Fiends SSC (17 page)

    ‘She fell in a
toilet!'

    ‘The toilet had nothing in it except for clean water. Besides, this was some time ago.’

    ‘You mean she isn’t dirty any more?’

    ‘She’s perfectly clean.’

    ‘Then what’s the big deal?’

    ‘She drowned.’

    Monica tucked her chin down and gazed at me as if peering over the top of invisible eyeglasses. She folded her arms across her chest. I wondered if she had picked up the stance from an elderly relative. ‘Drowned?’ she said. ‘Puh-leese.’

    ‘I’m serious,’ I said.

    Monica tilted her head to one side. ‘If she drowned, she would be dead.’

    I chose not to argue. Instead, I proceeded with the story. ‘It began when Mrs. Brown gave birth. She was a tabby who belonged to my friend, James, in Long Beach. When he told me about the litter, I expressed an interest in taking one of the kittens off his hands. Of course, I couldn’t take one immediately. I needed to wait until they’d been weaned.’

    Monica narrowed an eye. ‘What does that mean?’

    ‘A kitty can’t be taken away from its mother right away. It needs the mother’s milk.’

    ‘Oh, that.’

    ‘Yes. At any rate, we set a date for me to visit James and select a kitten. Do you know where Long Beach is?’

    She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. ‘Monica has been to the Spruce Goose and the Queen Mary… oh, so many times that she is totally
bored
by them both.’

    ‘Then she knows that the drive takes about an hour from here.’ She nodded. She sighed. She looked over her shoulder, apparently checking up on Lazzy.

    I went on with my story.

    ‘I drank quite a lot of coffee before setting out in the morning for Long Beach. By the time I reached James’s house, I was very uncomfortable.’

    This won her attention away from the cat. ‘What?’

    ‘I had to pee. Badly.’

    ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

    ‘I hurried to the front door and rang the doorbell. I rang it again and again, but James didn’t answer. As it turns out, he had forgotten about our date, and gone shopping. I didn’t know that at the time, however. I knew only that the door was not being opened, and that my teeth were afloat.’

    ‘You should not be talking to a child about such things.’

    ‘I’m afraid the condition of my bladder is integral to the story. Anyway, I was becoming frantic. I pounded on the door and called out James’s name, but to no avail. I considered rushing over to a neighbor’s house, but the idea appalled me. How could I ask a stranger for the use of a toilet? Besides, who would allow me inside for such a purpose? There were no gas stations, restaurants, or shopping malls near enough…’ Monica interrupted me with a sigh. ‘Anyway, I had no choice but to let myself into James’s house. It was either that or…’

    ‘You are a very crude person.’

    ‘Not so crude that I wanted to pee outside. And fortunately, matters didn’t reach that stage. At the back of the house, I found an open window. The screen was in my way, of course. But I was too desperate to care about niceties. I fairly tore the screen from its moorings, boosted myself through the window, tumbled onto the floor of James’s bedroom, and raced for the bathroom.

    ‘As it turned out, the bathroom was where James had been keeping the new litter - with the door shut, you know, so they wouldn’t scamper all over the house. And to confine the aroma of the litter box, I’m sure.’

    ‘This is a
very
long story,’ Monica complained. ‘Long
and
gross.’

    ‘All right. I’ll make it quick, then. I burst into the bathroom, pranced about to avoid mashing several kitties underfoot, and prepared to relieve myself. But when I looked down into the toilet bowl…’

    ‘Lazzy,’ Monica said.

    ‘Lazzy. Yes. Though, of course, that wasn’t her name at the time. At any rate, she must’ve climbed onto the rim of the toilet for a drink, and tumbled in. She was floating on her side, her little face down in the water. I had no idea how long she might’ve been that way. But she wasn’t moving at all. Not of her own accord. She was turning slightly as if being spun by a very slow, lazy whirlpool.

    ‘Well, I fished her right out and laid her out on the floor. She looked horrid. Have you ever seen a dead cat?’

    ‘She was
not
dead. She’s right there.’ Monica pointed, her arm so straight and stiff that it seemed to be bent just a bit the wrong way at the elbow.

