The Great Cat Nap

by A M Bostwick

  “What are we going to do? What if the attacker doesn’t bring Ruby home, Ace?”

  Minutes ticked by. I felt like the Kit-Cat clock back at Mrs. Biggs, looking, thinking, looking, thinking. Was this ransom note just some lowlife taking advantage of a grieving family? Did it actually relate in any way to Ruby’s disappearance?

  I was about to come clean about Ruby’s actual whereabouts and ditch the entire ransom charade when a postal worker exited the back of his building, carrying a large cardboard box. It looked as though it was sealed, but he carefully opened it, pulled out a fistful of tissue paper and emptied it into the dumpster. As I watched him brush off his hands and walk away towards a mail vehicle, something hit me with the force of a bird flying headlong into a plate glass patio door.

  Mr. X.

  “Aero!” I shouted.

  “What!” he shouted back.

  “Stop the presses!”

  “What?!” he shouted again.

  “What was the mailman delivering that day? The day Ruby disappeared?”

  Aero, confused, hesitated. “Huh?”

  “You said that the mailman had a package. Remember?”

  My heart pounded. Could it be?

  “Well, yes. But he was actually leaving with a package. I guess I figured it was for another house,” Aero’s brow furrowed in concentration.

  “You’re sure? Would your family be sending a package, Aero?”

  “No. Mrs. McMahon always goes, well, here. The post office. Sometimes I ride along. Our post delivery man isn’t friendly and she hates to bother him. It’s one of the many reasons I antagonize him. That, and, of course, sheer principle of the dog-versus-mailman tradition that’s been passed down through generations and generations of canines,” Aero said proudly. He tilted his head to the side and added, “Why?”

  I was certain. I was not certain how I was certain, but I was certain I was certain.

  “Ruby was in the package.”

  He stared at me as though I’d suffered a serious, albeit unavoidable and tragic brain injury. “I...I...don’t think so...”he stammered.

  “Listen, Aero. I know it sounds crazy,” I spouted off. “Ruby was in that box. The mailman is blackmailing you.”

  Aero looked unconvinced.

  “You told me the mailman delivers stuff to Ruby. Trophies. Food samples. He knows Ruby.”

  “So?”

  “We have no witnesses who saw Ruby leave. No Ruby-scented trail leaving the property, you checked it yourself multiple times. No, Ruby was taken. She wouldn’t go willingly. She was nabbed by someone she knew, but it wasn’t Ellin. You mentioned you were distracted the day Ruby went missing. The mailman was early that day, he distracted you! It’s the same tactic I used the other night to break a cat out of the pound—”

  “That was you?!”

  “—the mailman distracted you, and took Ruby! He’s the only concrete suspect within the timeframe of the cat-napping who left the house!”

  “That’s a crummy distraction,” Aero muttered.

  “But effective,” I asserted. “You’re a smart dog, Aero. Faster and more ferocious than any dog on his route, I bet. He knew you wouldn’t fall for a mystery steak dropped over the fence or a tennis ball tossed down the driveway if he wanted to steal a valuable cat. He used the element of surprise!”

  The question was how Ruby ended up at Mrs. Bigg’s house. My ever-observant journalistic mind told me Mrs. Bigg was not Mr. X. She hadn’t stolen Ruby. So how—the second favorite question of reporters everywhere—had she ended up there? I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Not yet.

  “Which car does your mailman use, Aero?” I asked.

  Still looking befuddled and doubtful, Aero considered. “It looks like that tan Oldsmobile over there, the one with the ‘I Brake for Turtles’ and ‘Lake Tahoe Makes Me Smile’ bumper stickers. Only, he parks and walks throughout our neighborhood. Ace, if Ruby were in that box, she would have put up an awful fight, don’t you think? How could he have smuggled her away and into that car?”

  “You were distracted, and when you noticed Ruby was missing, you were all out of sorts. Stronger cats than Ruby have been smuggled against their will,” I noted, thinking of Sloan’s recent unpleasant trip to the vet and groomer. “Look, your blackmailing mailman is leaving on his route soon, I’m sure of it. I want you to trail his car today. Make note of the neighborhoods he visits besides your own. Find out his name. Meet me at the newspaper back door at 9 p.m. tonight, and we’ll finish this.”

