Homemade Sin (20 page)

“We're getting a little pressure from above on this one.” The sheriff sighed. “Our department has been requested by the mayor's office to take on the case. I figured it's something you can handle. After all, the mayor thought it was a good idea to give all of you displaced New Orleans police officers jobs after the hurricane.” Sheriff Ferguson leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “He said you guys were hungry and homeless and to put you guys to work, so I'm putting you to work. It wasn't my idea to hire you but, since the mayor made me hire you, you are on the case. Get out there and find out what happened to the missing pussies.”

“I was hungry and homeless because Hurricane Katrina wiped out my whole neighborhood back in New Orleans. It's damned hard to walk a beat when the street is five feet under water. Six foot long 'gators swimming up Almonaster Avenue, how you gonna police a six foot 'gator? I've seen some damned strange things in my life.”

“Still—”

“And I was a damned good cop too,” Jones said. “So don't think this job is charity. I walked a beat in the lower Ninth District, for three years; Algiers, the toughest beat in New Orleans. And you want me to track down missing cats?”

The sheriff held his hand palm up conveying that he understood the deputy's objection but he was still assigning him the case. “Just follow up on it … please,” the sheriff said, making it very clear ‘please' was an order, not a polite request. “And you better start by going to talk to some of the owners of the missing cats, let them know we're on the case.” The sheriff slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is a list of the folks who reported missing cats, mostly little old ladies.”

Detective Jones, resigning himself to missing kitty duty, reached a large hand across the desk, picked up the slip of paper and scanned it. “Curtis, this is bullshit,” he said.

“I know,” said the sheriff. “It's politics but these little old ladies want to know that somebody is doing something to find their missing pussies.”

Jones nodded, stuck the list of names in his pocket and rose to leave.

“Start with Mrs. Bond,” called the sheriff as Jones disappeared through the door, “she's the mayor's sister.”

An hour later Deputy Ignatius Jones found himself sitting on an overstuffed Victorian couch, trying to balance a saucer on his knee and avoid spilling the Earl Grey on the lace doilies, while he politely sipped. The task was made even more difficult because he was trying to take notes at the same time.

“So tell me Miss Bond,” he said, “when did you first notice your pussy had gone astray?

“Last Friday,” Gladys Bond said. She wiped a tear from her eye with a Kleenex. “Boots has always been such a good girl. I've had her for almost five years and in all that time she has never been gone for more than a couple of hours. I'm afraid someone has taken her. I've searched the whole neighborhood and there isn't a trace of her. Promise me you'll find her, Deputy Jones.”

“I'll do my best, Mrs. Bond.” Jones took a sip of his tea, spilling a few drops on the lace doily, and sat the cup on the marble tea table. We found a couple of cats that had been poisoned. Do you know of anybody in the neighborhood who uses toxic chemicals?”

“Oh heavens!” Mrs. Bond said. “Do you think my sweet little Boots may have been poisoned?”

“We're looking into it Mrs. Bond, and as soon as we know anything I'll let you know.”

As Jones left Miss Bond's bungalow, twilight was settling in over St. Pete Beach. He looked across the beach as he walked down Dock Street, watching the sun boil into the Gulf. He looked down at his list of missing cat reports. There were ten more names on it. He figured he would call it a night and interview the next missing cat lady tomorrow. As he strolled down the street toward his car, tall masts of sailing yachts cast evening shadows on the sidewalk. He scanned the neighborhood to see if there was anything unusual that might give him some clue to the missing animals something that might explain their disappearances. Maybe a new Chinese restaurant.

He noticed an alley off a side street that led around to the back of a restaurant. As he took a step toward the alley, a grey and black striped tabby startled him as it darted from the shadows and sprinted into the alley.

Looks like a kitty on a mission, Jones thought. The tabby disappeared around the corner and Jones quickened his pace to keep up with it. As Jones rounded the corner into the alley he beheld a bizarre scene. A dozen cats were sitting on their haunches in a semi-circle around a large green dumpster. On top of the dumpster a black tomcat, with a little Hitler mustache and malicious green eye, was opening a vial with his teeth. Jones stared in amazement as the onyx animal then dusted the chunks of fish with purple powder from the vial and nosed the chunks of fish off the dumpster to the awaiting felines. The kitties rushed to the fish and began to gobble it up ravenously. As the cats devoured the fish, the black tom, sitting atop the dumpster, tipped his dark head back and howled at the pale image of the rising moon. In seconds, Stinky was joined by a chorus of caterwauling felines.

But, Jones noticed, these cats weren't howling in pain.

Jones watched, astounded, as the creatures formed a writhing, convulsing mass, meowing lustily. The females were backing toward the males, tails standing high, issuing ‘come hither' meows. The toms mounted them furiously, pumping like little furry jack hammers.

In seconds Jones was witnessing a full-scale cat orgy.

“I guess this is why you kitties don't go home,” he said.

“No, no, no!” Stinky yowled as he stared at the catma-sutra that was playing out below him. The pussy cats were humping each other for all they were worth. “You're supposed to be turning into zombies!”

Ignoring Stinky, the mousers howled and humped and then howled and humped some more.

Stinky examined the label on the vial and scowled. “I guess I got the wrong powder again.”

The sheriff is never going to believe this, Jones thought, as he took out his small digital camera and snapped a picture of the writhing mass of kitty carnality. As Jones stepped back shaking his head he heard the door rattle. He stepped behind it just as it opened and Roland and Hussey emerged.

“OK, let's meet your talking kitty,” said Hussey. Roland stared, agog, as once again, the ground around the dumpster was littered with feline bodies. But this time they were very much alive. Roland's eyes swept the scene in shock. His gaze fixed on Stinky who was sitting atop the dumpster, licking his paws and shaking his head at the orgy in progress.