    Lazzy lay on her side, head up, licking one of her forelegs.

    ‘She doesn’t look dead now,’ I agreed, ‘but you should’ve seen her shortly after I pulled her out of the toilet. She had that
awful
look -fur all matted down, ears flattened back. Her eyes were shut, so all you could see were dark slits. And she looked as if she’d died snarling.’ I bared my teeth at Monica to give her the idea.

    Monica was doing her best to appear bored and annoyed and superior to all this. In spite of her efforts, however, she had a rather slack look to her face.

    ‘The kitten was cold,’ I said. ‘Sopping. The feel of it sent chills through me. But that didn’t stop me from examining the poor thing. It had no heartbeat.’

    ‘I’m sure,’ Monica said. But she was definitely looking a trifle distressed.

    ‘The little kitten was dead.’

    ‘No, it wasn’t.’

    ‘It had drowned in the toilet. It was as dead as dead can be.’

    ‘Was not!’

    ‘Dead dead dead!’

    Monica pounded her fists against her thighs. Red-faced, she snapped, ‘You’re an
awful
person!’

    ‘No, I’m not. I’m a very nice person, because I brought the dead kitten back to life. I rolled her onto her back and covered her little mouth with my mouth and breathed into her. At the same time, I used my thumb to push at her heart. Have you ever heard of CPR?’ Monica nodded. ‘CPR was a robot in
Star Wars’

    I was glad to find that she was not quite as smart as she thought she was.

    ‘CPR stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It’s a technique used to revive people who…’

    ‘Oh,
that!'
She suddenly looked very pleased with herself. And very prim and very superior. Her head dipped from one side to the other while her shoulders oscillated.
‘So,
the kitty
wasn’t
dead. Monica
told
you she wasn’t dead.’

    ‘Oh, but she was very dead.’

    Monica shook her head. ‘Was not.’

    ‘She was dead, and I brought her back to life with the CPR. Right there in the bathroom. Pretty soon, James came home. I told him what had happened, and he let me have the kitten I’d saved. So I named her Lazzy, short for Lazarus. Do you know who Lazarus was?’

    ‘Of course.’

    ‘Who?’

    ‘None of your business.’

    ‘Whatever you say. Anyway, I brought Lazzy home with me. And do you know what?’

    Monica sneered at me.

    ‘Lazzy never grew any larger after the day I brought her back from the dead. That was six years ago. She has been the size of a little kitty, ever since. So you see, she’s my pet. She’s not part of the litter I want to give away. She’s the
mother
of the litter.’

    ‘But she’s
tinier
than they are!’

    
‘And
she’s been dead.’

    Monica stared at Lazzy for a long while. Then she turned to me, no longer looking the least bit shaken. ‘She isn’t
either
the mother. You made the whole thing up just so you could keep the cute one.’ She rushed over to the blanket, snatched up Lazzy and hugged her and kissed the dark brown M on her honey-colored brow.

    ‘Put her down,’ I said.

    ‘No.’

    ‘Don’t make me take her from you.’

    ‘You’d better not.’ She glanced at the kitchen doorway behind me. ‘You’d better get out of my way, or you’ll be in very very bad trouble.’

    ‘Put down Lazzy. You may still take one of the other kittens, but…’

    ‘Get out of the way,’ she said, and walked straight toward me. ‘As soon as you’ve…’

    ‘Mr Bishop said, “Come into my house. I have a little kitty for you.” ’ She halted and leered at me. ‘But when Monica went into his house, he told her a urine story and he took off the towel he was wearing and he said, “This is the little kitty I have for you. His name is Peter.” ’

    I could only gasp, ‘You!’

    ‘And he told me to pet Peter and kiss Peter. I didn’t
want
to do it, but he grabbed me and…’

    ‘Stop it!’ I blurted, and stumbled sideways out of her way. ‘Take the cat! Take her and get out of here!’

    As she strutted by, taking away my Lazzy, she winked at me. ‘Thank you so much for the kitten, Mr. Bishop.’

    I watched her leave.

    Just stood and stared as she sashayed through the den and stepped over the threshold of the open sliding door. Immediately after setting foot on the concrete, she burst into a run.

