Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen (28 page)

“So you're saying you think Tony is a basement bookie?”

“Or a warehouse bookie.”

“And you think they're betting on…
cats?”

For the first time since we'd found Snowball, things were making sense. “Uh-huh. Maybe he's doing something like cockfights, only with cats!”

“But—how do you
make
cats fight?”

A shadow appeared from around the corner of Kustom Heat and Air. So I yanked Holly into a niche by the north side of the building and said, “They've got someone staked out!” There wasn't much room because we were backed up against a short section of chain-link that marked off the property, but we held our skateboards close and sucked back.

A beefy man strolled out onto the sidewalk and looked both directions. He keyed a walkie-talkie and said something into it, then looked both directions again and strolled back.

When he was gone, Holly whispered, “What are we going to do?”

“Well, we can't go that way—not if someone's patrolling the place.” I looked around. “Do you see Tony's van anywhere?”

She looked, too. “No.” And when I didn't say anything, she said, “So you think maybe he's
not
involved in this? Whatever ‘this' is?”

I started climbing the fence. “No, I think he is.”

“Where are you
going?”

“Around the back of the building.”

“Why?”

“To see what I can see!” I looked down at her. “I'll be right back.”

“Are you nuts? I'm not letting you go alone… !” She hesitated. “What about the skateboards?”

“Leave them.” I reached out an arm. “But hand me the bat.”

Holly was quick getting over the fence. And as we hurried along, she didn't complain once. We were real cautious when we got to the end of the building, too. But when we peeked around the corner, what did we see?

More of the same: Chain-link. A straight shot of block wall. No doors.

So we ran along, and as we neared the end of the wall, Holly asked, “So what exactly are we looking for?”

“Evidence that I'm not crazy.”

Which is exactly what we got the minute we peeked around the next corner. Holly grabbed my arm and whispered, “Tony's van!”

The van was about thirty feet in front of us, parked close to the building alongside a door. It was the only vehicle inside the fenced yard.

“Now what?” Holly whispered.

“Let's check out the van. It's probably locked, but let's try. You take the passenger door, I'll try the other one.”

So we waited for the guard to turn his back, then we snuck up, tried the doors, and met back behind the van.

“Locked,” Holly whispered.

“Mine, too.” I tried the handle to the back doors. It was locked, too.

I eyed the door to the building, and Holly could tell what I was thinking. She shook her head and whispered, “Not a good idea, Sammy. No one knows where we are. I say we leave.”

I looked out at the guard. He had his walkie-talkie up to his mouth and was closing and locking the rolling gate. “Yeah,” I whispered. “I've had enough.”

But then a very scary thing happened. The guard started walking our way. And just as we're starting to panic, thinking that maybe he's spotted us, something bumps inside the van.

“What was that?” I whisper.

“I don't know!” Holly whispers back.

Then it happens again.
Thump. Thump-thump.

So we've got a guard coming toward us and a van
thumping
at us, and I don't know what to do. I mean, the thumping doesn't sound random like a wagging tail or something. It sounds purposeful.

Human.

So I whisper, “Hello?” into the crack between the van's back doors. “Hello, can you hear me?”

Thump-thump-thump.

“Thump only once if you need help.”

Thump.

My eyes bug out as I look at Holly. Then I whisper into the crack, “We'll try to help you, but don't make any noise! Someone's coming!”

The thumping stops, but the guard does not.

“What are we going to do?” Holly mouths.

“Stay behind the tire. If he comes this way, we'll go around the van that way.”

She nods, and we can hear the guard's footsteps getting closer and closer.

And
closer.

Finally we have to scoot around the van to avoid him. We can hear him jingling keys. Unlocking the van. Getting
inside
the van. Holly and I are stuck between the
building and the van, watching the front gate, then the van, worried that any second we'll be spotted. And since it's too far to run back the way we came, I do the only thing I can think to do—I try the doorknob behind me.

The door to the building is unlocked, so after Holly gives me the nod, we sneak through it. And when we get inside I'm shaking so bad the baseball bat's quivering in my hand. “Do you think he saw us?”

“I don't know.”

Then we hear dogs barking in the distance.

“We've got to hide. At least for a few minutes, until we're sure he didn't see us.”

We were in some kind of boiler room. There was a big tank and an exhaust fan, and then pipes and ductwork and metal tubing all over the place. There were also spools of electrical wires and, overhead, a bare bulb burning.

“They've got power,” I whispered.

“So?”

“So maybe we can find the circuit breaker and shut the place down.”

“You
want them
to find us? Let's just hide!”

So we moved through the boiler room to a short flight of stairs that went up to another door. Very carefully I peeked into the upstairs room. Nobody was there, so we went inside, and now we could hear the murmur of voices. Lots of voices. They sounded like they were coming from right next door.

We moved around the room and discovered a window. A window that overlooked the warehouse.

Holly and I both gasped when we looked down. There
were at least a hundred men below. They surrounded a wrestling ring that was like Slammin' Dave's, only old and tattered. Off to one side of the ring was a huge digital clock—like a scoreboard clock. And there was a microphone dangling from a roof joist.

