by A M Bostwick
“Oh, I know these thieves. They steal for money, profit. Taking perfectly happy animals from homes for trade, breeding, and sale. Absolute filth” Ally scowled. “They are not as few and far between as we’d like them. Peter, would you be so kind dear, as to get Ace some Tiger Treaties from the kitchen?”
“You bet!” Peter took off at break neck speed to please me, the house guest.
Ally leaned in. “Are you sure about this, Ace? There’s no one else on your suspect list?”
“Just one, but she’s unlikely. The jealous sister...maybe,” I shook my head. “The maid and the gardener are already out. No one saw Ruby leaving alone, or with a stranger. My gut is telling me this was a calculated crime., one only a truly immoral human being could carry out, someone who perhaps even knew the family.”
Ally let the information sink in slowly.
“Look, Ace, I’ll give you a name, but you must realize this cat has dirty paws. Dreadfully dirty paws. Don’t push him, don’t ask for too much, and never second guess him. He’s the only guy who will know if a crook did steal Ruby. He knows all the trades, inside and out.”
“Okay,” I agreed.
“Never ask him how he knows,” she instructed.
“Okay,” I said, nodding in encouragement. We had to speak quickly, Peter’s delicate kitten ears would return at any moment. It was enough that Peter believed in corrupt crime in his fairy tale books.
“Rogue. His name is Rogue,” Ally said quietly. “His lady’s name is Diamond. You’ll find him in the back alleys of Sixth and Penny Street.”
Peter came bounding back into the room, a small bag of treats hanging from his mouth.
“I foubt da tweets, Affy,” he mumbled through the package.
“Great, Peter. Now how about that new jingly ball you have in the bedroom?” Ally asked, trying to distract her younger brother.
“Oh! Ace, you wanna see my jingly ball?” he shrieked, dropping the bag. “I’ll go get it! I have to get it out from under the dresser first!” Peter was a cat on fire as he ran off again to delight me.
“Oh, Ace,” Ally said quietly, shaking her tail in displeasure. “Don’t you remember what happened to the curious cat?”
I smiled.
“Don’t worry your little head, Ally. I’ve got this. I’ve been a reporter for a long time, nothing will get me off this story,” I said.
“You missed the pretty.”
“Pardon?”
“My pretty little head,” Ally explained, giving me a wry smile.
If I could blush, I would have. Peter raced back into the living room, a bell rattling the entire way. He dropped it at my feet, an offering not unlike a dead mouse.
“Look there. Now that’s a fine jingly ball,” I remarked. “Did you wrestle this from under the dresser all by yourself, Peter?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, puffing out his little chest with pride. “All the time. I keep trying to bust it open. I think there might be a camera in there. They watch me you know.”
“They?”
“Yup. They,” he said gravely.
I could tell Ally wanted to say something more to me, but Peter continued.
“Don’t worry. I’m not putting all my stock in my theories,” he said.
“That’s good, Peter, that’s really good,” I said, standing.
“Yeah, I got a waffle shaped like Bob Barker. I’m gonna make thousands off it!” he squeaked. I moved towards the door. Ally smiled and hugged her brother, shushing him.
“You’resmushingme,” he muttered into her fur.
“Ace, you will keep me updated, won’t you?” Ally asked me as I turned for the door.
“Of course. I’ll be seeing you real soon.”
Peter wriggled himself from his sister’s grasp and bounded into my side for another hug. Ally’s worried face over his shoulder was the last thing I saw before I left The Heights for the newspaper office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Inside the familiar confines of The Daily Reporter, I picked through a container of leftover takeout while Max typed away at his computer. He was hanging around late, catching up on old, non-time sensitive stories before heading off to the late afternoon County Board preliminary budget meeting. While I’d normally attend this nearly-always heated political display, I had other plans.
Plans involving a good source with a bad reputation.
I planned to hit the street just after dark. The night came earlier each evening in Wisconsin as fall slid into winter. I had a vague idea of where Rogue’s hideout was, near Penny Street, south of downtown. A shadier side of town near The Orange Flamingo Trailer Park, Penny Street was a hodgepodge of run-down businesses, ramshackle houses and back alleys. It certainly wasn’t a regular tourist stop on the local Chamber of Commerce “Welcome!” map.
