The Unscratchables

by Cornelius Kane

  Approaching my Rover I saw Bud Borzoi squirming out of the parking lot, looking like he’d just killed the family hamster.

  “What gives, Bud?”

  He pulled up. “Thought I saw something out here, Crusher.”

  “A stranger?”

  “Looked like a kitty from where I was.”

  I shuddered, remembering Riossiti’s evil green peepers. “Get a shape recognition?”

  “Got away before I had a chance. But looked Siamese to me.”

  “Oh yeah?” I wondered why Lap would be prowling around—it didn’t seem right—but I couldn’t afford to loosen any secrets either. So I coughed. “You look after yourself, Bud. These are curly days.”

  “Sure are. Seen MacFluff yet?”

  “I’m off the case. Not sure I was ever on it. You still running with the pack?”

  “Just some retrieval work, that’s all. Gonna miss you, Crusher.”

  “I’ll be back, bigger and bitier than ever.”

  “Sure you will, Crusher.”

  Looking into Bud’s sewage-brown eyes I couldn’t help feeling a wave of yearning for the days, not a week ago, when he was my faithful sidepaw. But that was before Lap, before the dead ’weilers on the wharf, before I picked up my jangler. “Don’t pick your teeth in Pugkeepsie,” I sighed, noticing that Bud didn’t have a toothpick in his snapper for the first time in memory.

  “Catch ya later, investigator,” he said, already slinking away.

  When I got into the Rover something just didn’t taste right, but I couldn’t get my licker around it. I gunned the engine and turned into Duty Street.

  I knew I was meant to stop at Pedro’s but I wasn’t sure if there was any point now. I still wasn’t sure I should trust the Siamese anyway. Maybe he’d try another mind trick on me. Maybe he’d poison me. Maybe the safest thing to do was just go home and snooze.

  But then again—I was almost at the bar now—why was I, Crusher McNash, running scared? I was a bull terrier, wasn’t I? I never ran from anything. So why didn’t I just storm into the bar, get some scruff between my choppers, and shake the truth out of him once and for all?

  I hit the brakes.

  Nothing happened.

  I hit the brakes again.

  Nothing.

  I was already passing Pedro’s and the Rover wasn’t stopping. I kept hammering the pedal—the Rover kept going.

  I swerved around a taxi and the tooter kept gaining speed. I overtook an ambulance. I hit the brakes again but the tooter only seemed to go faster.

  The lights ahead were red. A bus full of greyhounds was inching across the intersection and I was headed for it like a missile.

  I swung the wheel and the Rover squealed like a pig. I missed the bus by a few whiskerlengths and shot into Blithesome Street. I screeched off a Dumpster. I curled around traffic. I took out a fire hydrant in a geyser of water. My pumper was pounding so hard I thought it was going to punch through my chestcage. And the tooter just kept going.

  In Yield Street I got chased down the street by some terriers trying to bite my back tires. In Devotion Street a pack of hoondogs in souped-up growlers tried to drag me. I swung into Squat Park, hoping the Rover would get caught in a pond, but there were so many hounds on the prowl in the darkness that I spent the whole time trying not to get anything caught under my wheels. I screeched into Conformist Way.

  I was counting on an empty street—it was too late for shopping—but just my luck: There was a huge line of dogs queuing for tickets to the next Shagg Doggie Shagg concert.

  But no sooner had these scattered from my path that I came across an even bigger queue, pups and grown-ups alike lined up outside a bookstore for the new Wizard Whelp novel.

  Swerving around all of these I tried to map out an escape route, but all the streets branching off Conformist Way—Neurosis Alley, Depression Court, Futility Lane—were dead ends. I took out a billboard advertising a new snipe rag for bitches. I bounced off the front of Chew Toys “R” Us. And when I crossed into Appeasement Avenue I noticed another tooter racing alongside me.

  It was a Jaguar. It was struggling to keep pace. Lap was at the wheel with a strange look on his mug. He was waving a gun. He was trying to shoot at me.

  I swung the wheel, took a hard detour into Diversion Street, scraping parking meters. I heard bullets blowing apart my rear lights. I went faster. I actually pressed on the accelerator pedal. I wasn’t going to let no cat see me die.

