The Great Cat Nap

by A M Bostwick

  It was such a darn shame that I rarely listened to myself.

  ***

  We all fell into silence as we stuck to the back alleys and made our way towards the not-so-nice part of Lakeville. Our sugar-fueled bodies spurred us on, countering the nippy autumn air. Tails held high, we careened through the neighborhoods with gardens long sent to bed, surfaces covered with straw and mulch for the long winter ahead. A few cars drove by on the main road, their headlights casting temporary flashes of light over our journey, then drenching us in darkness once again. As neatly trimmed lawns alongside paved sidewalks gave way to crumbling pavement and paint-peeling houses, I reminded myself that we had arrived on the proverbial other side of the tracks. The sidewalk literally ended here; disheveled houses were smaller and duller somehow. There were no sweetly planted flower boxes to tend to, no white picket fence to paint each spring.

  It was a good neighborhood for bad manners.

  A figure of a giant bird loomed in the darkness ahead: The Orange Flamingo, the trailer park’s mascot, a giant, overgrown lawn ornament that flickered and buzzed. I imaged that at one time, in all its original glory, the bird had been pink but years of harsh sunshine and hard living had turned its plastic to a washed-out shade of orange. I let out a visible shudder thinking how Ally and Peter had formerly lived there, just a few short months ago.

  Refocusing, I gathered my crowd closer together and asked everyone to read the faded street signs in search for our Oregon Street destination.

  “No need, Ace. I know right where to go,” Ally said as she took the lead, her blonde face glowing slightly orange as we walked on past The Orange Flamingo’s decrepit trailer houses. I fell into step behind her. She picked up the pace, seeming to mimic the agitation that I felt building as the task at hand grew closer. Another two blocks down, Ally turned right and stopped near a bench missing a few slats in a weed-choked lawn.

  “There,” she said, pointing past a faded pick-up truck. Just as Rogue had described, the ramshackle, gray house had a red door and scuffed white trim. The grass was brown and overgrown, devoid of any sleeping gardens. The house looked dark and dank. Shades were drawn in every visible window. The short rubble driveway, leading to a doorless garage, was vacant.

  “Sloan?” I asked softly.

  “Yeah?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Let’s circle around back. Look for a light in a window,” he said after a moment.

  “Sounds good. Okay, Lily? Peter?”

  “Right on, Ace,” Peter whispered.

  “All’s good,” Lily said.

  Slinking into the shadows, the five of us hunched closer to the ground as we came closer to the yard of The Moustache. It was jarringly silent. Working at a newspaper had groomed me to be accustomed to a certain level of noise and the lack thereof put me on edge more so than the sound of an inappropriate polka band. Circling to the back of the house, I was disappointed to find all of the windows had shades or blankets draped over the glass. There was no way to see inside. Great.

  “Now what?” hissed Sloan.

  “Did anyone see a crack of light? Anything at all?” I asked. I couldn’t pick up on any distinct animals smells. It all smelled.

  “LOOK!” cried Peter, “Another cat!”

  We all turned to see.

  Peter’s hair was on end, his back raised, eyes wild. I furrowed my brow. Peter had found a shard of broken mirror, leaning against the shaky foundation of the house. He was seeing himself.

  “Um, Peter?” I ventured.

  “Hey, fella!” hissed Peter, prancing back and forth by the mirror. “Stop doing that! You think you’re funny, huh?”

  “Peter, hon,” Ally tried.

  “You talkin’ to me? I said, are you talkin’ to me?” Peter taunted himself.

  “Omigod. This is going to go on all night, Ace,” Sloan groaned. “Give it a rest, Peter, will ya?”

  Peter would not. He continued to be dazzled by the mimicry of the identical blonde kitten. He barred his teeth, closed his mouth, barred his teeth, closed his mouth.

  I ran up and pushed the mirror over with my paw. Peter snapped out his trance and looked at me. Everyone shook their head. Peter simply shook, his body still vibrating from the sugar jolt and unpleasant mirror interaction.

  “Stay here. I have an idea,” I said to them all. “I think the front door had a dog flap.”

  “Pfft! I’m not staying anywhere!” croaked Lily, hot on my tail.

