Purrfectly Flealess Read online

  “Why, you little…” Buster began, swinging his paw. “I should knock your whiskers off.”

  “Now, now,” I said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “Just buzz off,” said Buster, giving us a distinctly unfriendly look.

  And as we walked away, Dooley asked, “Is it something I said, Max?”

  “No, Dooley,” I said with a sigh. “But maybe from now on you’ll let me do the talking, all right? We are trying to find Patient Zero, not looking to start a fight.”

  “Okay, Max. I was just pointing out a flaw in Buster’s logic, that’s all.”

  “I know you were, Dooley. I know you were.”

  Chapter 3

  Next up was Tigger, the plumber’s cat, who, for some reason, sat people-watching on the stoop of Daym Fine Liquor, the local liquor store.

  “Hey, Tigger,” I said by way of greeting. “What’s new?”

  Tigger, a small hairless cat, held up his paw and I high-fived him. “Hiya, fellas,” he said. “Just waiting on my human. My human likes this store. In fact it’s his favorite store in all of Hampton Cove. He’s in here all the time so I’m out here all the time.”

  “Why?” asked Dooley, who was in an inquisitive mood today. “You’re not a dog. You’re not supposed to sit out here and wait for your human.”

  “Oh, I know I’m not a dog,” said Tigger. “But once Gwayn has some liquor in him he tends to forget he’s got me to feed, so I like to trail him to remind him I’m still here.”

  It was an intensely sad story, though Tigger didn’t seem to see it that way, judging from his chipper demeanor. Just one of those things cats take in their stride, I guess. When your human is a tippler, like Gwayn Partington obviously was, a cat learns to adjust.

  “We’re looking for Patient Zero,” Dooley said, getting straight down to business.

  “Maybe check the hospitals?” Tigger suggested. “That’s where they keep those. I know on account of the fact that Gwayn has been in one. He has balance issues, you see, and tends to fall on his face from time to time. It’s a terrible affliction. Every time it happens an ambulance comes and a couple of men in white take him down to the hospital.”

  “We’re not looking for a particular patient,” I clarified. “We’re looking for the first cat in Hampton Cove who got infested with fleas. If we can track him or her down, we might be able to nip this thing in the bud, so to speak. Eradicate this infestation once and for all.”

  Tigger shook his head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, fellas, but you can’t eradicate a flea infestation. Fleas are everywhere! Fleas are all around, just like in the song.”

  “Song? What song?” I asked.

  “Fleas are all around,” he began to sing to the tune of ‘Love is all around.’

  “They weren’t before—not on this massive scale. Someone brought them here.”

  He stopped singing and gave me a pensive look. “Maybe ask Chief Alec? If anyone knows what’s going on in Hampton Cove it’s Chief Alec. Chief Alec knows. And he’s nice to cats. I should know. The other day, when Gwayn spent the night at the police station, Chief Alec drove over to the house and gave me a saucer of milk and a piece of his ham sandwich. What a mensch!”

  “Gwayn spent the night at the police station?” I asked.

  “Sure. He was driving through town when he happened to drive through a red light—Gwayn suffers from color-blindness as well as this falling-on-his-face thing, you see—and so Chief Alec made him walk a line. Apparently that’s what they do when people drive through red lights—make them walk a line. He must have aced the test because the Chief was so kind to offer Gwayn free lodgings at the police station for the night. Like I said, a real mensch.”

  Just then, Gwayn Partington came staggering out of the liquor store, a big brown paper bag in his arms, and stared down at us. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered. “First there was one cat and now there’s three? I must be off a damn lot worse than I thought!”

  We watched as Tigger’s human stumbled down the street, his hair sticking up, his bushy beard unkempt, and his blue coveralls a little too tattered to appeal to the average client of his plumbing business. Tigger sighed. “I love my human, I really do, but he doesn’t make it easy.” He turned and started in pursuit of the sauced plumber. “See ya, fellas. And if you see this Patient Zero of yours, tell him next time he should keep his fleas to himself.”