But the really scary thing about the whole scene was the metal cage right in the middle of the ring. It was probably eight feet long, four feet high, and four feet wide, and had spikes sticking into it from all angles except the floor.

So Holly and I are just standing there, staring, trying to absorb what we're seeing below, when all of a sudden the Bulldog climbs into the ring. “There he is!” I whisper. “See if you can spot Tony.”

But then the Bulldog opens the cage, and Holly gasps, “What are they going to do?”

We watch as another man leads a large dog into the ring. He and the Bulldog unmuzzle the dog and shove it inside the cage. Then the Bulldog grabs the microphone and says, “Bring on the contenders!”

Two cats get lifted into the ring by two men who have obviously spent a lot of time pumping iron. And while the men hold the cats by the nape of their necks and parade them around the ring, the Bulldog announces, “Gentlemen! Round-three contestants are: On my right—The Destroyer. He's won his bout three weeks running. On my left—The Claw. Crafty, streetwise, and the biggest tomcat we've seen to date.”

The men with the cats circle the ring twice, then the Bulldog announces, “Gentlemen, place your bets.”

Some men go over to a windowed booth. Others collect money on the spot. People start shouting numbers. Shouting names.

“Oh my
god”
Holly whimpers. “They put the cats in the cage with that
dog
?”

I felt like I was witnessing a nightmare come to life. “And let them fight to the death.”

“So they bet on who dies first?” Holly choked out.

“Or who lives longer. Now I get why there were only scrawny cats left at the pound.”

“This is
sick.”

“And this is what would have happened to Dorito,” I whispered.

Holly was furious. “We've got to find the circuit breaker and stop them!”

“No,” I said, heading for the door. “We've got to get the police.”

The one time I decide to do the smart thing, some idiot tries to stop me. We didn't see the guard, but he sure saw us. “Hey!” he shouts when we're halfway down the stairs. “How'd you get in here?”

Holly and I freeze. “Uh… we're doing errands for Tony.”

But the guard's not buying it—not for a second. “Get down here. Now!”

So we turn around and start back
up
the stairs, but he charges after us. And since I hadn't seen any other way out of the room we'd just been in, it hits me that we're running straight for a trap.

He's already right behind us, so I stop, turn, and ram him hard in the chest with the bat. He goes,
“Oooof,”
and staggers backward, but he catches himself, then steadies himself.

“Uh-oh,” Holly squeaks behind me when she sees the look on his face. And she's right—he looks like he's going to kill me.

Now, I can't jump. I can't hide. And I can't exactly
talk
my way out of the situation. This is a big-bucks operation, one they're not going to let a couple of junior high
girls mess up. No, after what we'd seen, we'd probably wind up in a river somewhere.

Or maybe just a Dumpster.

Anyway, the guy's keeping an eye on the bat, but he's in a bad position and too mad for good judgment. So when he charges me again, I dig in the best I can, keep my eye on his head, and
swing.

Ms. Rothhammer told us once that you can kill someone that way. And I wasn't trying to, but I couldn't _pussyfoot around worrying about it, either. And it's not like his head went flying or his skull caved in or anything. He didn't even go down right away. He staggered back and stumbled, hung on to the guardrail, tumbled a few steps, staggered to his feet, and then
finally
he collapsed.

“Wow,” Holly gasped when he'd thudded to the ground. “He's tough.”

I nodded. “That's definitely one thick skull.”

We didn't waste any time. We ran down the stairs, and I started digging through his pockets. “You are one smart girl, Holly Janquell.”

“Me?”

“Would
I
have taken a bat along?” I glanced at her. “No.”

She smiled, but it was a very nervous smile. “What are you looking for?”

“Keys to the van.”

“We're
driving
out of here?”

I pocketed the keys, grabbed his walkie-talkie, and grinned. “Not a bad idea.”

“What if he wakes up?”

“Hmm.” I looked around, then used a spool of electrical wire to bind the guard's hands behind his back. Holly got another spool and did the same thing to his feet. Then we twisted the two spools together tight and dragged him behind the boiler so no one would see him.

Outside, the coast seemed clear, so I whispered, “I want to unlock the van and help whoever's inside. Then let's go call the police.”

“Why don't we just go call the police and tell them someone's in the van?”

“If it was you in there, what would you want?”

She thought for a second, then said, “You're right. Let's do it.”

So we zip around the van, and while I'm fumbling through four or five different keys, Holly's whispering into the crack, “Hey, we're back. Can you hear me?”

For a second there's no answer. Then
thump-thump-thump.

“Okay,” Holly says. “Now, thump once for yes, twice for no. Are you tied up?”

Thump.

“Are you Slammin' Dave?”

I glanced at Holly, surprised. It made sense, of course, but I hadn't thought of it.

But then came the answer:
Thump-thump.

“Do you promise not to hurt us if we let you go?”

Thump.

Finally I find a key that works. So quick as I can, I unlock the door and push down the handle. And when I
open the van, who do we find bound and gagged, lying between cleaning supplies and pet carriers?

The Freaky Feline himself—El Gato.

Holly and I jump back. And Holly goes to slam the door closed, saying, “I'm not letting
him
out!”

But El Gato says, “Rrraaaammmy,” and the funny thing is, I know what he's saying.