  “Fine. Sloan, stay with Ally and Peter, and try to poke around—quietly!—for that loose brick,” I urged.

  Sloan nodded, and thankfully the brother and sister didn’t mind helping.

  “And for cripes sake, stay away from any other mirror shards,” I mumbled over my shoulder. My best friend gave me a paws up.

  Treading silently to the front stoop, I surveyed the crumbling concrete and eyed the front door. Sure enough, a small dog door hung loosely at the bottom, the rubber flap limp. I looked at Lily, pointed to my chest, then to the door. Her green eyes grew wide and she shook her head adamantly. I put up my paw to reassure her, then leapt deftly to the stoop while Lily looked on in dismay. I circled my paw in the air and pointed to my ear. She took the hint and appraised the scene, listening for anything out of the ordinary. She gave me a curt nod, and I put my ear to the flap. It smelled like a dirty, dirty dog. Beyond that, the scents I picked up were masculine and off-putting, like cologne derived from a putrid musk ox. I couldn’t hear a single sound. No electronics, no conversation, and no mammals breathing.

  Glancing quickly back at Lily, I turned my attention back to the door and put one eye up to a small crack where the door met the frame. Unable to see anything, I hooked the flap with my dew claw and slowly pulled it aside. One-quarter of an inch gave me enough room to dart my superior vision around the room. The Moustache had less discernible decorating taste than a thrift shop; a dirty kitchen appeared just beyond the living room, linoleum patched and peeling. An under-stuffed, brown velvet couch sat squat and sad in the middle of the room directly in front of an ancient television set that could double as a boat anchor. The orange shag carpeting was littered with empty beer cans and overflowing ash trays. Besides a few dog-eared smutty magazines, the room was empty and dark. I let go of the rubber door and backed away.

  “I don’t think anyone is home,” I whispered.

  Lily signed in relief, “Let’s find the others.”

  Doubling back to the rear of the residence, we found Ally and Sloan near a covered basement window. Peter was pacing and bickering with himself, which, oddly enough, was perfectly normal.

  “This is the brick, Ace,” said Ally as she motioned to a cement block roughly twelve inches across and eight inches high. All around it cement crumbled, giving the general appearance of instability.

  “Have you tried to wrestle it yet?” I asked Sloan. He shook his head. “Good. Let’s you and I try together. I didn’t spy anyone inside, it’s silent as a tomb. I think we’re alone.”

  Ally looked visibly relieved.

  Positioning ourselves on either side of the brick, Sloan and I tried to grasp the corners.

  “Curse these shorn claws!” Sloan mewled.

  Exerting ourselves as the other cats looked on, Sloan and I worked at the brick, slowly but surely moving it a few millimeters at a time. We grunted and groaned; this was about as fun as hearing about the circulation manager’s tonsil removal surgery last week. We pulled and pulled, breathing hard. The sound of brick scraping on brick filled the air and dust rose, making me sneeze. Lily and Ally looked on anxiously.

  “Just a few more inches,” I breathed. Sloan, his face screwed up in concentration, winked as we kept working at the concrete. The brick suddenly fell forward with a satisfying thud, landing askew on the ground. Sloan and I exchanged wide-eyed looks as we peered beyond the hole, and into the basement.

  Empty.

  Dark, unbelievably dark, but no doubt empty.

  The story had
finally run cold.

  ***

  My shoulders slumped forward as I stared unbelievingly into the yawning abyss. A musty smell hovered in the air.

  “What is it? What is it?” Lily hissed. Ally appeared anxious. Even Peter had fallen completely quiet.

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I said, squaring my shoulders despite my obvious disappointment.

  Lily pushed Sloan aside and peered in.

  “It’s as though every corner is empty. Do you think he got caught recently? Got scared?” she asked no one in particular.

  I shrugged in a noncommittal way.

  “This means nothing,” Sloan said, seeming to read my thoughts. “Rogue knows The Moustache is an illegal animal runner. We just have to go back and ask him where Ruby would have gone after this, that’s all.”

  I shook my head obstinately. “No, no. This was it. If Ruby isn’t here, and Ellin doesn’t have her, then Aero must be right. She’s gone on her own free will.”

