The Great Cat Nap

by A M Bostwick

  Bolt pounded pavement and continued to ignore my pleas to slow down. His body heaved with the deep pants of air he took in and out. Finally realizing he had a passenger, Bolt came to a stop a few blocks north of Penny Street. He knelt down, and I jumped off. My body was stiff from panic, and my legs were shaking.

  “Thanks, pal,” I said genuinely, shaking feeling back into my limbs. He may have led me way off course, but anything south of Canada was better than the enraged fists of the robust shelter guy.

  “No problem,” Bolt panted, taking in his surroundings.

  “You got a place to go?” I asked.

  He cocked his head. “I ran away from home a couple days ago. It’s time to head back. I knew I shouldn’t have left but this rabbit, he kept taunting me. I got lost on his trail,” he told me.

  “Why didn’t your companion come looking for you?”

  “I run off a lot, but I’ve never been caught like this. I always go home,” he said. “I’m sure they’re waiting for me.”

  “You should stop that. You’re fortunate to have a home to go to,” I noted, feeling responsible for his safety. “Are you sure you can get back all right? You have to watch for cars. Don’t chase them, either.”

  “I know. I caught a scent here; I’ll be home soon. Thanks, cat,” he said, starting to take off. He stopped and turned, looking at me. “Your name is Ace?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you, anyway? Some kind of caped crusader without a cape?”

  “No. I’m just a reporter.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After Bolt lollopped into the night, I walked in the direction of Penny Street. My mind was racing and I hoped all of the cats had gotten back safely. I also worried about the well-being of all those cats and dogs we’d freed. For those who were truly homeless—would they know where to go? What would they do?

  Rounding the corner of Penny Street, I took a moment to take in my surroundings and made sure I wasn’t being tailed by any unsavory characters with heart-and-arrow tattoos peeping out from under their sleeves. It was mid-evening now, the street was quiet. Only the sound of a loud television set blaring through the paper-thin walls of a nearby house could be heard. Richard Simmons was encouraging a spandex-clad crowd to sweat to the seventies.

  Entering the secret alley of Rogue, I heard a cacophony of voices. Following them, I found an array of cats surrounding an old milk crate where the manatee-sized Rogue stood, his arm draped casually around a cream-colored long hair with a faux-gem collar. Lady Diamond. Everyone was celebrating; the big bad wolf was back in town. Minx danced around, handing out bits of jelly donut to hungry felines. Frisky panted with a large grin on his face. I carefully approached, listening to their excited chatter. I was grateful to spot Kit Kat and the others. We were all here. It was a jailbreak miracle. On the outskirts of the group, Sloan spotted me and ran to my side.

  “Sloan! Do you know what this is?” I asked.

  “Yes, Ace. I believe this is what’s called breaking and entering, vandalism, and felony escape,” he tallied up on each toe.

  “Right, buddy,” I said, patting his shoulder. “But we did it. This is a plan that actually worked. We freed a cat marked for death.”

  “You’re right,” Sloan agreed, smoothing his ears. “Hey, did you get back okay? I thought that lab I was riding was going to careen straight into a minivan. With my clipped claws, I could barely hold on.”

  “The shepherd took me out of the way, but that’s all right,” I answered, quieting as Rogue called for silence.

  “Make way, cats,” Rogue ordered. They all parted, became silent, and looked at me.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he announced. I stared at him.

  Rogue motioned for me to come forward.

  I wasn’t a dog that would sit up on my haunches, though. I remained seated next to Sloan. Lady Diamond’s green eyes sparkled as she examined me, but didn’t smile. Sensing my hesitation, Rogue leapt to the ground and walked to me, his gigantic head towering well over mine. He must have Maine Coon mixed in his bloodline.

  “Are you Ace?”

  “I am Ace.”

  Offering an outstretched paw that resembled a furry baseball glove, Rogue declared, “I owe you one. Much obliged.”

  I took his paw and nodded. He watched me, waiting. Sometimes a long pause can be a reporter’s best friend.

  “You must have good sources to have found me,” he finally said.