  I hurtled down Deference Street, Orderly Road, and Obeisance Way. I was heading for Fly’s Picnic, but that meant a detour down Submission Street. And I clean forgot about the fireworks to celebrate Democracy Day.

  The road was thronged with families staring up at the sky and jolting and barking at each new explosion. But the crowd was too thick, and I couldn’t take it on. I swung the wheel wildly again.

  I scraped down alleyways in showers of sparks. I ripped over asphalt and gravel. I tore through chain-link fences and jerked over railtracks. And finally I saw it—Wharf Twelve, where the whole thing had begun. Slinky Joe’s Sardine Cannery. And beyond it the scummy black waters of Belvedere Bay.

  I squeezed the wheel tight. I hunched my shoulders. Clamped my teeth. I plowed up the wharf, trundling over boards and rotting timbers. I passed the cannery and hit the end at 150 mph. I clenched my peepers. And for a few seconds I was sailing.

  Then there was a great splash and I opened my eyes as the tooter filled with oily black water. A toothpick rose up and floated in front of my snout. I tried to wrestle open the door but it was jammed. The Rover was sinking. The headlights were lighting up swirling rubbish. My nostrils were full of water. I opened my snapper and liquid gushed down my gutchute.

  I struggled but the steering wheel had bent and pinned me down—I couldn’t budge. The Rover landed amid rusty wrecks and industrial waste. The headlights flickered. I was losing consciousness. It was a terrible way for a dog to die.

  I sensed some movement, I turned, and the last thing I saw was a furry white-and-cinnamon face floating at the busted window beside me.

  Then the lights went out.

  ALL I REMEMBER are scraps. A sense of floating. Of getting hauled through slime. A conviction that my back was against wood. The feeling of something wet closing around my muzzle. The smell of tuna and soy milk blowing down my lungpipe. My great barrel chest getting pressed and pumped. And when my eyes flickered open—just briefly—I saw a dripping cat face coming down on me again as fireworks exploded in the sky. Nothing would ever be the same.

  My brainpot drained like a sieve and when I came to my senses I was in a warm room with fresh blankets against my naked fur. There was a smell of overstarched sheets and drool-soaked pillows. Arranged on coat hangers in front of the radiator were my shirt, my pants, even my nut-huggers. My holster and Schnauzer were strung over the bedpost.

  “We’re in a hotel room.”

  It was Lap, blow-dried but still moist as a fairy cake, his whiskers drooping, his suit slick with water, and smelling like only a wet cat can.

  “It’s not the most salubrious of establishments admittedly,” he went on, “but I believe it has a reputation for accepting inadequate identification.”

  “The In-Season?” I croaked.

  “You know the place?”

  “I’ve been here before.”

  How long ago was that? Last night? It seemed like a year. Since then I’d been to prison, to a movie set, and a fun park, I’d had a bullet ricochet off my skull and I’d dined with a mass murderer. I’d had my loyalties tugged like an old rope. I’d driven my tooter into Belvedere Bay. I’d almost drowned. And I’d been saved by a cat. By a Siamese cat. One who hated water more than I hated Siamese.

  “How do you feel?” he asked, with more warmth than I ever got from my ex.

  “Takes more than seawater to kill a bullie.”

  “You should’ve allowed me to shoot your tires. It would’ve saved us a whole lot of discomfort.”

  “Every
thing was moving so fast,” I said. “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “Your brakes were cut. Probably by Carlos the Jackal.”

  I shook my head. “It was Bud Borzoi.”

  “Officer Borzoi? Are you sure?”

  “He left a calling card in my tooter.”

  Lap frowned. “Then this is even more serious than I thought. If they’ve infiltrated the Dog Force down to junior officers then they’re truly throwing all caution to the breeze. Did MacFluff spin a yarn about me?”

  “He said you were rabid.”

  “And you believed him, if only briefly?”

  “I didn’t know what to think.”

  Lap smiled. “The manufacture of lies makes artists of those who practice regularly.”

