The Unscratchables

by Cornelius Kane

  “Scared of water and yet not scared of me,” he said between swallows.

  “What’s that, nutball?”

  “Your partner thinks I don’t like him.”

  “Like he gives a gopher’s gizzards what you think.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “He’s a cat—what do you think?”

  Riossiti smiled. “I think he’s an extraordinary detective. With an intractable, impractical, infuriating code of ethics. And that’s the real reason I can’t bear to look at him, Detective. Because he puts me completely to shame. Because he would never allow himself to be led down any dark and twisted alleys. But don’t be fooled by my acts of indignation—I like him about as much as a cat can. Just, for that matter, as I like you.”

  “I’m all warm and tingly inside.”

  Riossiti took a sip of his drink. “May I ask how you got that wound on the back of your head?”

  “A mosquito bit me.”

  “Was the mosquito fired from an assassin’s rifle, by any chance?”

  “Who are you all of a sudden, that you’re asking all these questions?”

  “I’m Q. Riossiti. It’s my curse. It’s my destiny. But please let me assure you of something.” He leaned forward to whisper, breathing goat milk over me. “I will do everything in my power to save you—both you and Agent Lap. Because it’s so terribly important to protect honesty and integrity wherever they bloom.”

  “You’re gonna save me?” I snorted. “You’re off your saucer.”

  Riossiti leaned back and his bell tinkled. “It’s all I have left, Detective—the possibility of public redemption. For what I got myself tangled in. For the unspeakable corruption I served. Please don’t take that possibility away from me.”

  I was about to answer when Lap returned, looking like he’d swallowed a firecracker. “Detective, it’s time to go.”

  “Were you satisfied with the information?” Riossiti asked, smiling his cut-tooth smile.

  “Let’s go. There’s not much time.”

  “Time enough to finish my Château Chevrette?”

  “If you hurry.”

  Riossiti read it as a victory. In one gulp he tossed down the rest of the milk and put down the glass, wearing a milk mustache and a Cheshire grin.

  “PIÑERO AND VALDEZ Limited of Venezuela.”

  “What?”

  “They have a warehouse on Loyalty Street in Fly’s Picnic, just three sprints from the first murder scene. Can you take me there immediately?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s an importer of exotic birds and fish. They supply the kitchens of La Plume du Poisson.”

  “This is Riossiti’s big lead?”

  “It is.”

  “So what is this—a murder investigation or a shopping trip?”

  I was getting sleepier and angrier. My collar was biting my neck and I had a flea loose in my groin. And there was still no sign that was all going to end. We’d dropped Riossiti back at his Cattica cage—he’d said, “Au revoir,” and melted back into the darkness—and now we were in the impounding wagon again. And all I could think of was Lap’s face multiplied a hundred times in the mirrors of Wagtail Park.

  “Piñero and Valdez Limited of Venezuela, as you might recall, was one of the listed sponsors of the Glory of the Pharaohs Exhibition. Not only that, but you’ll remember that Reynard’s vixen confused us initially with visitors from ‘that South American place.’”

  “So?”

  “Does it not seem unusual to you that a boutique importer of exotic cuisine is sharing the stage with multinational corporations like Chump’s and Reynard Media?” Lap shook his head. “It’s a front.”

  “For what?”

  “Why don’t we stir up the feathers and fish, and find out?”

  We glided into Fly’s Picnic past a roaming pack of hoondogs in Hellhounds jackets tagging their territory with spray cans of urine. High above, a blazing billboard of President Goodboy urged them to “CATCH the spirit.” As I swung into Loyalty Street the fog was lifting and dispersing.

  “That’s it,” said Lap, gesturing to a warehouse ringed with gravel and barbed wire. Lit by soupy white light, a sign over the doors read PAVLOV. “An excellent place to train boxers, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You think the two ferals were kept there?”

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Lap said, already opening the door. “But are you ready to put on a show again, Detective? Good cat/bad dog?”

  “I was bred ready.”

  Circling the joint were at least three guards, each as big as a baby rhino. When we headed for the front door a nasty-looking Ridgeback, a steroid gobbler by the look of him, swelled out to stop us.

