was standing in line with a common coonhound. As for me, I was buried deep in an anorak with upturned collar, paws in pockets, muzzle out like a beak, doing my best to look invisible. We breezed through the click-swingers without a word and plunged into the stadium itself, hoping desperately to avoid any snarl-and-snap.
We were lucky. The opening bout on the card—a rasher-weight clash between Australian champion Deefa Dingo and local contender Leroy Spitz—was already in its tenth round, and every peeper in the place was fixed tight on the ring. We shuffled and squeezed down the twenty-second row as Spitz gave Dingo a real workout, ducking and dodging like a cheeky terrier. The crowd was loving it.
“Give him a jab in the chops!”
“Let that baby-muncher have a taste of his own medicine!”
I tried to ease into the spirit but all I could think about was that someone might see me. All sorts of dogs were crammed into the joint, whisker to whisker: sporting dogs, working dogs, toy dogs, setters, terriers, mutts, and pooches. Not to mention big-biscuit celebrities: Brad Pitbull, Mutt Damon, Benji Affleck. I could even see fat-cat superstar Tom Manx, in town to shoot a marrowbrained cop-buddy flick, The Unscratchables, with Jack Russell Crowe.
Lap surveyed the pit slowly.
“See anything, Lap-lap?”
“Frisbees and biscuits…”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” he purred. “I find it…fascinating…in an atavistic way.”
I almost bit him just for using big words. But then there was a huge howl from the crowd, because Deefa Dingo, like a cornered dog, had burst off the ropes to score a few rib-crunching blows to Leroy’s brisket. The contender staggered and swooned and had to be carried back to the stool when the bell rang. His Boston Terrier trainer immediately bow-wowed with the ref and decided to toss in the flearag. Dingo was declared champion for the third time and did a circuit of the ring holding his studded collar high in the air. The crowd growled and snarled.
But soon a crest-tingling sense of excitement took over, because now it was time for the main bout. A hush ran through the stadium, then a chorus of panting lungs, then the pounding of thousands of paws. Above the ring, the buzzscreens were flashing replays of Rocky Cerberus pounding his challengers senseless—real pumper-stirring stuff. Then there was an ad for Chump’s new Turkey & Jerky flavor sensation: Doofus Rufus, the company frontbarker, personally roasting a meal in his up-country oven—“Melts in your gobbler or I ain’t a doofus!”
Then there was a profile of Zeus Katsopoulos, a moon-faced moggie with spiky black hair and a permanently flapping licker, jogging through the streets of Athens in a sweatshirt, chasing chickens, juggling balls of wool. There was no footage from his fights, but the stats were impressive enough—six bouts, seven knockouts (he got the ref once as well).
“Katsopoulos is new to the sport?” Lap asked.
“First time in the stadium. First time as a championship contender.”
“So you’d never heard of him before this year?”
“Never heard of him before this fight.”
“How very interesting.”
I grunted. “Rocky will make cat mince out of him—you watch.”
But suddenly a familiar rock song began pumping through the loudsquawkers: “Eye of the Tiger.” And then, surrounded by a posse of trainers, managers, and parasites (including his American Wirehair manager Linus “Lion” King), Zeus Katsopoulos entered the pit, wearing silk boxer shorts and a tiger-striped robe. As he waddled down the stairs, looking like he’d just woken from a dream, I could actually hear the dog hair bristle.
When he climbed into the ring—empty tingle cans and fatburger cartons went sailing through the air—it was a wonder half the crowd didn’t jump the ropes and rip him apart. But Katsopoulos didn’t turn, didn’t blink, didn’t even seem to notice. And for the first time I saw that he was wearing headphones, big ones clamped tightly around his bobble to keep him from getting the jeebies. And when we got an even closer look at him—the screens had him twenty feet high—we saw that he wasn’t nearly as big or hateable as he should’ve been. For a start, he looked smaller than he’d seemed in the footage—not much bigger than a Kathattan stockbroker—and about as scary as Doofus Rufus. He had a snagtooth, a couple of scars, and a few patches of missing fur, but all in all he wasn’t much different from your average alley cat.
So a new hush settled over the crowd as everyone struggled to stay angry, couldn’t, and fizzled into silence.
“Hear it?” asked Lap.
“Hear what?”
But he didn’t answer.
I was about to growl but suddenly another song cranked up—“Bad to the Bone.” Then the swingers blew open and the champion himself strutte
d in, surrounded by his own pack of trainers and support staff. A thousand flash-and-clinks popped, the music pounded, the floors shook. And there was no doubting Rocky Cerberus was a superbly cut boxer, with a rod-straight back, bulging muscles, and a sleek shiny coat. When he sprang into the ring and did a few air jabs—Katsopoulos was watching dumbly—there were so many tails wagging that a gust of wind rushed through the joint and nearly cracked the back windows.
On the screens meanwhile they were showing an electoral ad for Brewster Goodboy—a montage of cats and dogs united in battle, at work, at play, as Collie Clarkson warbled “Simple Gifts,” the old folk song that had somehow replaced “The Spots and Stripes” as the national howl:
’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to obey
’Tis a gift to accept that there is no better way,
And when we find ourselves in that place just right
It will be in the backyard of endless delight.
When true simplicity is gained,
To beg and to roll we shan’t be ashamed,
To heed and to heel will be our delight,
Till by heeding and heeling we turn out right.
“See it?”
“See what?”
“At least,” said Lap, “you won’t need to worry about being noticed anymore.”
I had no idea what he was mewing about until I saw that the giant buzzscreens were showing faces in the crowd. And there, five times larger than life—televised right around the stadium, right around San Bernardo, right around the whole country—was me, yours truly, sitting all chummy with my “hot date”—a suit-wearing Siamese.
The Unscratchables Page 7