by A M Bostwick
“I know about you, newspaper cat,” Minx hissed. “You were adopted from a shelter. Your pretty reporter friend bailed you out. Didn’t he?”
“Max is an editor,” I muttered.
“But you were on the inside!” Minx insisted.
I nodded. “Sure. You’re forgetting something, though, Minx. I was about twenty ounces of fuzz at the time. I don’t recall much.”
Minx huffed in my face. “You must recall something!”
“Look, Minx. I don’t know what you want from me. You’re a weasel, for crying out loud, and you can’t weasel the guy out?”
“Stop referring to me as a weasel, or this discussion is over right now!” Minx scolded.
I put my paws up like I was caught red-pawed. “My sincere apologies,” I uttered.
Minx pouted, but went on, “We’ve tried everything for a week. Me and the boys.” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “This is a pro-kill shelter five blocks down. Security is too thick. The hourglass is running low. Lady Diamond has entered utter despair.”
I needed to find Ruby. That was my case. Getting this Rogue character off death row was not a problem I should add to my list right now; but looking at the tabbies, I imagined Rogue behind bars with a tray for a cat box, a stack of old newspapers for a bed. I pictured Lady Diamond without her companion. Lastly, I imagined his cohorts here without a leader. Something is to be said for the integrity of the underground alley cat system. The world didn’t work without cats on the inside, even the down and dirty ones. I examined Minx’s face. I questioned if this weasel was playing with me, luring me into some kind of dangerous situation, but his face was as honest as a dog’s when the meat is out of reach. I believed him.
“All right, Minx. I’ll help you, but this is going to go my way. You’re going to follow me. That’s the only way I’ll do this,” I asserted.
The cats sat up at attention, their ears and eyes alert. I had given them a glimmer of hope. Minx winced, but seemed used to the typical feline leader who acted like a real pain-in-the-haunches boss.
“You got it, Ace. Once Rogue is sprung from the pen, you can use his resources. He’ll owe you. Then you gotta bust it outta this alley for good,” Minx snarled, making one last jab at my obvious inability to blend into their crew.
“Fine. I have to put together a team. You need to put together a team. How late is the shelter open?” I queried.
“Until 7 p.m. on weekdays,” Bob answered.
“Since we’re low on time, we act tomorrow night. Same time. We’ll meet here,” I faced all of the cats as I dictated my orders.
“Wait—what do you mean, same time? We go while the shelter is open yet? You totally loco, cat?” Minx grunted, leaning close to the flame, his face half-in, half-out of the shadows.
“Yes. I mean, no,” I retorted. “I mean, yes we go while the shelter is open, no I am not crazy. Trust me on this. Also, I need you to gather some items for me: A credit card, a paperclip, a long piece of string, three wood shims, and four iced jelly donuts.”
“Jelly donuts? Some kind of glue, you mean?” Minx narrowed his eyes.
“No. I might get hungry.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dashing back to the newspaper, my mind raced faster than my feet. What had I gotten myself into? There was, after all, no guarantee that Rogue would even be able to lead me to Ruby. According to Ally he was a tough character, the toughest cat on this side of the Western Hemisphere, or at least the west side of town. Would he surely scratch behind my ears if I scratched his? There was no promise this would pan out. I was acting purely on instinct and adrenaline, which wasn’t always the most unbiased and analytical action for a reporter to do.
Maybe that’s what detectives did.
At the office, I pushed through the mail slot and looked for signs that Sloan had stopped by for a visit. Nope, no fresh scents had been rubbed in the usual spot. I vaguely wondered why he’d been out of touch for so long, but dismissed it for a leftover sugar cookie and cold milk in the break room. I had to think fast; sure, I’d put together plans before in greater amounts of time that involved larger criminals. This, on the other hand, er, paw, was a different heist altogether.
Booting up Max’s computer and logging online, images of debauchery danced in my head and I reeled back. Was I truly going to facilitate a break in, a robbery of a feline tagged for death? It wasn’t exactly in my line of expertise; I knew less about burglary than I did about the upkeep of sea monkeys. There had to be a better method than a break-in. If a mink with all his resources couldn’t bust into the joint, I wasn’t going to either. No—what we needed was a diversion.