    Apparently afraid I might find a smidgen of nerve and attempt to retrieve my cat.

    But I didn’t move a muscle.

    An accusation such as she had threatened to make… How does one disprove such a thing? One doesn’t. Such an accusation, once made, would cling to me like leprous skin for all the days of my life.

    I would forever be known as a pervert, a child-molester.

    So I let her
steal
my dear Lazzy.

    I stood frozen with terror and
let
her.

    And from outside came a familiar
reeooow!
followed by a quick harsh yelp - the sort of yelp a girl might make if the cat in her arms decided to claw its way to freedom - followed by a thudding splash.

    I still stood motionless.

    No longer terrified.

    Amused, actually.

    The poor dear. Fell and got herself all wet.

    Lazzy leaped over the threshold and came scampering through the den, fur abristle over the ridge of her spine, her tiny ears swept back, tail curled up in a small, bushy question mark.

    She slowed down, then rubbed her side against my bare ankle.

    I picked up my tiny little cat. I held her in front of my face with both hands.

    From outside came more splashing sounds.

    Cries of 'Help!’ and ‘Help!’

    Was it possible that Monica’s bag of tricks did not include swimming?

    I dared not get my hopes up.

    There were no more cries for help. I did hear some choky gasps and quite a good deal of splashing, however, before silence replaced the disturbance.

    I carried Lazzy out to poolside.

    Monica was at the deep end. Face down, arms and legs spread out, hair drifting above her head, blouse and jumper shimmering slightly.

    She rather looked like a skydiver enjoying a freefall, waiting for the very last moment to pull her ringcord.

    ‘I suppose I ought to pull her out,’ I told Lazzy. ‘Give her some CPR.’

    Then I shook my head.

    ‘No. Not a good idea - a man my age putting his hands on a ten-year-old girl? What would people say?’

    I headed for the sliding glass door.

    ‘Why don’t we go pay a visit to James? Who knows? Maybe someone will be lucky enough to find Monica while we’re away.’ Lazzy purred, her little body vibrating like a warm engine.

    

    

    The spot of wetness on the sidewalk at Byron’s feet looked purple in the mercury glow of the streetlight. It looked like a drop of blood.

    He squatted down and peered at it. Then he pulled a flashlight out of the side pocket of his sport jacket. He thumbed the switch. In the bright, somewhat yellowish shine of its beam, the spot appeared crimson.

    Might be paint, he thought.

    But who would be wandering around at night dripping red paint?

    He reached down and touched it. Bringing his fingertip close to the flashlight glass, he inspected the red smear. He rubbed it with his thumb. The stuff was kind of watery. Not gooey enough for paint. More like blood that had been spilled very recently.

    He sniffed it.

    He could only smell mustard from the hot dog he’d eaten during the last show, a smell strong enough to overpower blood’s subtle aroma. But it wouldn’t have masked the pungent odor of paint.

    Byron wiped his finger and thumb on his sock. Still squatting, he let the beam of his flashlight drift over the concrete ahead. He saw a dirty pink disk of flattened bubble gum, a gob of spit, a mashed cigarette butt, and a second drop of blood.

    The second drop was three strides away. He stopped above it. Like the first, it was about the size of a nickel. Sweeping his light forward, he found a third.

    Maybe someone with a nosebleed, he thought.

    Or a switchblade in the guts.

    No, a
real
wound and there’d be blood everywhere. Byron remembered the mess in the Elsinore’s restroom last month. During intermission, a couple of teenagers had gone at each other

    with knives. He and Digby, one of the other ushers, had broken it up. Though the kids only had minor wounds, the john had looked like a slaughterhouse.

    Compared to that, this was nothing. Just a drip once in a while. Even a nosebleed, he thought, would throw out more gore.

    On the other hand, the person’s clothing, or a handkerchief, might have soaked up most of it - so that only a fraction of the spillage actually hit the sidewalk.

    Just a little drip now and then.

    Just enough to make Byron very curious.

    The trail of blood was going in his direction, anyway, so he kept his flashlight on and kept a lookout.