  “Goin’ someplace?” he snarled in his Afrikaans accent.

  I swelled out, too. “Any business of yours, is it, pal?”

  But Lap already had his ID out. “We’d prefer not to call in reinforcements,” he said icily. “Or indeed, to check if your own registration is up to date. Or your work visa. Or your medical records, for that matter. The pounds are already so terribly overcrowded, are they not?” He gave a meat-slicing smile.

  The Ridgeback wavered. “Hey…”

  “Hey what?” I snarled.

  “Hey”—the Ridgeback was already stepping away—“I don’t need trouble.”

  I poked him in the chest. “Then back to your humping cushion, muscles.”

  When we blew through the front swingers I was full of ginger. The walls of the front office were covered with pictures of parrots and piranhas. There was a dopey-looking Labradoodle behind the desk.

  “May I help you?” he asked, his tail jittering.

  “For your sake I hope so.”

  Lap flashed his ID again. “We’re investigating the theft of a prized and extremely expensive parrot. It was the property of a very high-profile sporting figure—I assume you’ve heard of Zeus Katsopoulos?”

  The ’doodle blinked. “No…I mean yes, yes.”

  “You have heard of him?”

  “Of course. The…the boxer.”

  “Then you must know how Mr. Katsopoulos came to form such an affection for brightly plumaged birds?”

  The ’doodle gulped. “I don’t think I…”

  “He grew up next to the parrot market in Thessalonika. The birds, he says, remind him of home. Last night one his favorite birds was stolen from his Kathattan apartment. Mr. Katsopoulos—currently overseas—was distraught when he heard. May we inspect your stocks?”

  “I don’t…I’ll have to call…this isn’t—”

  I thrust my muzzle across the desk. “Get those keys jingling, doodah.”

  The ’doodle looked like he didn’t know whether to bark or barf, as ’doodles usually do. But he fumbled for his keys and led us down a corridor.

  “May I ask why there are so many guards outside?” Lap asked.

  The ’doodle’s tail was still shaking. “Noise restrictions,” he said. “We’re not allowed to use alarm bells.”

  “But the nearest property is a hundred leashlengths away.”

  “I…I don’t make the rules.”

  We entered a back room and the fluorescent lights flickered on.

  It was as big as a gymnasium. On one side there were a few fish tanks—maybe ten of them, holding sawfish, snooks, puffers, and pikes. On the other side—a long way distant—were about the same number of birdcages, each holding a different type of South American parrot. The air reeked of disinfectant.

  “Why is there only one specimen in each container?” Lap asked, doing an inspection tour of the birds with paws behind his back.

  “We like to keep them apart…no fighting.”

  Lap admired the flappers. “Beautiful birds,” he said. “I can certainly see how Mr. Katsopoulos gained such an affection.”

  “What sort of parrot was stolen?” The ’doodle was trying to sound annoyed.

  “Ara chloropterus,” Lap said. “A red and green macaw.”

 
“We have no ara chloropterus here.”

  “What about these?” At the end of the room there were two massive cages, each holding a bird with a huge beak.

  “Amazon kingfishers,” said the ’doodle.

  “Of course,” said Lap. “Chloroceryle amazona. But are they particularly active specimens? There are scratch marks all over the floor.”

  “Very active.”

  “And chew marks on the bars.”

  “They chew from habit.”

  “Not good for their teeth,” Lap said.

  “No…”

  “And what about the cans of cat food?”

  The ’doodle frowned. “Cat food?”

  Lap looked at him. “The water vessels in these cages are cut from old Slinky Joe’s cans. So cat food has been stored here recently. To feed the catfish, perhaps?”

  The ’doodle coughed. “We have visitors…from Pavlov…they come here sometimes…we feed them in the dining room.”

  “Señors Piñero and Valdez of Venezuela?”

  The ’doodle’s ears dropped. “That’s right.”

  “You feed the company owners from a can?”

  “It’s…it’s a very cost-effective organization.”

  “No doubt.”

  The ’doodle tried to huff. “Would…would you care to speak to my superiors in Kathattan?”

