Моника Шонесси - The Black Cats

Mr. Arnold, the cobbler of Franklin Street, sneered in reply. A coarse man with a bulbous nose, he slumped more than walked. One could argue that his frame had been sewn of wet burlap. And, dear me, his sun-worn skin needed polishing more than the boots in his shop. When he passed our table, he jerked one of the empty chairs, startling us both. I flattened my ears and hissed. “What are you looking at?” he bellowed. “Well? Answer me!”

“Nothing, sir. I pride myself on minding my business,” Eddy said. He must have responded on my behalf since Mr. Arnold had addressed me, not him.

“People shouldn’t bring animals into public houses.” He spat tobacco on the floor near our table. “It’s not sanitary.” His crazed laughter lasted all the way out the door. “It’s not sanitary!” he shouted again before crossing the street.

“That fellow is corned, Catters, from top to tail. No wonder Mrs. Arnold stays ill-humored.”

In a fashion, Mr. Jolley brought another glass of port. Once Eddy finished it, the old man returned with yet another, walking more briskly than I would have guessed his age would allow.

“No, Mr. Jolley,” Eddy said. He held up his hand in refusal. “I have had enough.”

Even I , humble cat that I am, understood his answer. Mr. Jolley, however, did not, or rather pretended he did not. With a gummy smile, he set the drink in front of my companion and left. The barkeep gave me many reasons to hate him, but this bested them all. Josef, the server at Shakey House Tavern, always heeded Eddy’s wishes. I’d even seen him refuse Eddy when my friend’s gait grew uncertain or his speech slurred. Not Mr. Jolley. He cared more for coins than people.

Eddy sipped the blood-hued liquid and watched a couple on the street. The youngsters strolled past the tavern windows, elbows linked beneath a shared parasol. How rosy their cheeks; how gay their steps! The woman laughed with nary a cough and tugged her beau toward an oyster vendor across the way. Eddy’s gaze fell to his wine glass. When the rising chatter of patrons interrupted his contemplation, he took the penknife from his pocket again.

As he toyed with the blade, his expression changed from one of concentration to one of despair, signaling the return of his melancholy. As they’d done so many times before, clouds overtook him, dampening his spirits with unremitting drizzle. This came as no surprise. One cannot hide from the tempest when it resides in one’s heart. Yet changing the weather was as easy—or as hard—as stoking his imagination. I’d learned this during our last adventure.

“What state of mind must a man possess to commit this morning’s atrocity?” Eddy placed the object on the table next to me for my perusal. I sniffed it, detecting the scent of crow—nothing out of the ordinary. “An enraged state, an altered state…” He picked up the glass again and held it to the sunlight, casting a dappled reflection on the table. “I still do not know how anyone with a right mind could kill a cat,” he said to me.

Kill a cat.

Grasping tail in teeth, I worked on a cocklebur I’d picked up in the market. Constable Harkness wouldn’t likely jail a cat killer. But tracking down the murderer and involving Eddy in the hunt would blow away the storm. Sissy, too, might be cheered by our exertions. Nevertheless, one thing prevented my endorsement: the cat cookery book. I stood and stretched, anticipating the arrival of Mr. Jolley. To banish the pall over the Poe family, I would immerse us in the mystery of the hanged cat.

As I sharpened my claws on the table, I questioned whether or not I had the speed and tenacity to bring down a human again. Winter feasting had given me a roundish, fattish shape, akin to a lump of dough—a detriment to fieldwork. If I couldn’t shake my sloth, I might end up on the Butcher’s plate next to boiled turnips. The floorboards vibrated. I turned to find the old raisin nearing with more blasted refreshment.

I crouched.

“Here you are, Mr. P—”

I flew at Mr. Jolley’s face, scratching and clawing with my own set of penknives. He dropped the glass—my objective—and held his arm aloft. This protected his rheumy eyes and little else. With unusual vengeance, I latched onto the limb, shredding the thin skin of his elbow like newspaper. He would not serve another drink to Eddy tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. I withdrew and waited by the door for a swift exit.

Mr. Jolley slipped and skated on the bloody port pooling underfoot, unable to gain his balance. “Get out!” he screamed. “You and that damnable cat, get out!”

The rail yard rowdies and the gentleman laughed, united in his ridicule.

Eddy grabbed his penknife and tucked it away. “Shall I come back tomorrow?”

“Out!” Mr. Jolley clutched his injured arm and fell into a chair.

We departed full chisel , leaving Jolley Spirits behind. Cookery book be damned. Catching the Butcher would be no problem for a cat like me.

Cat Cookery for Beginners

I ACCOMPANIED EDDY AS far as our front garden and waited for him to enter before skittering back to Green Street. With extreme care, I approached the house with the window boxes—a little down, a little across from the Franklin cut-through—stopping short at the neighboring brownstone. From the holly bushes next door, I surveyed the Butcher’s lair. His bottom floor windows hung open, and the curtains billowed in and out with the draft. Trim garden, new paint, clean walkway—I found nothing awry, save for wilting petunias. The dwelling looked innocuous enough. But then, so had the Glass Eye Killer’s, and the dangers that lurked behind his door had been genuine.

Margaret’s caution returned as I slunk into the open. “He makes cats disappear,” she’d said. I dismissed it and hopped the low wrought iron fence surrounding the Butcher’s property. A cage large enough for a parrot sat to the right of the front door, but the contraption was empty, lacking perch, seed cup, and, chiefly, a feathered occupant. A horse and carriage rolled by on the cobblestones, clackety-clack , startling me. When I faced the house again, a figure loomed in the window beyond the curtain veil.

I froze.

When my legs could hold their position no longer, I disappeared into a cluster of zinnias, stirring a patch of butterflies. The Butcher would leave at some point and walk by the flower patch, giving me access to his ankle. A well-placed strike to this area would incapacitate him. I flexed my claws. Once he fell, his eye would be mine. I swatted the last remaining butterfly, scraping it into paste. Street justice was a concept most familiar to an ex-feral like me. And then I thought of Eddy and the scorn he would heap upon this act of retribution.

In the twitch of a whisker, I’d sunk to a place unbefitting a cat of my status, a cat who cohabitated with an esteemed man of letters. I lowered my chin to my paws. While the Butcher deserved a punishment equal to one he’d doled out, I would bring him to his knees and nothing more.

The hinges cried as the front door swung open. My stomach tightened. “Heeeere kitty, kitty,” the Butcher called. His voice cracked from strain or disuse, I could not tell which. This much I knew: the zinnia patch had grown smaller. Or maybe I had grown larger. Both were possible. “Heeeere kitty, kitty.” He descended the stone steps to the garden.

The flowers obstructed my view of his face, though from his gait I judged him to be a man of advanced years. Considering my success with Mr. Jolley, I had less to fear than I’d originally thought. I unsheathed my claws and lifted my paw to assault the oldster. I would be home for tea.

“There’s a pretty kitty,” he said. He stopped at the flower patch, casting me in a crooked shadow. It was the man with the bent spine.