  He took it all so well, like he always did. It scared me, in fact, how much I liked him all of a sudden. It was all I could do not to hump his leg. So I distracted myself with anger.

  “Just wait till I get a hold of that Borzoi. He won’t have any teeth left to pick when I’m finished with him.”

  “Not now,” warned Lap. “For the moment our enemies regard you as dead, which in many ways is a blessing. What we must do now is proceed covertly but boldly. Are you in any condition to continue when rested?”

  “I can continue now.” I tried to rise but a pain flashed down my flank.

  “Nonsense. You’ll most certainly need some time to recover. I’d call a vet but there’s some urgent business to attend to.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To the island. I’m going to meet with my director at the FBI—the one I told you about.”

  “Sure you can trust him?”

  “He’s my sire.”

  As Lap turned to jangle ahead—he was arranging for some fresh clothes to be delivered—I wondered if I should tell him about Quentin Riossiti. Maybe the psychocat was stalking us right now. Maybe that was his plan all along. But then again maybe the whole thing was some sort of setup—probably they just wanted Riossiti loose so they could have an excuse to put him down. Run over him like an everyday stray.

  “I’ve left a bowl of warm milk by the bed,” Lap said, hanging up. “And some couch-grass in case you feel sickly. I dearly wish I didn’t need to leave at all.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’ll be back mid-morning. In the meantime you can do nothing more constructive than sleep.”

  As he headed out I wanted desperately to follow him. I wanted to hug his heel, go into the wild with him, roam new territories. I couldn’t have liked him more if he served up my dinner. Anything that attacked him now would never live to bite again.

  But then he was in the corridor and closing the door. He was gone.

  I don’t know how much time slipped by—maybe three hours or more. I dreamed I was in a huge park, half of which was a muddy, overgrown field, where dogs were rolling, jumping, sniffing, and squatting. The other half was a neatly clipped garden, where cats were snoozing, sunbathing, and sharpening their claws on tree trunks. There were no barriers between the two halves—no hedges, fences, or marked territory. Dogs were cocking their legs in the cat half. Cats were pussyfooting through the dog half. I saw a Frisbee land in the lap of an old cat reading poetry—he smiled and handed it back to a young terrier. I saw a kitten chasing a butterfly through the tangled scrub and two mastiffs halt their ball game to let it pass. This was a place of respect. There were no hierarchies and no divisions, and nobody had an interest in inventing them.

  But then a mighty lamb sprang from nowhere and bounded madly through the park. It flattened trees, smashed statues, plowed up the earth, scattered dogs and cats in every direction. Clinging to its golden fleece were Brewster Goodboy, Phineas Reynard, Doofus Rufus, and all sorts of clerics in silly hats. Riled, a few hounds started chasing it. Some herding dogs tried to contain it. Some cats tried to scratch at it. But the more attention it got, the bigger the lamb became. And the bigger it got, the more of the park it tore up, so that broken bodies were flung everywhere, mutts were fighting with moggies, and the air was full of dust and smoke.

  But then a funny thing happened. Some of the dogs decided to ignore the lamb. Some of the cats decided to keep reading. And by their example many others got the courage to ignore the beast, too. It took great strength, because the lamb was stamping and bleating and sprinkling everywhere, but nobody paid it any attention. It ran in circles and bucked and wriggled and squealed but it kept getting smaller and smaller, until it faded into a puff of cotton wool and floated away. And Goodboy, Reynard, Rufus, and the clerics, all of them so high and mighty a few moments before, all bolted for cover like they never knew the lamb at all. And peace settled on the park again.

  You can say I was dreaming—my paws were fluttering—but I’m not the only one.

  So I woke with an unusual wag in my tail. I yawned and stretched, and was about to roll out of bed when I noticed a glinty-eyed figure sitting cross-legged in the darkness.

  At first I thought it was still a dream—I hoped it was—but when I blinked my eyes he was still there, grinning.

  I grappled for the bedpost but my Schnauzer was gone.

  “Tallyho,” said Phineas Reynard.