  “Not at all. I’m sure you’ll do that as soon as we leave.” Lap extracted a card. “But please be sure to mention my name. And please be sure to tell them we found you an unusually accommodating and enlightening guide dog.”

  The ’doodle looked trapped between a steel fence and a brick wall, as ’doodles usually do.

  IN THE IMPOUNDING wagon Lap mewed openly about the big cages at Pavlov, the arrangement of cages and fish tanks, the scratch and chew marks—it could only be evidence that ferals had been imprisoned there, he claimed. I didn’t say anything, but I couldn’t help wondering why he was talking about all this out loud, when the tooter was probably bugged, and why he’d thrown himself among the pigeons in the first place, by being so hissy with the ’doodle.

  “I drew a line in the sandbox tonight,” he said, as if he’d already read my mind. “It’s time to bare claws and flush them out once and for all. We’re clearly beyond the need for smoke screens now.”

  All of a sudden he had a burr in his voice, like he’d been chewing on thistles, and I wasn’t sure I liked it—it made him sound mad. “What’s your plan?”

  “Not yet,” he said, as we pulled into the station parking lot. “Special Agent MacFluff has arrived, just as I predicted.”

  I looked at the cophouse. “You can smell him?”

  “Not quite. But I can certainly recognize his car.” He pointed to a Cadillac Sabertooth in the parking lot. “Ah well,” he sighed, “shall I meet you over a soy milk, Detective, in, say, twenty minutes?”

  “You’re not coming in?”

  “There’s no point at this stage. I might be apprehended, even locked up. But that doesn’t mean you can’t sniff out the latest developments. If you’re willing, of course.”

  I coughed. “Course.”

  “One caution, though. You’ll hear all manner of lies about me, I can promise you that. So I ask you to remember one thing. Never forget the bullet strike in the back of your head. Never forget what they’re capable of.”

  In my office I found MacFluff already having a bowwow with the chief. The fat cat looked even bigger than ever, his nylon shirt straining to harness his stuffed-cushion gut, his tie splayed down his brisket like a show ribbon. He had a sharkburger in one paw and mayonnaise on his chops. Sniffing, chewing, scratching his tail with a free claw, he fixed his squinty eyes on me.

  “Crusher McNash—how goes it, pal?”

  “I still smell and so does my nose.”

  “Agent Lap with you?”

  “Don’t know where he got to. Slunk off someplace.”

  MacFluff burped. “Makes sense. Cat’s off his tree, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Fill me in.”

  “What do I gotta say?” MacFluff waved his burger at Lap’s tapestry maps. “He’s as nutty as a squirrel.”

  “Maybe.” I shot a glance at the chief, who had his muzzle lowered.

  “I’m tellin’ you, McNash. The cat’s been under surveillance for a while now. Just how he got assigned to this case, and how I got diverted to another one, is an all-you-can-eat scandal. It’s being looked into right now.” He gobbled another chunk of sharkmeat.

  “Got evidence, have you?”

  “Evidence of what?”

  “That he’s off his skull.”

  MacFluff squinted at me. “What’s the matter with you, McNash? He’s rabid—ain’t that plain? Few years ago he was part of some secret government outfit—a population control squad or something. There were foxes up-country running amok. Thieving. Terrorizing. Breeding like rabbits. Lap and his hero Quentin Riossiti got sent into the field to study them—behavioral patterns or something. Both got bitten. Both went fizzypop. Riossiti was completely frothy. Lap recovered, or that’s what we thought. Ever heard of a place called Pavlov?”

  I made sure I didn’t blink. “Pavlov?”

  “A secret quarantine facility, an isolation ward. Runs out the back of a fish importer. Riossiti and Lap were there, caged up for months. Injections. Medications. Strict diets. Electroshock therapy. The works. Riossiti chewed through the bars and got out, started murdering. Lap pulled through and we took him back into the bureau—everyone likes a happy ending. Seems we were a bit hasty, though. Seems while he was chained up he’d developed a pathological hatred for foxes—they were the ones who’d sent him mad. Started to think up all sorts of wacky theories about Phineas Reynard, for a start. Sent him bags of anonymous hate mail—we’ve only just pinned it on him. Reynard and his vixen are very worried about it all, and who can blame them?”