Searching for the shelter online, I located the small operation that Minx told me about, not far from his lair. I zoomed in on a photo; the building appeared to have a single, plate glass door in front with a standard deadbolt and key lock. That wouldn’t pose a problem if the shelter was open.
I clicked on the “Adopt Me” section. At least 15 felines in distress looked back at me. Could any of them be Rogue? I had no idea. Looking past the faces that tugged at my heart and gnawed at my kitten memories, I examined their cages. No locks. This was good, I felt relief wash over me. It looked like each cage had a peg that pulled out of a mechanical locking system, easily operated from the outside but not from the inside, even for the adept delinquent paws of one Mister Rogue.
While the website did not provide a layout of the building itself, it was easy to imagine that a hall that led to the dog and cat rooms laid behind the front desk. Getting past that desk would be the first plan of attack. After that, we’d have to take the challenges as they came. If we checked into all of the windows before putting our plan into play, that might give us a better idea of anything that might stand in our way to freeing Rogue.
Now—what would constitute a diversion?
***
I slept fitfully at the office that night, not truly falling into deep slumber until after 2 a.m. The Christmas bells on the door woke me, signifying the arrival of front office staff. Rousing from bed, I gave my fur a quick clean and checked out my food dish. The water was flat and sour, so I tipped it over on the floor to alert Max to better keep up with my aquatic hygiene standards. In the break room I found someone had baked a loaf of wheat bread and sliced it for consumption. I tore off a piece and ran away with under it under the fax machine table to devour it in peace. The graphic artists didn’t like it when I snitched food, especially cupcakes.
Satisfied with a full tummy, I ran through the office for a quick check, assuring there was no news of a ransom note—there was none. Undeterred, I stretched and left the newspaper office through the front mail slot. It was a classic fall Wisconsin day, the air crisp and fresh. Thankfully it dawned sunny, I hoped that the blazing ball would heat up the air for today’s deviant activities. I padded over to Sloan’s side of the street and looked into his apartment windows. He wasn’t sunning himself in the morning light, striking me as odd. Curling into my own patch of light, I camped out next to a bare-limbed tree and waited. I was ready to doze off amid the buzz of downtown morning traffic when Sloan appeared in the window. He gave a half-hearted wave, then raised a single paw to indicate he’d be with me in a moment.
When he appeared, I almost didn’t recognize my best friend. He’d been groomed.
“Sloan, I, uh, well, this is, um...” I stammered.
“Don’t say it. I know what I look like,” he mumbled, his tail low.
I didn’t say it.
“But, but, how did this happen?” I asked.
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
“I think it would help,” I urged.
Sloan took a deep sigh. “Remember how Mary bribed me home yesterday with Meaty Beast?”
“Yeah. Was it all a lie?”
“Oh, no. She had the stuff. As I was scarfing my second can down, she grabbed from behind and...” he took a deep breath as he recalled the painful memory, “Stuffed me into a cat carrier.”
�
�No!”
“Believe it, my friend. Mouth full, claws retracted, I had no options to fight her. BANG! I was locked in and on my way to Miss Fluffy Foot’s Pet Emporium,” Sloan said with wide eyes.
“I don’t understand. How could she?”
“It gets worse. After I was bathed, trimmed, clipped, powdered, and brushed...she...well, she took me to the vet.”
“Say it isn’t so!”
“That’s right. I was primped and preened at the groomer, then manhandled by a vet and stabbed with two shots,” Sloan bemoaned. “Something about my health and rabies and all that nonsense. Those vets live to watch you writhe in pain!”
I nodded in utter agreement.
“How are your nails?” I asked.
Sloan extracted his front claws, showing me how short they’d been clipped. “I’ve been ripping up the couch pretty bad, but only on the back side! I suppose I’m fortunate she didn’t have them removed.”
We shuddered in unison at the thought.
“You don’t need to downplay your misery for me, Sloan. What do you say we go cheer you up at Lily’s? Get a donut? Some cream perhaps?”