  “Wait, I thought you didn’t believe in this Patient Zero theory?” I yelled after him.

  “If you believe it, I believe it!” he yelled back, and gave us a cheerful wave.

  “He’s a real philosopher, this Tigger,” said Dooley admiringly.

  “With a human like that, you have to be,” I said.

  “Do you think Gwayn Partington is an alcoholic, Max?”

  “Either he’s an alcoholic or a method actor getting into character as an alcoholic.”

  We traipsed on, dodging pedestrians as we did, until we reached the Vickery General Store, where two cats sat shooting the breeze in front of the store. They were Kingman, generally accepted as the best-informed cat in Hampton Cove, and a ratty little cat called Kitty. She belonged to a local landscaper and was explaining something to Kingman while gesticulating wildly.

  “And then he locked me up in the washer. The washer! Can you imagine?!”

  I’d heard the story before so I wasn’t all that interested. Still, being locked up in a washing machine is one of those universal horror stories that gives cats the creepy crawlies.

  “Her human locked her up in the washer,” said Kingman, jerking a paw to Kitty. “Can you believe it? What an idiot.”

  “At least you didn’t get fleas,” I said.

  “Fleas don’t kill you, tough guy,” said Kitty. “The washer will. Unless you’re me, of course.” She shook her head. “No idea how I survived that one. I must be one tough kitty.”

  “Maybe your Odelia should write a story about that,” Kingman suggested. “I mean, all she ever writes about is humans doing stuff to other humans, but when is she finally going to write about the things that really matter? Like getting stuck in a washer, huh? Or this flea infestation? That’s the stuff I would like to see featured on the front page once in a while.”

  “He’s right, you know,” said Kitty. “I mean, take that big story that’s been all over the news these last coupla days. About that Most Fascinating Dude that got killed by some other Most Fascinating Dude. Who cares, right? I don’t. Dudes be killing dudes all over the place all the time. But how often do you get to talk to a cat that survived three washing cycles?”

  “You survived three washing cycles?” I asked.

  “It sure feels like it! But do I get asked for an exclusive interview? No, sir! No fair!”

  “You should tell Odelia to give me a call,” said Kingman, tapping my chest smartly. “I have an interesting story to tell about the flea epidemic. A story that would rock this town.”

  “Or she could call me,” said Kitty. “A cat that survived four washing cycles!”

  I stared at Kingman, hope surging in my bosom. “You know something about this flea thing?”

  “Sure I do,” said the voluminous piebald, and wiggled one of his chins for emphasis. “Mark my words. If what I have to say gets printed in the Hampton Cove Gazette the good people of this town would be shocked. Shocked, I tell you!”

  “Not as shocked as I was after surviving five washing cycles!” cried Kitty.

  “Do washing machines even go through five washing cycles?” I asked.

  “Ten! A dozen! If not more!”

  “Just the one,” said Dooley. “I know because I love to watch the machine go round and round.”

  “All cats love to watch the machine go round and round,” said Kingman.

  “Well, my human’s machine goes round and round at least two dozen cycles,” said Kitty adamantly, “and I survived every single one of them. So there.” And having said this, she stalked off, ready to pounce on the next
cat and start telling her story all over again.

  “Look, Kingman,” I said. “We’re on a mission, Dooley and I. A mission to find Patient Zero. So better tell us everything you know about this flea infestation and better tell us now.”

  Kingman nodded soberly. “It was a dark and stormy night…” he began.

  Chapter 4

  “A cat who shall not be named was on her way home from cat choir when a limo crawled to a stop right next to her. The limo door opened and a handsome cat beckoned from inside, inviting our unnamed cat choir friend in. After a moment’s hesitation, she entered the limo, the door closed behind her and the limo drove off into the night.” Kingman paused for emphasis, and was rewarded by a look of astonishment from me and Dooley.

  “And then what happened?” asked Dooley finally.

  Kingman shrugged. “Do I have to draw you a picture? Use your imagination.”

  Dooley and I shared a look, Dooley’s more confused than mine.