  I remembered Reynard’s wife at the In-Season. And I couldn’t help wondering, in the back of my bobble, if she might really be a victim after all.

  “There were a couple of others—ferals—who Riossiti and Lap were using in the field. Tracking foxes for ’em. Got bitten as well. And now one of them’s off rampaging—‘the Cat.’ And Lap’s doing everything to save him. Throwing everyone off the scent”—MacFluff jerked his head at the maps—“so the Cat can get away. His old buddy. There’s even a rumor he’s got Quentin Riossiti in on the job—heard of that?”

  I glanced at the chief—who was still looking at the floor—and shrugged. “Why would he do that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe to jerk a few chains. Maybe it’s all some sorta sick game—that’s what he and Riossiti are into. Maybe it’s worse than that. Got life insurance, McNash?”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve been at his heel these last few days. Maybe you ain’t seen it yet, but he’s ruthless, Lap. He’ll turn you into mincemeat in an ear twitch. Hey.” All of a sudden MacFluff was looking at me with a tilted face. “You tellin’ us everything, boy?”

  “What’s there to tell?”

  “Just the truth. There could be lives in danger here. Is it about Lap? You know something about Lap, is that it?”

  I shifted. “Why would I?”

  “Hey, boy”—MacFluff’s eyes narrowed further—“if you’ve got something rotten on your tongue now’s the time to spit it out. So come on, boy. Drop it. Drop it.”

  I felt a sting right through my brainpot. MacFluff was using command words, just like Lap.

  “Drop it.”

  So I felt an almost overpowering urge to get a bad taste off my licker, to sell Lap to the skinner’s (fang him—what had he ever done for me?).

  “Drrrropppp iiiiitttttt.”

  But at the same time something inside was holding back. Something small but angry as a bullant. Something that went back to the war. To those radical texts. To the very idea of being manipulated. I didn’t know if it was my bobble or my gutsack, and I didn’t care.

  “Drop it, boy
…”

  But I didn’t drop it. I held on tight. MacFluff’s peepers were burning holes but I didn’t blink. I was as good as telling him—telling the whole world—that things had changed. That I was my own dog now.

  Bells saved me—the chief’s jangler.

  The chief answered with a look of relief, but almost immediately his ears flattened. I heard a few growls—“When? How? I see”—and he hung up. He looked at the two of us and spoke in a whisper.

  “That was Cattica Correctional Facility. Quentin Riossiti has just escaped from his cage. He’s stray on the streets right now.”

  HE’D COUGHED UP his fish and parrot meal, used the bones to pick the lock, the beak to snip the alarm wires, and the claws to hook onto the electrical cable linking the prison to Justice Street. Like a commando he’d sailed across the yards of the dog pen—where the inmates had started barking all too late—and dropped into the darkness beyond the south wall, where he’d hurdled a few fences and melted quickly into the back alleys of Chuckside, his collar bell tinkling and fading.

  The chief didn’t mention that me and Lap had taken Riossiti to a fancy dinner just a couple of hours earlier, and I was grateful for that. But it didn’t seem to make much difference anyway, because I got the feeling MacFluff already knew exactly what I’d been up to, and was happy to make me feel like a sap.

  “Got a place where you can lie low, Detective? Then I’d go there now if I was you. Lap’s probably out to get you, if Riossiti don’t get you first. And no bulletproof jacket’s gonna save you now, pal—those two kitties wrote the book on assassinations.”

  When I got out of the cophouse my head was reeling. I didn’t want to believe anything MacFluff had just told me, but I couldn’t help remembering the shivering look of fear on the ’doodle’s face. Did he recognize Lap from his days in quarantine? And what about the byplay between Lap and “his hero” Riossiti—was it all some sort of catty game? Not to mention the Jackal’s bullet whanging off my skull—had the assassin been hired by Lap himself? Was I meant to be blood-and-bone on some rose bed right now?

  It was getting to the stage that I couldn’t even trust my own instincts, and for a mutt there’s no greater mind-frazzler than that.