  Aero raised his ears in disbelief. “What about Ruby? The ransom? We’re cutting it too close! This doesn’t make any sense at all!”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured Aero, “I know exactly how to get Ruby back. I have a plan.”

  ***

  With Aero still in the dark but dutifully trailing the shifty mailman, I darted over to Sloan’s house. The hourglass was quickly running low, and with all of the new information, I needed to rally my troops.

  “So that’s the plan,” I breathed heavily to my best friend after telling him the entire story, including Ruby’s bizarre apprehension to return home.

  “Plan? You call that a plan?!” Sloan cried. “That’s not a plan! Wake up and smell the newsprint!”

  “That’s a good line. I should have used that.”

  “You’re outrageous!” Sloan countered, tossing his paws in the air.

  “Now that’s a compliment. Come now, Sloan, with enough ambitious spirit...”

  “Are you out of your mind? This will never work, Ace!”

  “You’ve said that before.”

  “I’ll say it again. It will not work!”

  We stared at each other.

  “All right. Now that the outburst is out of the way, will you help me tonight?” I asked calmly.

  “Of course.”

  ***

  A few hours later in the empty building of The Daily Reporter, I paced the floor back and forth. Lately, I’ve been wearing down the carpet.

  It was just past the dinner hour. Darkness was falling fast. Aero was not wrong when he said this did not make sense. He was, in fact, absolutely correct. Had I been writing this up into an article, it would be barely credible enough to print in The Branford Examiner. But I was steadfast that my hunch was right. The mailman, for whatever reason, had cat-napped Ruby. Ruby got away safely, finding refuge at Mrs. Bigg’s animal rescue emporium. The mailman, not wanting to completely forego his criminal tryst, now asked for ransom and was lying about the safe return of the Russian Blue. What can I say, the man was obviously a crook. What was one more lie going to do to the guy?

  It was time to call on Rogue and Co. for the evening’s caped crusader events. What was the point of meeting a felon if you couldn’t use his lawless skills? So I sent Sloan to the wrong side of the tracks to persuade Rogue and at least a companion or two to join us tonight while I worked on the final details of my masterminded plan of action. Meanwhile, I had one other obnoxious, borderline-criminal “friend” to call upon.

  Boris the Rat.

  To know him was to loathe him. Such was the trouble with a guy who insisted upon being called not just a name, but an entire title. I swore after this past summer that the next time I talked to Boris would only be to yell at him. But his skills were undeniable, his resources bottomless. We would need our ratty friend tonight.

  Last summer during my first stab at undercover detective work, I was caught, stuffed into a cage, and left for the night before the pound could have me. It was Boris who found me, and Boris who freed me—after a long, lengthy, and painful proclamation that I would not eat him. He also skillfully helped us in taking down the murderer. The guy was crafty.

  Boris the Rat lived in the basement of a restaurant just past the downtown district that overlooked a slow-moving portion of the river. He and his wife, Regina, recently raised a litter and were now enjoying their post-parenthood freedom. They were both far too sly to get caught by the restaurant staff, who, for some time, t
ried tirelessly to catch the rat that ate their Raisin Bran. They gave up. You would too if you knew Boris the Rat.

  I went looking for Boris at the restaurant. With my claw, I scratched on the glass of a sublevel window. I waited. And waited. Above me, I heard the drone of dinner conversation, muffled by the floorboards. Florescent lighting cast an unnatural glow over the dead and dying grass where I sat, quickly losing my patience.

  “WHAT?!” A gray, furry body with yellow, pointy teeth and long, sticky whiskers sprung up onto the ledge and screwed his face up into mine. With his angry expression and dirty fur, he looked like a quarter when a dollar isn’t enough. Only a pane of glass separated us.

  “What’s your problem, Boris?”

  “Boris the Rat!” he scolded me, clearly offended.

  “Right, Boris the Rat,” I corrected myself. “Open this window.”

  He glowered. I sighed, taking in the sight that was Boris the Rat. His lower half was much rounder than his upper half. Long claws protruded from each of his front paws, which he clenched and unclenched together. His body heaved with each inhale and exhale. Behind him, his long, wormlike tail swished back and forth as his beady eyes bore into me.