Max put the finishing touches on his article before switching his computer off and gathering up his camera and notebook with a sigh. Skimming over the County Board agenda, he sighed again as he stuffed it into his canvas work bag. He worked his plaid tie, hanging loose around his shoulders, back into a respectable knot at his neck. He tried to comb his messy blonde hair. I curled onto his office chair for warmth.
“This will be a long one, Ace. You’re staying the night, I see? I expect I won’t see you until I’m back in the morning,” he muttered. Patting my head, Max shut out the light and left the office. On his still-warm swivel chair, I decided an hour or two of shut eye before the evening excursion wasn’t such a bad idea.
I didn’t dream.
When I awoke, the office was empty and quiet besides the humming of computers and the ticking of clocks. I stretched and headed for the front door mail slot, it was now or never.
I let my keen eyes adjust to the night. The lights in Sloan’s apartment were non-existent. I pondered briefly about his and Mary’s whereabouts before heading off for Penny Street to locate Rogue, the alleged felony on four paws.
The evening was cold and damp, matching my declining mood of the task at hand. My paws soaked up the street’s water, leaving my pads stiff and chilly. I took in street signs as the neater neighborhood transitioned into the older, sketchier part of the city. I had no idea exactly where to find this Rogue character; an alley was a lot of space when you’re talking about a single cat’s territory. I could only hope I didn’t surprise the guy into an unprovoked attack. As Ally indicated, he wasn’t exactly the kind of guy you’d phone up if you needed an organ donation.
Rounding the corner onto Penny Street, I paused. A lonely hound dog barked somewhere in the far distance, but otherwise the street was silent. Somewhere, someone was burning leaves, the smell acrid and ashy. Across the street a few sallow yellow lights burned in the shabby homes, casting oddly-shaped lights onto the sidewalk lined with an occasional rusty vehicle.
Taking a few tentative steps, I focused on front porches and window ledges for signs of a cat who might be able to point me in the right direction. The block held no felines out for a breath of nippy fresh air, and I was forced to go back towards the few struggling businesses that looked like they were closed up for the night, or maybe were in the early stages of foreclosure. The brick buildings were crumbly at the seams, marred with fading graffiti.
I entered a long back alley that dead-ended at a proverbial, but in this case, literal, brick wall. The sides of the alley were the backs of the saddened businesses, each with an over-flowing dumpster and pile of assorted rubbish. Many windows were knocked out, the glass shards grinning menacingly at me. I rounded a chain link fence and looked yonder. The best thing I could do was turn around, so I kept going.
A nearly full moon hung in the sky, lighting my path as I walked among the dismal buildings, looming like giants in the shadows. It was deathly quiet. Too quiet. Just as I was about to check into what looked like an old dog kennel lined with plywood and shabby tarps, to my left I heard a trash can rattle. If I was expecting Oscar the Grouch, I would have realized I was a long way from Sesame Street. Out came a s
cruffy orange cat, missing the majority of his tail, but not because he was one of those fancy tailless breeds. Clearly, he had made rather poor character judgments in his lifetime.
“Whaddya want?” the junkyard cat growled as he leapt to my side.
“Easy there, fella,” I said, taking a step back from his mouse-scented breath. His fur was patchy and coarse. This cat had seen wars.
Suddenly, I felt myself surrounded from behind. I peered over my shoulder, careful to keep my cool despite my flip-flopping stomach. Backs arched, three more alley cats growled as they approached. Their eyes flashed as they circled me. Instinctively the hair rose on my back, but I lowered my body to signal I wasn’t the enemy.
“Hey, I’m no threat to you. I’m just looking for a guy. Maybe you know him. Rogue?” I ventured.
I hoped the name would spark some kind of retreat from the menacing tabbies and tailless junkyard cat, but it only ignited their distrust. Exchanging looks, one said to the other, “Did you hear that, Tiger? What about you, Bob? Trespasser here wants to see Rogue. That shouldn’t be a problem, now should it?”
