A Cat with a Gat -- An Excerpt

by Tina Jens

It was a cold and drizzly night when the white, powdered-and-puffed French poodle pranced into my office. It was no place for a class dame -- dog or not. Her pedicured nails would scuff on the cracked linoleum. That fancy tail-bouffant would muss if she sat on my rusty metal chair. But she was a dame in trouble.

Trouble had brought her to the seedy side of town, to my office, to bat her baby-blues, wiggle that power-puff tail, and beg me to help her... but be discreet about it.

Yammer's the name. Mickey Yammer. The best private gato in town. I don't usually take dogs for clients -- I'm not a speciesist, or anything -- it's just dogs yap too much. Plus, they tend to chase you down the alley when you deliver the second over-due notice on the bill. But, my litter box was full, my pantry was empty, and I had a hankering for some Tender Vittles with extra tuna -- the expensive kind. So, I took the case. My other lives would live to regret it.

The dame barked, danced and shivered, and did all the things a pedigreed poodle does when it's nervous -- except piddle -- I was glad of that ‘cause I wasn't about to let her borrow my litter box.

"Mr. Yammer, I need your help. I need you to clear my family name."

She did that poodle-shiver again, making the rhinestones on her designer collar flash in the neon light that shone in from the bar sign hanging outside my office window.

"My name is Fifi," she said.

It always is, I thought to myself.

"Fifi Lamour. I have some money of my own. I can pay you."

I flicked my tail and licked a dust mote off my front paw before I purred at her, "Tell me the details, toots. We'll worry about how many pounds of Purina chow it'll cost you, later."

She crossed her fluffy paws in front of her, then finally settled down and got to the meat of the story. "You know that horrid painting of seven dogs playing poker?"

"Seen it hanging in a milkhall or two... Seems like there was some cheating going on."

"That's the problem!" Fifi yipped. Then she yapped, "The two dogs in the front of the picture appear to be cheating, but they're not! The golden Terrier on the left has three aces in his hand, and the English Bulldog to the right appears to be passing him a fourth ace -- but it's a set up! The Terrier, my great-uncle, swore on his deathbed that he was innocent. But thanks to that picture by that fiendish Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, everyone thinks my uncle was guilty! Coolidge even gave the painting an incendiary title, ‘A Friend in Need.'" She ducked her head and covered her eyes with one little, white poodle-paw.

I hissed. There's nothing I hate worse than a dame faking distress and trying to play me for a sap. She must have realized the drama act wasn't working, 'cause she raised her head, shook her ears back and went on with her tale.

"I think Coolidge was in on it with that brutish Bulldog. They set my uncle up. After the picture appeared on that cigar box no one would believe my uncle. He lost his job. He lost his papers. And he died -- in the doghouse."

I licked my paw again, spreading the toes wide so I could polish my razor-sharp nails. "If the mutt's kicked the bucket, why do you care? All dogs go to Heaven anyway, and Heaven's pretty good at sorting this sort of mixup out. Why spend all that dough to clear a dead dog's name?"

"It's not just his name that's sullied!" Fifi yapped. "It's the entire bloodline. They've yanked our pedigrees and dropped our name from the roster of the New York Garden Kennel Club. The family is ruined! And I've pups on the way! Please help us, Mr. Yammer. Please!"

#

I took the case. Alright, I'm a sap. I'm a broken down, tiger-striped, alley cat with half a tail, clipped ears, and a gimp when I walk, thanks to an unhappy love affair with the front tire of a city bus. I'm eighteen pounds of muscle and creaky joints. Haven't got much, but what I've got's mine, and I got it the honest way. Some of my friends uptown are in the rackets -- criminal, civil and tennis -- they haven't been shy about stepping on my game foot if it suited their scam, either. Dog or not, I had sympathy for the Terrier, and his whimpering niece -- if he'd really been set up and the family was taking the fall -- I'd give him the benefit of the doubt, at least 'till I had a chance to stick my whiskers into it.

I didn't tell the dame this, but I had a handle on the case already. There was a milkhall around the corner that claimed to have the original painting on display. I figured that was a good place to start.

I donned my battered grey fedora, grabbed my gat, checked that it was loaded, then fastened my string holster around my haunches. I don't usually carry heat, but it was a rough neighborhood, and a rougher drinking den. And sometimes, a dog'll take a look at my docked tail and gimpy leg and peg me for a pushover. But this is one cat that's never been declawed. If they take me alone, they leave the worse for wear, but if they attack in a pack. . . well that's when a gat's a cat's best friend.

If you'd like to read the rest of the story, you can order the book Crafty Cat Crimes: 100 Tiny Cat Tale Mysteries online at Barnesandnoble.com.

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