  “I do,” I answered, thinking smugly of Ally. “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “That it does,” Rogue asserted, pleased. “But, hey. Don’t believe everything you hear. I’m much worse than all that.” His cronies laughed, but I didn’t. Rouge added, “You look like you mean business.”

  “I do mean business,” I answered. “But first, those cats we freed-where will they go?”

  Rogue waved a paw. “No worries. Bob is our homeless coordinator. He’ll help find shelter and food, and eventually permanent homes.”

  I nodded, relieved. “Might I have a word alone?” I asked.

  “Certainly, certainly. Walk with me.”

  Rogue walked in the direction of the entrance to the lair, the same area where Minx had first asked for my help in busting his hero from the pen. That was yesterday; it felt like a lifetime ago. I motioned for Sloan to accompany us, but Minx exploded.

  “If he’s coming, I’m coming!” he demanded insolently.

  “Enough, Minx,” snapped Rogue.

  The weasel cowered at his words and sat down at the entrance in a sulky huff. As I walked by him, his odor reminded me of yesterday’s litter box. Lady Diamond sauntered over to join him. I had to question her sense of smell.

  “Alright, Rogue. But I’ll be right here if you need me,” Minx said, glaring at me. It didn’t hurt my feelings. “We can go back to not liking each other now,” he whispered to me as I passed. I paused.

  “Now, Minx. Don’t overestimate the situation. We never liked each other.”

  Minx chewed on that, then shrugged.

  Rogue led Sloan and I into the familiar kennel. “This way,” he stated as he walked inside, the burlap door covering closing behind us. He paused to scratch just inside the door, his razor-sharp claws glistening in the moonlight.

  “That feels good, I haven’t had a good scratch in weeks,” Rogue groaned. “Whew. That mink is like Velcro to my leg. Don’t get me wrong, he’s useful and a nice guy and all that, but a cat could use some room to breathe, you know?”

  I nodded. He must have meant “room to breathe” literally.

  “Can I offer you some catnip? It’s pure, uncut,” Rogue offered.

  “No, thanks, I’m working,” I said, omitting the fact that I avoid the stuff all together. Sloan also shook his head.

  “Man, does it smell a little fruity in here?” Rogue observed, sniffing the air as he spread out a hit of aromatic catnip.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sloan said quickly.

  “What can I do for you, Ace? Or maybe I should begin by asking what brought you to the wrong side of the tracks, slummin’ it in my alley? Ain’t you a housecat?”

  “Journalist. I work at The Daily Reporter.”

  Rogue eyed me. His pupils dilated as he took in the pile of herb. He flopped inelegantly onto a pillow and peered up at me, motes of dust rising around him like an un-angelic halo.

  “You’re writing an article, then?” he asked.

  “You could say that; but I’m also solving a crime.”

  Rogue sniffed, then replied, “Heroic. Maybe I should have that sentiment crotched onto a pillow for you.”

  Uh-oh. Was he mean while under the influence?

  “Hardly,” I retorted, skipping the chatter and getting straight to the point. “I’m looking for Ruby the Russian. Famous show cat gone missing. I believe she’s been cat-napped. I know you know the underground system, Rogue. I helped you. Now I need your help. Tell me who you think might have taken h
er, pawned her, or sold her.”

  “Your sources ran dry?” Rogue asked.

  “Yes,” I admitted. I thought of Ellin and her quilting supplies. “This would be a fairly accessible smuggler. The woman who would have sold her, well, I don’t think she’s well versed in the world of criminal debauchery.”

  The cat lolled further back, thinking. “You make a habit of rescuin’ animals?” he asked the sky.

  “I have a habit of finding the truth. Journalists’ creed.”

  “I don’t buy it,” he said.

  “No problem. It’s not for sale.”

  A tension-filled pause seemed to have us at a draw.

  “You’re a witty one, huh?” he finally murmured.

  “Have I done something to offend you? Like getting your fuzzy tail off death row, maybe?” I quipped.

  Rogue’s eyes snapped up to my face. “I don’t know if you’ve looked at your paws lately, pal, but you’ve stepped into quite a mess.”