“Stinky! Dammit!” Roland kicked the big green dumpster. “What did you do this time?”

Hussey stared at the pile of porno pussies, then she gazed at Stinky. It was almost as though these animals have been given a dose of Eros powder.

“I presume Stinky is the black pussy that's passing out what appears to be feline Spanish Fly?” Jones said, stepping out of the shadows. “Is that kitty cat yours?”

“I don't know what he is anymore,” Roland said. “I do know the cat is nuts. Yesterday there were dead cats everywhere, today they're fucking like bunnies. I think Stinky is some kind of cat cult leader.”

“Yeah,” Jones said shaking his head, “I stood here and watched that creature spread some kind of carnal cat-nip on some fish from the dumpster and toss it to the other cats. They gobbled it up and started doing this ….” He swept his hand toward the fucking felines. “I've seen some damned strange things in my life, but that has to be right up there with the damned strangest.” Jones extended hand to Roland, then to Hussey. “Deputy Sheriff Ignatius Jones.”

“Roland Van Owen and this is Hussey Paine. You don't hear the name Ignatius often.”

“I was named after one of my mother's favorite characters in a book by John Kennedy Toole set in New Orleans.”

“I knew Ken Toole,” Stinky's said voice in Roland's head. “He used to feed me hot dogs from his favorite street vendor wagon; the man loved his street dogs.”

“Did you hear that?” Roland said to Hussey. “Stinky said he knew Ken Toole.”

“I didn't hear anything.” Hussey was still staring at the writhing mound of mating mousers.

“OK, Stinky, say something to Hussey, let her know you can talk.”

“Meow.”

“Did you hear that?” Roland said.

“I heard a meow,” Hussey said. “That's not exactly unusual.”

“Come on Stinky,” Roland said. “Tell Hussey about how you were a god and now you're a muse and about all the writers you've known.”

“Meow.” A tiny pussy cat grin played on Stinky's face.

Hussey cocked her head at Roland. “OK, so the pussy can meow,” Hussey said. “Amazing.”

“But it was the way he said it, didn't it sound contrived to you?” Roland said. “Like Cat is his second language, like he was trying to imitate a cat, it didn't sound like a regular feline.”

“The cat said ‘meow,'” Hussey said, “no more no less, it's just a pussy cat and you are delusional.”

Roland glared at Stinky. “Enough of your bullshit you Kitty Caligula, say something to Hussey.”

“Meow.” Stinky's smile continued to spread across his face like an invading army.

Hussey raised her eyebrows at Roland; from the corner of her mouth a faint, patronizing smile peeked out. Roland glared at Stinky. Catching the anger in Roland's glare Stinky retreated into the dumpster.

“I'll leave you to give your pussy meowing lessons,” Hussey said as she opened the door to the kitchen. “I need to relieve Dee Dee at the front desk.”

“Why, Stinky?” Roland said to the dumpster after Hussey had gone.

“I'm not sure she and I are going to be friends yet,” Stinky's voice said in Roland's head.

“Fucking cat. Why don't we go on into the bar and talk?” Roland said to Jones, following Hussey in. “Away from this … scene.”

“How about a drink?” Roland said to Jones, as he slipped behind the bar. “On the house.”

“I'm on duty,” Jones said, “so you better just make it beer.”

Roland poured while Jones surveyed the room.

“Where did you get the picture of Marie Laveau?” Jones said to Roland. “And all this other voodoo stuff, it makes me feel right at home.”

“Does everybody recognize the woman in that picture?” Roland said.

“Everybody does back home in New Orleans,” Jones said. “It's the voodoo capital of the United States. Her face is in every voodoo shop and half the bars, people flock to her grave and leave money and draw little Xs on her tombstone. She's a local legend. I never expected to see a picture of her hanging up in Saint Pete Beach.”

Roland slid a frosty mug of beer across the bar to Jones. “So what brings you to Florida, Deputy?”

“Well,” Jones said, taking a sip of his beer, “when my whole neighborhood was washed away by Hurricane Katrina, I figured it was time to leave. They kept saying FEMA was coming but I wasn't holding my breath, especially under six feet of water. I figured Florida is the closest thing around to New Orleans, you have 'gators, and palm trees, beaches, drunk spring-break girls lifting their T-shirts, oppressive humidity, good seafood and a whole boatload of weirdness. Florida has more of a pink, plastic weirdness to it, whereas New Orleans has an old fashioned, cobblestone and graveyard weirdness to it, different feel. In New Orleans the jazz from the clubs, the rabid estrogen from strip joints and the tantalizing tang from the restaurants floats up above the Quarter, swirls together in the heat and humidity, and is blended by the Waring mixer of hurricane winds. Then the musky mix floats out over the city in a dense cloud of pervading funk that adjusts attitudes, opens minds and inspires primal urges.”

“And Florida?” Roland was impressed with the eloquence of the deputy, as only a fellow wordsmith can be, and wanted to hear him wax poetic on his adopted state.

“In Florida you have your northerners in the south, your southerners in the north and your Trailer Park Tahiti spread out across the Redneck Riviera. You have a lot of rich, old white people in Florida,” Jones said as he polished off his beer. “And Sun City ain't never going to have the same dusty, unbridled gypsy soul of the Quarter. At least if this state starts to wash away, with all the voting retirees here, the FEMA folks won't come slower than my ex-girlfriend.

Roland refilled Jones's mug and placed it before him, chuckling in agreement.

“So what is the story on that cat?” said Jones.

“I found him … actually he found me in Key West; that's also where I found all this voodoo stuff. He hitched a ride back here and took up residence in the dumpster out back. A couple of days later I went back there and found a grizzly scene, dead pussy cats everywhere, a real feline genocide. Today I find a kitty orgy in progress. The cat is just plain spooky.”