“No, no. I can’t see Lily all puffy like this. I licked all night, but it’s no use. All I can taste is Very Berry shampoo. This is borderline animal cruelty.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, patting his shoulder sympathetically.
“Enough about me. What’s going on with the case?”
I filled Sloan in on the events of my evening traipse to the dark alley and my run-in with Rogue’s posse. I ended with telling him about tonight’s date to spring Rogue with his bodyguard mink.
“A mink? Are you kidding me? A weasel? A few months ago, we got tangled with a rat, now a weasel?” Sloan cried.
“Minks are only a member of the weasel family. Like cousins. I bet they don’t even all have Thanksgiving together.”
“What?!” Sloan screeched.
“Never mind. I’ve told the mink who’s the boss; me. He plays it pushy, so I’m playing it pushy. I’m calling all the shots, Sloan. I believe he won’t override the situation. It’s our last best bet to get to the bottom of what happened to Ruby. We’ve got to do this.”
Releasing a mammoth breath of air, Sloan nodded. “All right, all right. I’ve gotta go home and try to de-puff, though, if I’m going to get together with a bunch of toughs tonight.”
I agreed and headed back to the office, noting for him to meet me outside at 5:15 p.m., fluffy or not.
“Try rolling in dirt!” I hollered to him.
As the afternoon wore on, working alongside Max as he typed up several deathly-boring County Board stories, I began to second guess myself. Should I have asked Sloan to invite more backup cats? Was it a mistake to only have a handful of felines and one weasley-weasel at tonight’s party?
My biggest concern trumped calling in more cats. The image was still fresh in my mind, that dark and stormy night when Peter was hurt. I didn’t want to risk that again; I wouldn’t. Alley cats like Rogue’s gang understood the risks, as did Sloan and I. My trepidation at pulling in other recruits was too large to put anyone else in harm’s way tonight. We didn’t need anyone else to end up in lock-up.
A few of us would have to be enough.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I caught one more cat nap before the office staff began to drift towards the door, with tomorrow’s paper put to bed. Everyone looked bug-eyed and haunted, the usual reaction after a hectic deadline. Even Max looked like he’d had more than his share of journalism for the day, having reeled out several government stories for the front and inside pages and web. My cat dishes were refilled with clean water (after a scolding for spilling it and causing Max to slip and “nearly break his neck”—he could be so dramatic) and a new heap of Kuddly Kitty Krunchies. I flicked the x-bites on the floor and ate the rest. Despite the atrocious flavor, I needed my energy. Rubbing my head, Max turned out his light and said I should come home that night.
If only he knew.
Scenarios of what could happen tonight played through my head like a bad horror flick. My diversion tactic could work like a charm, we could free Rogue, run out of the shelter, obtain some excellent information as to Ruby’s whereabouts...and then...what? We’d hug and shake paws? Suddenly, my B-movie turned into an after-school special. It was all a highly unlikely scenario.
The truth of the situation was this was risky business.
We might not be able to distract anyone. we might not be able to get Rogue unlocked. We might not get Rogue to talk, even if we did unlock his cage. In fact, we could end up behind bars ourselves.
I couldn’t think like that. I shook my head and went outside early to wait for Sloan. Rustling my fur against the air thick with autumn chill, I let my eyes adjust to the darkness. It fit my mood, and I steeled myself against anything that might go wrong in the next few hours. I wondered where Ruby was on this night. Did she miss her companions? Aero? It was time to bring her home.
It was time to act.
***
Sloan and I hurried toward Rogue’s hideout where Minx and his posse had agreed to gather for us. My best friend had only slightly achieved what he had hoped—while severely less poufy, he still smelled like an orchard.
“You told that stinky weasel to collect tonight’s tools, right?” Sloan asked.
“Yes. Just be thankful that he is unbearably smelly, Sloan. Maybe his stench will mask your fruity aroma.”
Sloan made a face but didn’t disagree. I think he was getting more used to these dangerous outings and building more confidence in our abilities as undercover crime-solvers of the night. Even so, that didn’t make this excursion any safer.