  Sloan sat still as a statue. I held my ground. Rogue’s dilated eyes met with mine. While I hadn’t forgotten Ally’s warning about his temper, I grew weary of being treated like a door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen after what I’d just gone through to free the guy. Plus, it was well after my normal bedtime, and no one had saved me any jelly donut. After a pause that lasted approximately two years, Rogue sat up straight and muttered, “Wait a minute. Was it you? You’re the reporter who solved the murder this past summer? You involved some cats from The Orange Flamingo.”

  “Yes. It was me. In the library. With the candlestick,” I deadpanned.

  “No need for such attitude. I admired that job. Takin’ down a full grown man like that? Takes a real set of claws.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way,” I mused.

  “I was there,” Sloan mentioned. Rogue ignored him.

  “Let me tell you something, Ace. Private eye, reporter, 007, whatever you are—you’re too witty; that’s gonna get you into trouble,” Rogue said. He hesitated dramatically. “But I like that.”

  Rogue stood up, moved over to a ratty, plaid blanket, and flopped down for a change of horizontal position. I adjusted myself to look at him squarely.

  He went on, “I don’t know your Ruby the Russian. Sure, I’ve heard of her. Who hasn’t? But bein’ on the inside, the usual string of gossip has been low. Nonetheless, there’s only one guy in Lakeville who would have the skill to steal a high class cat like that, I can tell you that for certain.”

  My ears pricked up. “Who?”

  “Calm down, all in good time, my friend. All in good time. Let me ask you, does Ruby come from a fancy home with tight security?”

  “Yes. Including a vicious guard dog,” I confirmed.

  “I figured, I figured,” Rogue, said nodding. “You’ve got no real concrete suspects, correct?”

  Sloan and I looked at each other.

  “One. Maybe,” I said. Not to mention Mr. X, the unknown I haven’t forgotten. “We think it was an inside job on some level or another.”

  “Well, cross that person off your list. ‘Cause I firmly believe that The Moustache is your guy,” Rogue declared.

  “The Moustache?” Sloan echoed.

  “Yeah, Kramer ‘The Moustache’ Carter,” Rogue nodded.

  “I take it this Carter fellow has an admirable collection of facial hair, or perhaps an aversion to razors?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Something like that. It’s his M.O.,” Rogue confided. “He makes Tom Selleck look like an amateur.”

  Great, something to look forward to.

  Rogue continued, “Regardless, Ace, The Moustache illegally runs all the animals. Show cats, minks, ermines, angoras, even some exotics. He once stole some alpacas. Expensive fur and breedin’ stock, you know.”

  “How the heck do you smuggle an alpaca?” I asked, appalled.

  “He’s just that good.”

  “All right. What does he do with the animals?” I asked.

  “Sells ‘em. To the highest bidder.”

  “How long does that take?”

  Rogue mused, “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “How long it takes to find a bidder. Keep in mind these animals are hot. You don’t want to hold on too long to somethin’ that’s hot, do you? You get burned,” Rogue explained.

  I thought for a moment.

  “You think your gem Ruby was already pawned?” Rogue inquired.

  “What’s your opinion?”

  “I’d say no. He’s not sellin’ her for her fur. He’s sellin’ her for her show quality. He would need an out-of-state buyer, I’d say. That would take a border run. He only goes on those once a month—the last of the month.”

  Mentally, I counted down the days to the end of the month; plenty of time.

  “Where can I find this ‘Moustache’ character, Rogue?” I implored.

  “Ace, you sure you wanna get your paws in this deep?”

  “I’m already up to my ears. I’ll keep going.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “Nice, nice.” Why did this cat always repeat himself? “I’ll tell you this, Ace. You can’t just walk up to his door with a basket of cookies and expect he’ll turn over the damsel in distress.”

  “What do I look like, a golden retriever? I figured that.”

  “Good, good,” he answered, unoffended. “The Moustache lives a block past The Orange Flamingo.”

  Sloan audibly groaned. We were all too familiar with The Orange Flamingo and its less-than-savory crowd.