  “I’m not so sure, Ace,” Ally began.

  “But earlier today, you said—”

  Ally cut me off, “I know what I said Ace, but I was wrong. I was trying to talk you out of coming here. You’ve been acting reckless, and I wanted to stop you. It appears, though, that The Moustache is long gone. Ruby could still be out there. She could still need your help. What if he took her on an early run? An early sale? What if someone else did?”

  “Yeah, Ace. What about Mr. X?” Sloan asked.

  “Mr. X?” Lily implored, trying with all her body weight to shove the brick back into its rightful place.

  “Never mind right now. Let me help you,” I said.

  The three of us pushed the brick back into its home and looked at each other. Everyone bit their tongues, waiting for me to make a declaration. Their fearless leader, suddenly out of direction.

  “Look, I appreciate you all coming with me tonight. It was brave and bold,” I said. “I want you all to head back home now. I need some time to clear my head.”

  As they all began to protest, I dipped my head and repeated, “I just need a moment alone to think about all this. Okay? I’ll see you soon.”

  With a collective sigh, they each filed past me, giving encouraging pats or smiles. Ally lingered an extra moment.

  “You’ll solve this, Ace. I believe in you.”

  Normally, words like that would have warmed my soul. At the moment, however, they just made me feel like a total, dismal failure.

  “Thanks, Ally.”

  ***

  Watching them go, I let my frustration and failure take over. I felt like I was some stupid dog chasing my tail, going nowhere fast.

  This was a real fiasco. It wasn’t just my time and hide I risked, it was my friends’ too. I needed to stop slumming in bad neighborhoods, playing the dashing detective, and leave these matters to the human police. It was that simple.

  I meandered to the front of The Moustache’s house again, my thoughts overtaking better judgment. Finding myself on the front step, I turned and looked up at the empty house. Where had The Moustache gone? Was he still running animals? Ruby aside, it was a story in and of itself. Perhaps I should try to arouse Max’s reporter instinct; he was better equipped to handle situations like this than I was, though surely I’d be by his side. I could still be useful. I could still be good, even if I was a shoddy detective.

  Just then, a jolt ran through my body as though I’d walked too close to an electric fence. I crashed back to planet earth. A sense of doom loomed over me as I realized that someone was there. I turned and looked up.

  Right into the leering and overgrown face of The Moustache.

  If vehemence had a face, this was surely it.

  “Meow?”

  “Sorry, I’m all out of sugar,” he growled menacingly. His voice was rough, like a dog before he horks up the dinner he ate too fast.

  The general appearance of The Moustache made last night’s tattooed shelter manager look like a fuzzy teddy bear. The Moustache was aptly titled; his legendary handlebar facial hair deserved its own zip code. Untidy and scrawny, The Moustache had a thatch of brown hair that couldn’t rival what consumed his upper lip. His pants were blue plaid, paired with a flamboyant purple shirt. If the situation wasn’t so serious, it would have been downright comical.

  Making a face like he’d just smelled a big pile of dog doo, The Moustache gripped his grocery bag stacked with Hungry Guy frozen dinners with one hand and reached for me with the other. My back was against the door, his gangly frame attempted to cover any angle of escape. The only way out appeared in, and there was no way I was going in. I panicked; as the hairy fingers came closer to my face, I immediately bared my teeth, hissed and struck, claws extended to their full extent. I made full contact, silently thanking Max for not cutting them in recent months. My hairy foe recoiled, his moustache independently climbing upward in an angry grimace. I seized the opportunity to hiss loudly and slash a second time.

  “OW! You darn flea bag!” his gravelly voice exclaimed, dropping his sack of frozen goods as he grasped his bleeding hand. His expression conveyed his ability to commit cold-blooded cat murder. It was prime time for me to clear off. For the record I’ve never had a single flea, much less a bag of them.

  With a giant leap, I overtook the toppled brown bag and strewn grocery items, trying to tear off into the night. I couldn’t, my claws grabbed nothing but air as I felt myself falter and slam to the ground. Someone had grabbed my tail, preventing my timely get-away.

  What was this? Kick-the-Cat Tuesday?

