by Glenn Ickler
Brownie went on to say that when they patted her down for a weapon, they discovered that Kitty was still wearing nothing but those red pantaloons under the blanket. Apparently she’d had the blouse and blanket in the car, but hadn’t come up with a skirt or slacks. They arrested Kitty and took her to jail, where the matron made her remove her boots. They found her pistol, a .38 caliber Lady Derringer that she’d reloaded, in the right one.
“When are you bringing her back to St. Paul?” I asked.
“We’re sending a team out on a flight this morning,” Brownie said. “They’ll bring her back as soon as all the legal crap is out of the way. Meanwhile, Denver is holding her on charges of operating a vehicle with defective equipment, driving the wrong way on a one-way street, reckless driving, driving without a license, damaging public property, carrying a concealed weapon and resisting arrest.”
“All because she didn’t get her headlight fixed.”
“She could have hid out there for a long time if she’d got to her cousin’s place and kept a low profile. If you’re gonna kill somebody, it’s a good idea to keep your car up to snuff.”
“Words to live by,” I said.
“Have a good day, Mitch,” Brownie said as he put down the phone.
It was snowing again, but I didn’t care. I whisked a couple of inches of fluffy flakes off my car, holding the brush in my left hand, and drove downtown with a happy heart. The cops had Kitty and I had the story.
Al was equally ecstatic.
“They stopped her for a headlight?” he said.
“That’s what Brownie said.”
“I thought she was brighter than that.”
“It proves that even the most brilliant among us can be undone by one dim bulb.”
We went through the photos Al had saved on a disk and found a good close-up of Kitty he’d taken at the Victory Ball before she changed into the Vulcan costume. He also gave Don the shot of the red-booted Vulcan, and Don put them together with my story of the Colorado capture.
Late that afternoon, I got another call from Brownie. When I answered, he was laughing, which I’d never heard him do. “Hey, Mitch, what I’m going to tell you is strictly off the record, but I know you’ll love it,” he said.
“What could be that good?” I asked.
“We got a report from the Denver PD about your red-booted honey. It seems that the matron got one hell of a surprise when she strip-searched her.” He laughed again. I wished I had a tape running to record this once-in-a-lifetime sound.
“What was the big surprise?” I asked, although I knew the answer.
“It seems that Ms. Catalano has a very unusual body decoration. The matron said it was a first for her.”
Still playing ignorant, I asked, “So what is this highly unusual décor?”
“Would you believe that she’s got the face of a cat painted on the hair in her crotch? Can you imagine that?”
“No way!” I said. “That’s unbelievable. Did Denver PD send you a picture?”
“Don’t I wish,” Brownie said with still another laugh. “All they sent us was the standard mug shot. We told them we’d rather have a mug shot of the cat, but they said the matron was protecting Ms. Catalano’s privacy.”
“Too bad. It would be fun to run that picture in our weekly feature on pets that need a home.”
“This pet’s gonna have a home for the rest of her life,” Brownie said. “And don’t you dare write anything about it or you’ll never get another call from me. Have a good day, Mitch.”
He knew damn well there was no way I could write about Kitty’s decorated anatomy in the Daily Dispatch. I put the phone down and went to tell Al. We agreed that we’d have more fun working for a tabloid.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Pleas and Pleasures
Kitty Catalano was brought back to St. Paul the following Monday and her arraignment was set for 8:00 a.m. on Tuesday. Al and I arrived early and were up front in the biggest crowd of reporters and photographers I’d ever seen in the Twin Cities. The spectacular nature of the case drew representatives from all over the Midwest, plus a reporter/photographer team from Denver where Kitty had been caught.
Looking around the courtroom, I also saw all the Klondike Kates we’d met. Seated near them were George Griswold, the recently-unmasked Vulcanus Rex, and three men who I assumed were members of his Krewe.