We hung right at the shadowy alley, waltzing in like we owned the place. I kept my tail high, my ears alert, and my eyes wavered from one corner to the next in distrustful watchfulness. I wasn’t about to let my guard down. Near the compound of the secret kennel/plywood/basement entrance, I made out the outline of five cats and the mink at the front of the herd. Minx’s short arms were crossed in front of his chest, trying to stand tall. A brown paper lunch bag laid crumpled at his feet.
“Minx.”
“Ace.”
“Kit Kat, Tiger, Bob and...”I trialed off, unsure of the others’ names.
“This is Sin, and that’s Lobo and Onyx,” Tiger relayed. Besides the original males, there sat a skinny male calico cat and gray long-male female with a wide rump, Onyx and Lobo, respectively. Sin was white as a ghost and lean, her eyes light green.
“Our claws are sharp and we’re ready to go, Ace,” Kit Kat rasped, the first words he’d ever said to me directly. The other five cats nodded in unison. “It’s time to release Rogue.”
“Yes, it is,” I asserted. “You’ve got all I asked for?” They nodded. “Good. Let’s go. Leave the donuts here.”
***
I was surprised at the gang’s eagerness to follow me. As a marauder of the night, Minx undulated ahead of us all, his lithe body taunt with unbridled anticipation. The energy of the night overshadowed any looming anxiety I had been feeling. It was now nearing quitting time for the pound but not so close that anyone might be thinking about locking the doors early. Few cars passed by this part of Lakeville in the evening, but we stuck to the shadows regardless, keeping wary eyes open for any signs of trouble. As it turned out, no one wanted to mess with five dangerous-looking felines, one black cat reporter, a freshly-groomed Ragdoll, and a shiny mink with an attitude problem.
Nearing the pound, we paused to regroup under an ailing cedar bush roughly the size of a yard barn. From behind a clump of decaying foliage, I took in the view of the animal shelter. The building was a small one-story with few windows, and two cement, decorative dogs flanked the sidewalk. A light shone out of the clear, plate-glass door that swung towards the inside. The parking lot was vacant, there were no visitors.
“All right, detective,” Minx spat. “What’s the gig? What’re we gonna do here tonight that I have
n’t done before?”
You’d think the guy didn’t even want me here. I replied, “One question, Minx. How did Rogue end up in lock up?”
The weasel hesitated. The five alley cats all pretended to be busy looking at their tails or the emerging stars.
“He was tryin’ to bust out another inmate after closing hours,” Minx answered in a flat tone.
I ruminated on his statement.
“Gutsy. Okay. How did he enter the building then?” I questioned.
“Walked right in after picking the lock. He knows a bulldog south of Penny Street that has the tools to work anything. He balanced on the door handle to jimmy the locks. The dog pulled open the door.”
“Then what?”
“Isn’t this something we should have thought about before we came down here tonight?” Sloan snapped, dread dripping from his voice.
I urged Minx to continue.
“The shelter wasn’t so closed after all. Some staff were still behind, cleaning up the floors and trash cans. The bulldog ran like mad, the door slammed behind Rogue and trapped him inside. Some brute snatched Rogue while he was off guard. BOOM. Tossed behind bars.”
“And since you couldn’t bust him out, and no one adopted him...” I began.
“...he’s tagged to be gassed,” Minx finished.
If I wasn’t mistaken, I heard a catch in Minx’s voice. I supposed besides following the tough cat, he also had affection for him not unlike the friendship I had with Sloan, who was growing more and more annoyed with me by the minute.
“I see. Thanks, Minx, now we know where Rogue went wrong. We aren’t going to make that mistake tonight,” I told the cats. They seemed agreeable, but Minx’s gaze could cut steel wire.
“What a fine time to bring this up,” he lashed out. “You indicated to me that you had a concrete plan that would work, Mr. Jelly Donut.” He paused dramatically, then spat, “You lied to me.”
“And it was entirely to my enjoyment,” I snapped back. “And I do have a plan. No plan is concrete—look at what happened to Rogue, the mastermind. We have to stay flexible. Now start unpacking.”