I had a sneaking feeling it would be.
“Whaddya think, Kit Kat?” the tailless cat questioned.
They all burst into loud, heinous laughter and circled my body. I kept a wary watch on them, completely unsure of my next move. I was definitely outnumbered. Ally was right, I overestimated my abilities this time.
“Pretty house cat wants to talk to the mangy outside cats, is that right?” the one called Tiger jeered.
“I’m not here to challenge you or to cause trouble. I need his help. You can understand, huh? Rogue is a smart guy, every cat knows that,” I said.
“Of course he is!” spat Bob. “But that don’t mean you can get to him.”
“Who the heck are you, anyway?” demanded Tiger, sending a cloud of dandruff and fleas into the air as he shook his head.
“Name’s Ace. Reporter. I’m on a story.”
“That right? Well we don’t like cats nosin’ around here, do we, Kit Kat?”
The one named Kit Kat shook his shaggy black head, a sneer growing on his lips, revealing sharp, yellow fangs. He was missing an incisor, but I doubted that would dull his bite. The three cats circled closer to me, fraying my nerves.
“I see I’ve bothered you. Maybe I should just go then,” I offered enthusiastically. They crept closer, eyes burning.
“Gentleman! Gentleman!” a new voice rang out, causing the cats to back off. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought a slight look of fear crossed their eyes. “Is this how we treat visitors? Tsk, tsk, tsk. Let’s be nice. Who do we have here?”
The cats parted, their heads bowed, as—to my surprise—a gleaming mink walked through the crowd and up to me. He was small, but walked on his back feet to appear a few inches taller. His eyes were beady and black.
“How do you do? Let me introduce myself. I’m Minx. And you are?” He let the question dangle in the air.
It wasn’t often one saw a mink in the city. Minks are a rare breed, typically bred in captivity for their luxurious coats. A member of the weasel family, minks are not only known for their beauty, but also their haughty attitudes and foul stench. Minx, for example, reeked like a damp basement.
“Minx. Name’s Ace. I was just telling your friends here that I’m a reporter. I’m on a story. I’m looking for Rogue, and I thought he might be able to help me.”
“Ace, huh? Newspaper, yeah? Writer, eh?” Minx hissed, coming to all four legs and snaking around me, checking out my size and scent. “I’ve heard about you. You should write fiction, you know, since that’s what you’re spouting off here tonight.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
The three alley cats slunk into the background, clearly at the mercy of this Minx fellow. Minx, nonplussed, draped himself like a cheap suit over a nearby discarded soda can.
“Or maybe Diamond?” I tried.
“Lady Diamond?!” Minx exclaimed, shaken. He stomped towards me, his surly eyes level with my own. “Lady Diamond? No one, and I mean no one sees Lady Diamond without Rogue. You really aren’t from around here, are you?”
Apparently not.
“I’m sorry; who did you say you were again?” I asked. This weasel was working my last nerve. He was toying with me. Weasels are notorious for being, well, weasels. While I was no doubt on the losing edge of this scenario, I needed to bring this conversation back around to the matter at hand. I had to establish that I wasn’t some pushover lap cat.
“I’m Minx, Rogue’s sidekick,” Minx said as he sat back up on his legs, raising his trim body in the air. His chest puffed out with pride like a bag of popcorn microwaved on high. “I, along with many others, was stolen for my fur, but Rogue saved me. Rogue’s rescue has earned him my eternal loyalty. I don’t let just anyone see Rogue.”
The savage mink eyed me up and down with annoyed displeasure. His pointy nose twitched.
“Rogue saved a weasel?” I questioned.
Minx stepped back, offended. “Who you callin’ weasel? I’m only shirttail relation to the weasel family!”
Semantics.
“I understand,” I answered to the smelly bodyguard, trying to appease him. “Hey. Look. I get it. You’re good to your friend. Rouge has given you your life back, and you owe him a great debt.”
“That’s right, but I don’t like the looks of you,” he murmured, petting his soft tail. “And Rogue doesn’t take unannounced visitors, anyway.”