  HE WAS WEARING a gherkin-green riding jacket and jodhpurs, like he’d just come in from a hunt, and his bushy tail—fake or not—was draped over the arm of the chair, swishing slightly. In one paw he was holding a rooster-headed cane, like a scepter, and he was looking down his pointed muzzle as if he was about to deliver a court verdict. His eyes smiled before his lips.

  “My vixen assured me I’d find this place accommodating,” he said. “‘The desk clerk answers to money,’ she claimed. A rather redundant observation, I would have thought. Everyone answers to money, surely? And if you have enough of it, as I do, you quickly learn that any dog—old, young, or in-between—can be taught new tricks.”

  I started across the bed. “Listen, foxfart, if you think—”

  “Ah ah,” he said, holding up his cane like a magic wand. “Please don’t get ahead of yourself. This is not the time for rash actions. I have two guards posted outside the door, another two in the stairwell, and still more in the street. And the very fact that I’ve not taken advantage of your vulnerability is proof, surely, of my good intentions?”

  I stopped, simmering, and Reynard grinned.

  “So please don’t be alarmed. I’m not here to threaten you—not at all. Nor am I here to lie to you. I’m not even going to pretend that I’m anything but exactly what I am—a self-serving old fox. But all that doesn’t mean I wish you ill. Nothing of the sort. I want to apologize to you, in fact.”

  “Apologize?”

  “Absolutely. And make you a generous offer.”

  I bristled. “If you think you can buy me, gingerbread—”

  “Ah ah”—Reynard raised his cane again—“I told you not to get ahead of yourself. I just want to offer you something, that’s all. Something very rare. Something very precious. Something I have the power to bestow upon those who impress me.”

  “Get to the point, pointy.”

  He smiled. “I want to give you security.”

  “What?”

  “The most valuable commodity in the world. Even more expensive than respectability. Security.”

  “Security?”

  “One check, one signature, and I can give you this invaluable gift.”

  “So you are trying to buy me?”

  “I prefer to think of it as a donation. A little something to afford me a sense of charity. And assuage my tiny conscience.”

  I stared at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be at your up-country estate?”

  “Circumstances forced me to cancel.”

  “Got you on the run, have we?”

  “I’ve not run for many years, Mr. McNash. From anything.”

  I chortled. “Not like a fox to run, is it?”

  His voice flattened for a moment. “My running days ended when I bought the fourth e
state, Mr. McNash. I can piss on presidents now. I can crack prime ministers like boiled eggs. I can swipe the crowns off kings. I can even elect the pope. I have immeasurable power. So just imagine what I could do, if it took my fancy, to a dog like you.”

  I threw back the sheet. “If you really wanna go tooth and nail—”

  “Please”—Reynard gave a geckery little laugh—“I warned you not to get ahead of yourself. I’m telling you this in the hope that you appreciate the magnitude of my gift. Because you must surely recognize the parlous position you’re in? You must know by now I’m in total control? You understand that, don’t you? Or am I underestimating your canine intelligence?”

  “You’re underestimating my canine temper,” I said, “if you don’t tell me what all this is about. What do you want from me?”

  “What makes you think I want anything?”

  I killstared him.

  Reynard chuckled faintly. “All right, there is something I’d like, of course. But it’s very simple. Very simple and very easy.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I just want you to leave town for a few weeks. Lie low. Have a good rest. Not so hard, is it?”

  “You want me to run and hide?”

  “The case is already over. You must accept it. Special Agent MacFluff will tie up the ends very neatly now. And you, Mr. McNash, have a clear-cut choice. Either you continue barking at thunder or you accept my offer of security. It’s up to you.”

  “I don’t want your filthy money,” I said. “And I don’t need any security.”

  “Oh, really?” Reynard looked me up and down with his foxy little eyes. “How old are you, may I ask?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Six years? Seven?”

  “What of it?”

  “And you mean to tell me you’ve never worried about your future? Never wondered what’ll happen when you can’t pay your vet bills? Never feared that you might be put down at the slightest infirmity? Or that you might be taken on one of those ‘picnics’ with your family and never return?” Reynard shook his head. “Well, with one simple check I can end all your worries. The greatest gift that money can buy, and I’m offering it to you now.”