  “He keeps the animals in cages in the basement. The house otherwise looks ordinary. Gray. One story. White trim. Red door. 155 Oregon Street. Enjoy your trip.”

  Rogue draped a paw over his eyes for a nap. If he thought this meant our conversation was over, he was wrong.

  “Rogue, have you busted animals out of here before?” I pressed.

  “Where do you suppose Minx the mink came from?” he murmured over his furry arm.

  “Then there’s more you can tell me,” I said.

  “I feel I’ve told you enough,” he said, yawning and getting up to stretch. “I’ve had a long day. I’m ready for a nap with Lady Diamond. I couldn’t sleep worth a darn in the joint.”

  I shook my head adamantly. “You would be taking a permanent dirt nap if it wasn’t for me.”

  Rogue stopped.

  “What do you want now?” he mewled tiredly.

  “How did you break Minx out of The Moustache’s basement?”

  He sat down. “Okay, okay. There’s a brick. A concrete brick in the basement that’s loose. If you’re strong enough to muscle it out of the way, you can crawl into the basement. Once you’re in, you’re on your own. He locks up different animals in different ways. Cages, some with locks, some without. Some animals just run free. It’s a riot down there. A real racket.”

  “How many times have you freed these animals? How can you keep doing this and not get caught?” I marveled.

  “You want me to tell you all my secrets?”

  I gave him a stare that told him I did. He sighed in mock defeat.

  “I haven’t been successful for that long, my newspaper friend. When I first discovered the place, it was because of a runaway. Kit Kat, the big black fellow out there who you met. He discovered the brick. He was a kitten bein’ primed for show, but he was never missed. He led me back, and whenever we could, we let loose anyone we could. The Moustache doesn’t have animals all the time; that would be highly suspicious, wouldn’t it?”

  “Thank you, Rogue. You’ve been immensely helpful.”

  “That finally it? Good, good. Then thank you, Ace. Sloan.”

  Rogue shook both of our paws. Sloan exited the kennel, anxious for some fresh air, I think. The stench of catnip was overwhelming. I turned to Rogue. I still had one last burning question.

  “Is your name really Rogue?” I asked quietly.

  Rogue looked around for prying ears and whispered back, “How did you know?”

  “Reporter’s
hunch,”

  “Promise you won’t tell?”

  “You have my word.”

  Maybe it was the fact that I’d just rescued this onerous alley cat from a death sentence that persuaded him to open up to me. Perhaps I’d gained his trust in sharing my noble mission. Or maybe it was the catnip.

  “It’s Mr. Mittens,” he said. Then he pointed an accusing toe, “Don’t judge.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I considered going to 155 Oregon Street that very night. If not for Sloan’s convincing argument that planning over a can of tuna at the office was the best way to go, I would have left on my own.

  “What makes you think we’ll be successful twice in one night, Ace? Let’s go home and draw this out,” Sloan proposed.

  “Fine, fine,” I sighed, shaking my head as I scolded myself for repeating words like our new pal, Rogue. My excursion with the alley cats had gone better than expected, however there was no mistaking the fact that Minx would not be initiating an exclusive “Ace the Cat Fan Club” anytime soon. Kit Kat offered his gratitude before we left, a nice gesture on his part. I supposed he could sympathize with our mission, even if he didn’t entirely understand what it was.

  “Should we tell Aero what we know?” Sloan wondered.

  “No,” I said as we walked in the shadows toward home, the cold wind biting at our heels. Winter was issuing a warning; the frigid season was well on its way. “While I’m confident there’s a good chance we’ll find Ruby, I don’t want him angry that I haven’t dropped the case.”

  I also didn’t want to get the dog’s hopes up.

  ***

  “What’s new, pussycat?” Max asked the following morning, waking me with a start. My legs felt stiff and tired, my paws tight and achy. What a night. “You’ve been pulling an awful lot of all-nighters.” He snickered at his own joke.

  I purred a moody “good morning” and leapt from my bed on top of the filing cabinet to the floor, slowly approaching my water dish. I was parched.