  Craning my neck, I saw a wiry female with a head of brown hair that could have only been styled by a weed-whacker. She had a single eyebrow that seemed to stretch across the entire expanse of her face like a bushy caterpillar. She tried hard to hold onto my tail with two bony hands. I hissed and growled, panted and spit, finally flipping onto my back to face my unibrow attacker.

  “You save me a piece after you’re done with him!” The Moustache shouted with more dignity than a man in plaid pants deserved. He fumbled with the door lock with his still-bleeding appendage.

  “Hold still!” the nasty woman growled with mutiny in her voice, her hands getting an astonishingly good hold of my throat. “There’s more than one way to skin a cat, Mr. Kitty,”

  What a fine time to use that analogy. It fueled my survival instincts; I curved my spine to one side then the other, ultimately coming up off my back and slashing blindly into the face of the woman towering over me. Her mistake was not restraining my best weapons—my feet. My claws didn’t fail me as they pierced her soft cheek, but it wasn’t enough. I could feel the breath in my neck quickly depleting. Now, I didn’t hold back; I walloped her again, my claws raking across her face. This was no cat scratch, it was a full-on gash. The lady clenched her teeth and howled like a banshee, releasing me to grasp her fresh wound.

  I hit the ground running, the air returning in ragged gasps to my lungs. I ran as though I had stolen something. I ran as though I’d just met the local vet at the mini mart. I ran as though there was no tomorrow. The angry bellows of the woman finally faded as I darted through bushes and trees, across backyards, around swing sets and empty clothing lines. My heart beat faster and faster, the reality of the last few moments catching up to me. Thank goodness the others already left.

  Out of breath and shaking like a Chihuahua, I stopped for air alongside a nice yellow house a block away from downtown. The azaleas, crisp and brown, provided nice shelter as I recovered. My breaths came and went in ragged gasps and I kicked myself in the tail for being so stupid. Never, ever, assume the house of a known criminal is vacant and without threat, I scolded myself. The Moustache and his companion were not just from the wrong side of the tracks, oh, no. You had to keep going past the wrong side of the tracks, slightly past crazy and somewhere alongside the haunted graveyard you might be getting close to these villains.

  Cripes, that was too close.

  Satisfied that I was breathing properly and
not being followed, I composed myself and made my way towards Anne’s Coffee Cup. I knew there was a chance Sloan and Lily were still hanging around, hopefully having switched to water at this late hour. Sure enough, there they were, talking quietly beneath the back door light. Their chatter halted abruptly when they spotted me. I stood up straight and tried to look indifferent as I approached.

  “Oh, my gosh! Ace! What happened to you?” exclaimed Lily, rushing to my side. Sloan’s eyes registered shock as they scanned me. I realized my fur was a bit ruffled. I pointlessly tried to smooth it.

  “Where are Peter and Ally?” I asked, fear rising in my belly.

  “They’re inside, spending the night. Their companion is out of town,” Lily replied. “But what happened?”

  I sighed with relief that everyone was all right and filled in the two felines on my meeting with the smarmy Kramer “The Moustache” Carter and his none-too-lovely sidekick after they left. The words rushed out of me and I was glad to be rid of them. Truthfully, I was ready to forget the entire encounter.

  “Oh. My. Goodness,” Lily said in staccato-style. She pushed an uneaten cinnamon roll aside, joining a paperback romance where a tanned cowboy was lassoing a muscle-bound stead. A busty milk maid looked on in wonder.

  Sloan shook his head in disbelief. “I’m sorry, Ace. I knew I should have stayed behind.”

  “No, Sloan. You did the right move. I wanted everyone to get back safely, and you made sure of that. Besides, I’m fine. Those two are obviously morons. I can’t believe they ever managed to smuggle animals illegally,” I laughed unconvincingly.

  We all chewed on that false statement for a while in silence.

  Sloan looked doubtful at my casual dismissal of tonight’s fight and flight for my life but didn’t say another word, possibly because Lily looked slightly seasick. I hugged and thanked her, asking her to please avoid telling Ally and Peter about my unfortunate meeting with The Moustache clan. With that, Sloan and I headed off in the direction of our respective homes. Tonight, I would go home to Max’s warm bed. Out of earshot of the coffee house, I turned to Sloan.