  “What did they do, Max?” he asked.

  “They, um, played pinochle,” I said. Not my best effort, but judging from Dooley’s nod, he bought it. I turned to Kingman. “So what does this have to do with the flea thing?”

  “My friend tells me that the very next morning she woke up with a terrible itch. Scratching didn’t help, and when she went to her human, he immediately diagnosed her with an acute case of fleas and called the vet to supply her with the necessary antidote.”

  “So… this cat in this limo gave this friend of yours fleas? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. Five minutes after she talked to me, I got the itch, and it’s been spreading like wildfire all over Hampton Cove ever since. So it would appear, my boys, that this infestation wasn’t homegrown, but was imported from the outside.”

  “In a limo,” I said, and I didn’t even bother to hide my skepticism.

  “In a limo.”

  “And the cat in the limo was…”

  “No idea. But I’ve heard more stories since then.” He fixed us with a knowing look. “Limo Cat has been driving through town every night, seducing local womenfolk and giving them fleas in return for a quick session of…” He cut a look to Dooley. “… pinochle. Find the limo, and you’ll find your Patient Zero.”

  “So who is this friend of yours? I’d like to have a chat with her.”

  “No can do,” he said. “I promised her absolute secrecy. And you know me, fellas. Kingman’s word is his bond. Kingman keeps his promises. Kingman is king of discretion.”

  Kingman is king of gossip—biggest blabbermouth in town. Why all of a sudden he would clam up on me was anyone’s guess. But try as I might, he wasn’t divulging the name of Limo Cat’s first victim. Nor would he give us more details of this fateful midnight rendezvous.

  “You know what I think, though?”

  “Yes, I do want to know what you think, Kingman,” I said. “In fact I can’t wait.”

  “I think this is all one big government conspiracy.”

  Oh, God. Not with the conspiracy stuff again. “You don’t say.”

  “I do say. And what’s more, I think the Deep State has made up its mind to destroy the United States cat population and has selected Hampton Cove as its testing ground.”

  “It has?” asked Dooley, visibly perturbed.

  “Sure. This Limo Cat probably works for the FBI or the DHS or any of those acronyms. And he’s spreading some noxious disease by infecting our cats one by one.” He nodded seriously. “Mark my words, boys. Before you know it, cats will be dying left and right.”

  Dooley squeezed his eyes shut. “I knew it!” he squeaked. “I knew it! I told you, Max. We’re all gonna die!”

  “No, we’re not.”

  “Yes, we are!”

  “Nobody’s dying, Dooley. And there’s no conspiracy.”

  “Oh, yes, there is,” said Kingman. “Welcome to the Deep State, boys.”

  “Fleas don’t kill cats, Kingman,” I said. “They’re annoying, but nowhere near lethal.”

  “These fleas are. These are killer fleas, cooked up in some secret government lab.”

  Dooley produced a soft whimper. “I knew it!”

  “There is no secret government lab!” I cried. “There are no killer fleas!”

  “It’s the Deep State,” said Kingman, sounding like one of those talk radio nutters.

  “There is no Deep State!”

  “Yes, there is.” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And it’s very, very deep.”

  “Wow, that’s deep, Kingman,” I said, but the cat was oblivious to irony, as he nodded knowingly and tapped the right side of his nose for some reason.

  We walked on, leaving Kingman to dispense his theories to the next cat that stopped by the store. Judging from the terrified look on Dooley’s face this search for Patient Zero was turning into a trip to Mount Doom and not the fun and educational project I’d anticipated.

  “There are no killer fleas, Dooley,” I insisted. “If there were, don’t you think the streets would be littered with dead cats by now?”

  Just then, we spotted a dead cat lying in the gutter and Dooley squeaked, “I knew it! I knew Kingman was right!”

  But when we moved closer, I saw it wasn’t a dead cat but a dead opossum. And when I gave it a tentative nudge with my paw, it opened one eye, then quickly closed it again.

  “I know you’re just pretending,” I told the opossum.

  “I’m not pretending,” said the opossum. “I’m really dead.”

