Милдред Гордон - Undercover Cat

Patti said, “He’s never gone into another garage. Some ways he’s a lot smarter’n we are. He never makes the same mistake twice.”

Now Zeke sat by a two-way radio, which he held to a whis­per. In the hallway the cuckoo clock ticked with a confidence few clocks have these days. On the bed D.C. was curled into a tight ball, sound asleep. He was wearing his old collar, and seemingly had welcomed it when Patti fastened it .about his neck. A collar did something for a man, gave him a cer­tain distinction.

Zeke’s eyes were so puffed that the cat was a black blur, and Zeke wondered how he was going to run the surveillance. Silently he lectured himself. His attitude toward D.C. was utterly unreasonable. He had no basis for his prejudice. He was guilty of the worst possible type of discrimination. He must exert every effort to change.

Seven forty-five passed, and Zeke grew more fearful with the ticking off of each minute. Almost on the stroke of eight, though, D.C. aroused, and took his bearings. His gaze passed over Zeke as if the latter were another piece of furniture. He padded to the window then, pulled aside a drape, and looked out to take a reckoning of the time and temperature.

Zeke said into the mike, “All units stand by. Informant about to leave house.”

On seeing something outside, D.C. battened his ears down until only his slit eyes showed. Whatever he saw, though, failed to interest him long, for he quietly returned to the de­pressed spot in the bed and began his nightly ablutions.

“All units,” Zeke said. “Informant has changed mind. Will keep you advised.”

Zeke sat on the bed, reached over, and pulled D.C. to him. He remembered his resolution and smiled down at the cat. His smile was not returned. D.C. wanted no part of him.

Murmuring, “Nice guy – nice guy,” Zeke picked him up by the middle to stand him up. D.C. promptly collapsed. Just as promptly Zeke propped him up, which was a tactical error. At the end of his patience, D.C. sank a claw into Zeke’s right arm, above the wrist. Zeke was caught so by surprise and pain that he used a few old ranch hand words he had forgotten he knew.

In one quick stroke, as if he were roping a calf, Zeke seized D.C.‘s hind legs, took a good hold on him, and carted him upside down through the hallway, into the kitchen, and to the service porch door where he dropped him uncere­moniously. He unlatched the door and D.C, growling a few choice words himself, looked out.

“Get out there, you big baboon,” Zeke said. “Go on, go on before I break you – “

At a faint footstep behind him, he stopped. He sensed that Patti stood there, and hated to think what her expression was. Below him D.C. planted his feet firmly. Now that he had re­inforcements, he would stand his ground.

Zeke said softly, “Look friend, it’s a warm, beautiful night Go on, live it up.”

He turned. “Oh, hello. Didn’t know you were around. Can’t seem to get him out, and it’s past eight.”

He gave a little laugh. “I thought I’d encourage him.” Gen­tly he put his foot to D.C.‘s rear and pushed him out. As if by magic, D.C. was back in the house before Zeke could close the door.

Patti said, “You can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to. He’s stubborn, like the rest of the Randalls.”

“He’s got to go,” Zeke said. “We’ve got thirty men waiting on him.”

She took a piece of raw beef from the refrigerator, stepped out of the door, and dangled it. D.C. stared at it curiously from inside the service porch. Did they think he was that naive? Patti, of all people, resorting to a low trick like that.

Patti looked up at Zeke. “Even if we do get him out, he’ll just mope around. He had too big a night last night.”

Thereupon D.C. turned and headed back toward the bed­room. Patti excused herself to help Mike with his homework, and Zeke followed D.C., who dallied on the way, once to take a couple of swipes at last year’s Christmas gift, a catnip mouse whose innards had filtered out and was now only a wrinkled skin. He received Christmas gifts along with the other members of the family, and quite a few cards. During his formative years he played with his gifts by the hour, but now he was above such nonsense. Oh, he would take a swat or two at a present, to let his folks know he was appreciative. But with maturity had come a sense of dignity, of place. Place was very important, and especially difficult to maintain in this family.

Zeke bided his time until D.C. returned to the bedroom, and then Zeke resorted to a scurrilous trick. He detested him­self for it but his desperation was such that he couldn’t resist. Casually he maneuvered around D.C., who stretched full length on the bed. D.C. kept his head raised, his gaze trailing Zeke.

When he had gained D.C.‘s rear, Zeke pretended to stare out of the window until D.C. was lulled into a sense of security and lowered his head flat with his body. He closed his eyes and prepared for a night’s rest. Still standing by the window, Zeke removed his shoes, and stealthily approached the cat from behind. He remembered, as he had been taught in the FBI Academy , to watch for squeaky boards that would betray him. His movements were slow and fluid, his breath­ing’ stilled. In all of his years as an agent he had never been more skillful. In one swiftly executed and brilliant ma­neuver, he dropped to the bed, and the same instant grabbed D.C.‘s forelegs, locking them in his left hand. Before D.C.’ could react, Zeke pulled him up against his body, so that the cat’s rear legs would be too pinned down for effective action.

With his right hand Zeke attempted to force a waker-upper pill down the cat’s mouth, but D.C. anticipated the move and locked his teeth. “Take this,” Zeke muttered. “Doggone you, take this.” A hind paw tore his shirt and located soft flesh. Zeke stifled an outcry but bravely and doggedly held on. He moved the pill along the clenched teeth until he discovered an opening where they met improperly. He pushed the pill in and closed his hand about D.C.‘s mouth to keep him from spitting it out.

“Heaven help me,” he mumbled to himself, “if Washington finds out I’m doping cats.”

D.C. half choked, and swallowed three times before Zeke released him. Quickly Zeke backed away, which was a wise move since all the savagery of a thousand generations of ancestors lashed out for the jugular vein, or any kind of old artery handy. For a frightened moment, Zeke thought the cat was going to spring for him. But D.C. recognized superior force and stopped where he was. He sat on his haunches a long time, and then the fury slipped out of his eyes and tri­umph sneaked in. First he assured himself Zeke was watch­ing, and then, only as a cat can, spat out the pill that he had carefully held on his tongue. He spat it with a hair-raising sound effect. He spat it as far as possible, which was well beyond the bed. His expression said, You want tricks, man, I’ll give you tricks.

Zeke sank into the chintz chair, the wind gone from him. He didn’t know quite why all of this had befallen him. There he was at his desk this morning, minding his own business, feeling the high spirit of the early hours, the challenge of an­other day, the pleasant warmth of a rising sun, the happy thought of a second cup of coffee, and then he had taken the call. If someone else had, he might have been assigned a nice, respectable homicide with a perfectly normal informant.

Along about eleven Patti drifted in. “Want me to loan you a pair of Dad’s pajamas? They’ll be a little big around the middle, and you’ll look like a clown.”

He shook his head. He had better stay up, on the chance that D.C. would change his mind.

“No use to,” she said. “He’s bedded down but good for the night.”