  “You’re looking well,” I forced myself to say. A cat backed into a corner will tell you many flattering things.

  “Are you here to eat me?” he implored.

  “Are we still not over this?” I sighed. He was acting as though I were wearing a bib and sharpening my fork and knife. On the contrary, I have no taste for eating rodents of any kind, most certainly not rats. “Eating, my good friend, is not on the menu tonight.”

  “Well, then, Ace the Cat, what do you want from me now?” he asked hotly, but I could see he was pleased with my impromptu arrival. His ego was as big as the moon. Boris obliged in letting me squeeze uncomfortably through his basement window. Regina was nowhere in sight. Inside, boxes upon boxes were stacked in every available space. It was cold and dusty. I sneezed.

  “So, how’s Regina? And the kids? Did they move on to find other businesses to terrorize like their father?”

  Boris made a face. “What do you want, Ace the Cat?” he spat, his breath stinking of stale milk.

  “All right. I don’t like tedious small talk myself,” I conceded. “Here it is: I need your help. Tonight.”

  “Wrong-O, cat!” he laughed, plummeting gracelessly to the floor.

  “Aw, really, Boris? I thought we were past all this? We agreed to be friends. Didn’t I help you last month get that box of Raisin Bran from the dumpster at the Quick Mart?”

  “Boris the Rat!” he hissed. “Do you not see that I am busy?” He showed me a metal paper towel dispenser that he presumably dismantled from a lavatory wall. “I am rendering this useless.”

  “So, you’ve moved out of the kitchen and are now wrecking havoc throughout the entire restaurant?” I asked.

  Boris nodded gleefully, his lips curling into a snarl that I can only assume was meant to be a smile. His bulging belly oozed over onto his back feet.

  “You don’t eat wiring, do you?” I groaned. “You’ll burn the joint down. Or get electrocuted.”

  “I am not that stupid,” he threw his words at me, going back to his less-than-handy handiwork. I tried to steer the conversation back on topic. There was nothing Boris enjoyed more than talking about himself.

  “Boris the Rat, I call on your skills again,” I declared. I tried to see the world through Boris-colored glasses. “As you’ve pointed out, I am a mere cat. The finery of your anarchic ways against useless humans impresses me, as always. I ask you to help me tonight.”

  I was right. His attention was piqued.

  “You mean to go outside the law again? To take down another human crook?” He put his chin in one filthy paw, thinking.

  “I do.”

  Boris hesitated for an unusually long time, looking into my eyes. I shifted uncomfortably.

  “You lie like a rug,” he said huskily, pointing an accusing toe at me. I raised my eyebrows. Shoving aside his project, Boris grabbed a nearby fistful of stolen Raisin Bran and munched with reckless abandon, his mouth open and crumbs falling everywhere. “I suppose other felines are helping you tonight?” he mumbled over the mouthful of fiber.

  I foolishly said there were.

  “Cats. Kill. Rats.” Boris said definitively, tossing aside a raisin that didn’t meet his standards as he launched into his usual monologue. “ I will not be had by some ridiculous cat. I will not let any more rat lives be lost to useless, out of control, wild animals like you. I will not die like a rat in a trap.”

  We’ve been through this before. Many times before.

  “Not these cats.”

  Boris the Rat laughed absurdly, glaring at me over his hairy shoulder. “Why should that be true?”

  “My friends didn’t eat you last time, did they? They won’t this time. You have my word.”

  “The word of a cat? Ha!”

  “Come on, Boris the Rat,” I coaxed, now ready to take out my secret weapon. “You’re smart.”

  “I am quiet intelligent,” he bragged. I cut him off, hoping I wouldn’t have to start calling him The Great Boris the Rat.

  “I’ve got a box of Marshmallow Munchies with your name on it,” I offered.

  That finally did the trick, even Boris the Rat couldn’t get his dirty little paws on the sugary cereal. I only could because Mary, Sloan’s companion, had a sweet tooth for the dental-decaying breakfast treat. I watched Boris’ eyes light up.