  “Dead opossums don’t talk.”

  This seemed to have stumped him, for he opened both eyes now. “Is the coast clear?” he asked in a low voice.

  I shrugged. “The coast is always clear.” I really don’t understand that expression.

  He breathed a sigh of relief and lifted his head. “I thought I saw a human.” Then he happened to glance across the street, uttered a high shriek, and dropped dead again.

  “You’re in downtown Hampton Cove,” I told him. “There’re humans everywhere.”

  “Just like there are killer fleas everywhere,” said Dooley somberly.

  “For the hundredth time, there are no killer fleas,” I said emphatically.

  “Only there are.”

  “Not.”

  “Kingman knows!”

  “Kingman is nuts!”

  “Look, if you’re going to keep yapping like this I’m gonna go ahead and move to the next gutter,” said the opossum. “How can I play dead with all this yapping going on?”

  “Tell him there are no killer fleas,” I told the opossum.

  “There are no killer fleas,” said the opossum. “There. Happy now?”

  “You’re just saying that to get rid of me,” said Dooley.

  “You’re right. He’s right,” he told me. “I do want to get rid of him. Both of youse, actually. Then again, every idiot knows killer fleas don’t exist. Who put that crazy idea in your noggin?”

  “Kingman,” we both said in unison.

  “Kingman as in the fat cat that squats in front of the General Store?”

  I nodded. “He seems to think the Deep State sent a limo to Hampton Cove that contains a cat that infests the local cat population with killer fleas as a test case for a national pandemic to occur at some point in the near future that will kill all cats everywhere.”

  The opossum, contrary to its desire to remain inconspicuous, emitted a raucous laugh. “And you morons believe that load of crap? Cats are even dumber than I thought!”

  “Dooley believes that load of crap—I don’t,” I clarified.

  “I’m starting to have my doubts,” Dooley said now. It’s never fun to be insulted by an opossum, and it appeared this particular opossum was having better luck convincing Dooley Kingman was an idiot than I was.

  “Mind you, getting rid of all cats nationwide is something I can only applaud. Then again, since it’s a bogus notion, there’s not much sense yappin
g about it. So why don’t you both move right along and I can go back to doing what I do best: playing dead opossum.”

  “But what about the limo?” asked Dooley. “It sounds so… specific.”

  “Oh, there is a limo out there, all right,” said the opossum. “I’ve seen it. But no killer fleas, unfortunately.”

  “You’ve seen the limo?” I asked.

  The opossum sighed. “If I tell you will you finally go away?”

  “I promise we’ll go away and you can do what you do best,” I said.

  “Every night, a limo passes through town. Its windows are tinted, its lights are dimmed, and inside is a lustful roving animal, hunting the streets of Hampton Cove in search of females. Once he’s set his eyes on a particular prey, the limo driver pulls over, the door opens, and Limo Cat invites his clueless victim into the limo. And since all cats are idiots, all cats accept the offer, step into the limo, and are never seen or heard from again.” When he saw the horrified looks on our faces, he laughed. “That last part’s not true. I made that up. But I did see that limo pull over a couple of nights ago, and I did see a cat get in and the limo take off. What I didn’t see were killer fleas or government spooks or any other crazy stuff.”

  “So… where did you see that limo, exactly?” I asked.

  But I was talking to a dead opossum. Or a method actor playing a dead opossum.

  Chapter 5

  We met up with Brutus and Harriet on the roof of The Hungry Pipe, one of Hampton Cove’s cat population’s favorite hangouts, mainly because the owner likes to store his restaurant’s trash on the roof before transferring it to the alley below for collection.

  “Nothing!” Brutus said when we’d finally navigated the fire escape and arrived up top. “We talked to everyone we know up and down the street and they all told us the same thing: whoever or whatever caused this infestation will always remain a secret.”

  “No, it won’t,” I told him, and proceeded to clue him and Harriet in on the little secret Kingman had shared.

  “The opossum said that,” said Harriet, not concealing her disbelief. “A dead opossum. Seriously.”