Robert Alter - 100 Malicious Little Mysteries

Just before Jerome was graduated from college, Benny stole all the fish from Old Man Walker’s little fish cart and deposited them in Jerome’s car, after which he made an anonymous phone call to the police. The police, who had always regarded Jerome as the embodiment of what they would like all young men to be, preferred to believe his claim of innocence; but then again, looking as he did, it was natural for them to believe that he might have swiped a mess of fish.

People began to whisper about Jerome when he passed on the street. They pointed out that although his manners were perfect, he did have those long sword-like claws, and they certainly wouldn’t want to be caught alone with him in an alley on a dark night. And wasn’t there a rather feline craftiness in his slanted eyes?

Jerome left town after graduation enveloped in an aura of suspicion and an aroma of rotting fish which he never could dispel completely from his car.

Jerome decided to pursue a career as a writer of advertising copy in New York, reasoning that what with all the strange creatures roaming about in that city no one was apt to notice anything a bit different about him. He was hired at the first place he applied, Bobble, Babble, and Armbruster, Inc., on Madison Avenue. Mr. Armbruster had been out celebrating his fourteenth wedding anniversary the night before and had imbibed himself into near-oblivion trying to forget what devastation those fourteen years had wrought. When Jerome walked into his office, he naturally figured him to be related to the ten-foot polka-dot cobra that had pursued him the night before and thought he would fade with the hangover. After ducking behind his desk for a little hair-of-the-dog, he hired Jerome. By the time Mr. Armbruster had fully recovered from his celebration, Jerome had proved himself capable at his job and affable with the other employees, so he was allowed to stay. Mr. Armbruster naturally put him on the cat food account.

Before long, Jerome fell in love with his secretary, Marie, a shapely blonde who thought Jerome’s sleek fur and golden eyes sexy. He wanted to ask her for a date, but first, in all fairness, he thought he should find out how she felt about him.

“Marie,” he said one day as he finished the day’s dictation, “do you like me as a boss?”

“Oh, yes,” breathed Marie. “Gee, Mr. Kotter, you’re the swellest boss I ever had. You’re so different.”

Jerome’s heart sank. “Different? In what way, Marie?”

“Well,” said Marie, “Mr. Leach, my old boss, used to pinch me sometimes. And he used to sneak up behind me and kiss me.” She peered coyly at Jerome from under her lashes. “You’re a perfect gentleman, Mr. Kotter. You’re real different.”

Jerome was enchanted and wasted no further time asking her out to dinner.

For several weeks everything was wonderful. Then, unexpectedly, Benny Rhoades turned up. Jerome looked up from his desk one day to see his nemesis standing in the doorway.

“Man,” said Benny, “if it ain’t Jerome Kotter.” He grinned.

“Benny Rhoades,” exclaimed Jerome. “What are you doing here?”

“Man, you’re the most,” said Benny softly. “I work in the mail room, man. You’re gonna see a lot of me, Jerome.”

Jerome’s tail twitched.

“Why did you come here?” he asked. “Why don’t you leave me alone?”

Offended innocence replaced the calculating look on Benny’s pasty face.

“Why, man, I ain’t done a thing. A man’s got to work. And I work here.” He lounged against the door jamb. “I hear you’re a real swingin’ cat around here. I wonder how long that’s gonna last.”

“Get out,” said Jerome.

“Sure, Mr. Kotter, sir. Sure. Think I’ll drop by your secretary’s desk. Quite a dish, that Marie.”

“You stay away from her.” Jerome could feel the fur around his neck rising. His whiskers bristled.

Benny smiled and glided away like an insidious snake.

From that time on, Benny did what he could to torment Jerome. He held up his mail until important clients called the bosses to complain about lack of action on their accounts. He slammed Jerome’s tail in doors, usually when some VIP was visiting the office. Worse of all, he vexed Marie by hanging around her desk asking for dates and sometimes sneaking up to nibble at her neck. Marie hated him almost as much as Jerome did.

Jerome didn’t know quite what he could do about it without jeopardizing his job, of which he had become very fond. The other people at the agency liked him, although they regarded him as a trifle eccentric since he always insisted on sampling the cat food he wrote about. But then everyone to his own tastes, they said.

Things came to a head one evening when Jerome invited Marie to his apartment for a fish dinner before going out to a show. They were just sitting down to eat when the doorbell rang.

It was Benny.

“Cozy,” he murmured, surveying the scene. He slammed the door shut behind him.

“A real swingin’ cat,” he said, sidling into the room. He produced a small pistol from his pocket.

“Are you out of your mind, Benny?” said Jerome. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I lost my job,” smiled Benny.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Marie complained that I bothered her. They fired me.” Benny’s small eyes glittered. “I’ll repay her for the favor, then I’ll take care of you, Jerome. I’ll fix it so they’ll think you shot her for resisting your charms, and then shot yourself. Everybody knows a big cat like you could go beserk anytime.”

“You’re a rat,” said Marie. “You’re a miserable, black-hearted little rat.”

Jerome stepped protectively in front of her.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me,” chanted Benny gleefully.

Jerome was looking at Benny thoughtfully. “A rat,” he said. “That’s what he is. A rat. Funny it never occurred to me before.” His tail twitched nervously.

Benny didn’t like the look on Jerome’s face. “Stay away from me, man. I’ll shoot.”

Before Benny could aim, Jerome leaped across the room with the swift, fluid motion of a tiger. He knocked Benny to the floor and easily took the gun from him.

“A rat,” repeated Jerome softly.

Benny looked at Jerome’s face so close to his own. “What are you going to do?” he squeaked, his own face pinched and white and his beady eyes terror-stricken. “What are you going to do?”

Jerome ate him.

It took a long time to get the police sergeant to take the matter seriously. Marie had urged Jerome to forget the whole thing, but Jerome felt he must confess.

“You say you ate this guy Benny?” the sergeant asked for the twentieth time.

“I ate him,” said Jerome.

“He was a rat,” said Marie.

The sergeant shook his head. “We get all kinds,” he muttered. “Go home. Sleep it off.” He sighed. “Self-defense, you say?”

“Benny was going to shoot both of us,” said Marie.

“Where’s the body?” asked the sergeant.

Jerome shook his head. “There is no body. I ate him.”

“He was a rat,” said Marie.

“There’s no body,” said the sergeant. “We sent a coupla men up to your apartment and there’s no body and no sign of anybody getting killed. We even called this Benny’s family long distance to find out if they knew where he is, but his old man said as far as they are concerned he died at birth. So go home.”

“I ate him,” insisted Jerome.

“So you performed a public service. I got six kids to support, buddy. I don’t want to spend the next two years on a head-shrinker’s couch for trying to make the Chief believe I got a six-foot cat here who ate a guy. Now go home, you two, before I get mad.”