  “Why did not you say so?” he said in a sickeningly nice voice, his cereal forgotten with dreams of sugar marshmallow hunks in his head. Boris puffed out his ratty chest. “I suppose I can trust you, even though you are a cat.”

  “You trust me? Truly? That means so little.”

  Boris ignored me. “Indeed, I will help you tonight. Tell me where to find you.”

  I told him.

  “So, partners again?” I asked with a grimace I tried desperately to hide, offering an outstretched paw.

  “Partners,” he agreed, presenting me his own paw and dirty, protruding claws.

  ***

  Free from Boris the Rat and all his perilous antics, I ran back to the office as the veil of night set in. A low bark at the back mail slot sent me dashing to see who had arrived. Was Aero early? He wasn’t; the canine in question was Farfel.

  “Ace. I’ve heard rumblings about the missing Russian. Have you found her yet?” he asked.

  That would fall under the headline of “NOT YET BUT HOPEFULLY DARN SOON.”

  Instead, I quickly told Farfel everything was underway and that I was still on the story. Truth be told, I sort of wanted the Saint Bernard to leave. The fewer animals involved, the better. One shifty set of vermin and a few alley cats was enough. The clock was steadfastly heading towards Aero’s return at 9 p.m.. Sloan was supposed to return at any moment, hopefully with Rogue in tow. Untrusting Boris would follow within the hour. Anxiety filled me.

  “Head on home, buddy. I’ll be by tomorrow,” I told Fafel, trying to shove him off.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” he queried.

  “I appreciate the offer, Farfel, but I think I’ve got it under control. You can go on home.”

  He looked at me, his already folded Saint Bernard face scrunching up as he scrutinized me.

  “I saw that German Shepherd moving through here a few times last week, Ace. Are you telling me you have more than one dog to lend you a paw with this rollicking plan of yours?”

  “No, I don’t. But...”

  “I’ll stay then.”

  “What makes you so sure this is going down tonight?” I asked incredulously.

  “I can see it all over your face. You should work on that if you’re going to become a feline Dick Tracy,” he remarked.

  “I don’t like the color yellow,” I muttered.

  At that moment, Rogue’s massive form came slinking out of the shadows, Kit Kat and Minx beside him. Minx was scow
ling. I expected nothing less. Behind them marched Sloan, obviously pleased with himself for convincing the underground cats to join tonight’s faction.

  “Rogue, glad you could make it. Meet Farfel,” I said with a smile. “Farfel, this is Rogue, Minx, and Kit Kat. You already know Sloan, of course.”

  After awkward introductions, Rogue approached and shuffled me off to the side of the crowd.

  “Thanks for coming tonight, Rogue,” I said, hoping Rogue was ready to go rogue. Well, more rogue than usual, that is.

  “Sure, sure,” he reiterated, lowering his voice. “I was actually a bit amped to come along, what with everything I heard about this past summer. But tell me, what kinda human crook are we talkin’ about this time? Is it The Moustache?”

  “No. Your facts were right, Rogue, but The Moustache wasn’t holding Ruby. The man behind the crime appears to be a simple mailman,” I explained. “We’re taking him down tonight and bringing Ruby home.”

  “Wait, wait,” he exclaimed, holding up paw. “You tellin’ me a mailman is holdin’ this hot cat?”

  “Not exactly,” I answered, “but he’s behind the masquerade. He must be stopped, he could become the next Moustache. You guys are going to wait here and keep an eye out in case he’s early, Aero and I have to finish a little business. Then, just before midnight, we’ll get into position. I’ve got some tuna here to keep everyone happy while you all wait. I have another cat bringing cream and cake.”

  Rogue eyed me curiously and nodded. “You just like to keep the action rollin’ right along, don’t ya?” he observed.

  I shrugged.

  “What’s in it for us?”

  “I’ll owe you a favor,” I said.

  Rogue rubbed his chin and nodded. “So what you’re tellin’ me is that we’re going to bust a full grown man?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you.”

  He examined me under his heavily-lidded eyes and nodded. “Okay, alright. You want me to cough up hairballs? I’ll cough up hairballs. We’re all in. I hope you’re as rough as you act. I even called in Frisky; you remember Frisky?”