Kitty was brought into the courtroom handcuffed and shackled, with a sheriff’s deputy on either side. She was dressed in the standard orange jumpsuit issued to prisoners at the city jail, and her dark hair hung straight down in back, creating a Halloween-like contrast. Her face was pale and her eyes were lifeless until she came within ten feet of me. Suddenly her complexion reddened and her green eyes flashed as she mouthed the words, Fuck you. I smiled benignly and blew her a kiss.
The deputies turned her away from me to face the bench, and Trish Valentine, who was broadcasting live beside me, poked me in the ribs. “What was that all about?” she whispered.
“I guess she’s a wee bit angry with me for turning her in,” I said.
“It looked like pure hatred to me.”
“There’s no love lost, I’m sure.”
The arraignment went as expected. Kitty replied, “Not guilty,” to each charge when the judge asked for a plea, and he ordered that she be held without bail. Her attorney didn’t bother to argue the no-bail order, apparently figuring it would be a waste of time.
When the judge rapped the gavel, the deputies turned Kitty around so that our eyes met again.
“I told you to get that light replaced,” I said.
“I wish I’d put your lights out,” she said. The deputies scowled at me and hustled Kitty away.
“I got that,” Trish’s cameraman said. “I got the whole exchange.”
“Great,” Trish said. “You’ll be on our next newscast, Mitch.”
“My fifteen seconds of fame,” I said.
“Did you really tell her to get that light replaced?” Martha asked as we sat propped up in bed watching the 10:00 p.m. news.
“I did,” I said. “And she said it was no big deal.”
“I guess that wraps up the story, except I have one more question for you.”
“What’s that?” I’d been thinking I was home free.
“All the reports say that Kitty was wearing only boots, pantaloons and a bra when she ran from the hotel,” Martha said. “Care to explain what happened to her clothing while you were with her in that room?”
Actually, I didn’t care to do that, but I seemed to have no choice. The explanation flowed so quickly and smoothly that I surprised myself. “She was a little tipsy from the wine she had with dinner, and she decided she wanted to take a dip in the Jacuzzi,” I said. “She started to get undressed while I was in the bathroom, but I was able to stop her after she’d taken off her blouse and skirt.”
“A beautiful young woman was removing her clothing in front of you, and you stopped her?” Martha’s eyebrows were an inch higher than normal.
“I swear it on a stack of style books,” I said. “I stopped her by showing her the picture. I guess I should have let her strip all the way, including the boots. That way I’d have seen the gun before she aimed it at me.”
“This gorgeous woman was getting undressed, and you were not?”
“I had my clothes on. Ask Al if I didn’t. Ask the cops.”
The eyebrows returned to their natural resting place. “Okay, I won’t check out your references. Al’s not a reliable source and you had time to get dressed before the cops arrived, so let’s just forget about it. Tell me how your shoulder is feeling.”
“Not bad.” I pressed against the bandage with my left hand and felt only a nominal twinge. “I think it’s healed enough for us to resume our pursuit of Swami Sumi’s 101 positions.”
Martha picked the Swami’s book off her nightstand and opened it to the long-awaited Position Number 63.
“So, what do we do?” I ask
ed.
“The first step is ‘remove all clothing,’ which we’ve already done,” she said.
“Then what?”
Martha read, “‘The lovers sit facing each other in the lotus position, looking deeply into each other’s eyes.’”
We both assumed that position, although I had some difficulty persuading my knees to bend far enough to make it official. The disturbance woke Sherlock Holmes, who’d been sleeping at the bottom corner on Martha’s side of the bed. He looked at us, decided we weren’t going to settle down any time soon, jumped off the bed and walked out to the living room to claim his favorite corner of the sofa.
After about forty seconds in the lotus position, I could feel my right calf beginning to tighten. “How long do we do this?” I asked.
“It says that ‘when the lovers feel compelled, they slowly slide toward each other, remaining in the lotus position, using their hands to propel themselves forward until they meet in the middle of the platform,’” Martha said.
“How slowly?”
“Too slowly.” She flung the book away. “I feel compelled.”
The End