I pushed down the impulse to call him a liar, liar, pants on fire. Rogue was in the business of anarchy, thievery, and mischief. While he kept his friends close, he’d keep his enemies closer.
“All right. I’ll get out of here. After you tell me one little thing,” I said.
“What’s that?” the weasel asked.
“Oh, you know, Minx. This little thing you’re dancing around.”
Minx gave me a questioning look.
“The real story,” I demanded.
Minx’s deep black eyes narrowed. “What did you say to me?”
“Rogue would have arrived by now. A strange cat shows up in his back alley, asking questions to his toughs, to his front man, some regarding his lady, and yet he doesn’t show up to face me? No. Something is amiss here. Tell me.”
What was wrong with me?! I needed a mouse trap for my tongue. Firing off insults to a character like this could leave me on a lifelong hit list.
To my shock, Minx backed off a centimeter. He looked at Bob, the tough tabbies, and his black backup, but they only returned blank expressions.
“What are you trying to poke your paws into, Mr. Hotshot Reporter, huh? What?” Minx demanded.
“A case not unlike your own. An animal, a cat, is stolen. I think Rogue may be able to help me find her. Come on, Minx, you know what it’s like. Locked up, alone, no future. Work with me. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Minx eyed me for what felt like 12 seasons of the Dr. Phil show.
“Come with me,” he said finally, flicking his long tail to his backup to follow me in case I tried something funny.
Minx led me into a former dog kennel lined with plywood. Inside, several flashlights were lighting the corners. The cats had set up a variety of boxes that exited out the kennel and lined several yards of the alley. Covered in more plywood and a few mismatched tarps, the cats established a shelter of sorts. I had no idea how deep this shelter went, or if it entered into any of the resident derelict houses. Holey blankets covered several surfaces, and bags of cat food lined another wall. At Minx’s offering, I took a seat across from him in the center of the kennel. He struck a match and lit a candle for warmth. I hoped he wouldn’t burn the place down, it would go faster than a chocolate cake at a Weight Watchers meeting.
Reading my thoughts, Minx noted, “This is just the entrance. We live in an abandoned basement around here, but strangers don’t go into The Pit.”
“I see. It’s nice, real nice. You guys have done quite a job here
,” I said. I meant it. The tabbies, who now took to lying down around the perimeter, nodded. The black cat, Kit Kat, remained standing, eyeing me with a furious curiosity.
“You don’t actually know Rogue, do you?” Minx said as more of a statement than a question.
“I don’t. A good friend referred me. I hear he’s the best, that he can track any cat lost in the stolen circuit. I need his insight. I’m running out of time.”
“A dear friend of yours taken, then?”
“Not exactly, but any cat unwillingly taken from a happy and healthy home is my business. I’m going to bring this cat home,” I asserted.
“A hero, then, eh?” Minx chewed on a piece of stale bread. “James Bond with fur, sans the tux?”
“No. Just a reporter, trying to solve a crime.”
“Look, Lady Diamond ain’t going to see you without Rogue,” he laughed. “And Rogue is, how shall we say? Indisposed.”
I exchanged a look with Kit Kat. If I was not mistaken, he appeared a bit troubled. The small space smelled like moldy dish rags—it was Minx. I tried to breathe through my mouth and ignore the foul stench.
“I don’t understand. Where’s Rogue?” I cleared my throat nasally.
“You need Rogue to solve your little crime? I get it. I do. You need me to get you to Rogue? Sure, I’ll tell you. But I need your help first.”
I watched the weasel over the flickering orange flame.
“He’s in hard lockup,” he said in a deadpan, defeated tone.
My eyes widened.
“Yeah, that’s right. The pound. The shelter. Not the no-kill one, either. And he doesn’t have many days left before...you know. Keeeeccchhhh.” Minx made a slashing motion across his throat. “He’s on death row.”
I sat speechless for a moment. The cat with all the answers on missing and stolen cats was now missing himself. This was bad.
“How can I assist?” I asked, taken aback. I looked around at the rough-and-tumble group of cats. I was sure they was not his only crew. If they couldn’t bust Rogue out, how could I?