Fledermaus Murphy: Tales from Riverville

by Alma Boykin

  Around noon he went down to check his mail. As he unlocked the box, something rustled in the untrimmed shrubs by the apartment building’s door. “Mrow.” Rich blinked, then finished unlocking his box. “Mrrow.” A louder, more insistent call demanded his attention, and he looked down. A black and white cat looked up at him. “Mrrow,” it repeated, the tip of its black tail twitching back and forth. The cat sat down, almost on his foot, and began washing one paw. It had a white chest and paws, and one white ear, reminding him of a cocked top hat.

  “Um, hello?”

  The cat looked up and Rich noticed that it had green eyes. “Mrrt.” It resumed washing.

  Feeling like a complete fool, Rich leaned over and asked, “Are you a plot cat?”

  The cat continued washing. Rich straightened up and pulled three “to occupant” flyers out of the mailbox, along with a bill and what looked like a long-overdue check. “Finally,” he muttered. “Took you long enough.” He’d known that True Tales of the False had a reputation for slow payment, but he’d thought those were just rumors.

  Maybe this was his plot cat, Rich thought. But how to get the cat up to his apartment? He could pick the thing up and carry it. Or could he? He’d have to get it past Mr. Chang’s office, and if it made any sound, Mrs. Chang would come out to see what was going on. Rich looked around for a box he could put the cat into, walking over to peer into the trash bin for this part of the apartment complex. Nothing: the trashmen had been by that morning while he was talking to Archie. “Well drat.” Rich glanced over and the cat stood, stretched, and moved to sit in the token strip of grass by the scraggly bushes that passed for landscaping.

  “Hmm,” Rich glanced to the main door, his watch, and back at the cat. Louisa, the night nurse, would be doing her laundry now. If he asked she might let him borrow her laundry basket, and if he put his jacket over the cat to muffle the sound, he could slip it past the office and up to his apartment.

  He eased past the cat and into the building, tucking the check and bill into his back pocket so he wouldn’t lose them. He opened the laundry room door and looked around. A washer chugged, and one of the driers made a thumping sound. “Huh?” He went over to check and saw a flash of bright green and neon yellow as a sneaker thumped by. George the runner was cleaning his shoes, and Rich shook his head. Some day Mr. Chang would catch George and there would be hell to pay. But no Louisa, and no laundry baskets or bags appeared, even though Rich looked everywhere. By the time he finished searching and went back outside, the cat had vanished. “Damn.” Rich slumped, climbed back up to his apartment, pinned the bill to the ‘fridge and taped the check to the back of the door so he’d remember to deposit it. With a gusty, grumbling sigh he flopped back down at his desk.

  “What if there’s something in a basket in the car that bothers him,” he mused as he reread the scene he’d written. Rich thought about the laundry basket. How much laundry would it take to muffle a cat’s meows? What else would you hide in a laundry basket or, “No, a wicker basket, like that really old-fashioned hamper Mrs. Chang keeps as a coffee table thing,” he decided. Why would the lady be taking something in a big hamper to the beach house? Because she thought someone might be watching her? He started typing.

  Two days and almost thirty thousand words later, Rich hit another wall. Mr. Fats refused to let the hero into the factory. Rich tried having William sneak in through a sewer, but William wasn’t that kind of guy, and he’d already told the reader two chapters earlier that the factory didn’t have open sewer outlets. “Well shoot,” Rich grumbled, erasing the paragraphs. Climb the fence after dark? “No, the bad guy tried that already and it didn’t work.” He leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hands. William really needed to get into the factory grounds. Parachute? Jet pack? “You’re being silly.” His stomach growled as if in agreement.

  Rich decided he needed a sandwich and inspiration, in that order. He got out a frying pan and started pre-heating it while he buttered bread and sliced some cheese. Ingredients assembled, Rich plopped the grilled-cheese-to-be into the pan. Once the cheese began to melt a little, he flipped the sandwich over and turned the heat down a hair.

  Knock, knock.

  He opened the door. A balding Asian gentleman stood in the hall, patting his foot and brandishing a clipboard. “Good afternoon Mr. Chang,” Rich said.

  The landlord handed him a thick form. “Here’s the new lease agreement. And I’m changing the rules for pets. No dogs bigger than twenty pounds, no fish tanks more than twenty gallons, and you have to have all the stuff before you bring in the animal. That means litter box, puppy pads,” he waved his hands. “Sign and turn it in by Thursday, unless you’re giving the three week notice.” He checked something off on the clipboard and stomped off down the hall before Rich could reply.

  “And have a nice day too,” Rich muttered as he shut the door. “What other surprises— oh crap!” He dropped the paperwork, grabbed the smoking pan, and hustled over to the window by the fire escape. He managed to unlatch the window and open it one-handed, then shoved the pan onto the metal of the landing. “Awww, geez, that was close.” If the smoke detector had gone off, he’d have been toast, along with his sandwich.

  He went back to get the spatula. He turned over the grilled cheese. “Oh good.” Only a little of the edges of the crust had scorched, and he trimmed the crust off anyway. And some of the cheese had melted out and burned but that’s why he had non-stick stuff. He poked at the burned bit and it flipped out of the pan. Something orange shot forward and batted the burned bits, then retreated. Rich peered around.

  A very fluffy orange-and-cream colored cat blinked back at him, then retreated to the edge of the fire escape. “Heeeelllooo,” Rich cooed. “Would you like some cheese?” If he could lure the cat into the window, he might have his plot cat at last.

  The cat remained where it was, as if reading his mind. Not cheese, then, but maybe some of that leftover canned-salmon? Rich pulled his lunch back inside before getting the remains of the canned fish out of the ‘fridge. It had been on deep discount, and he understood why after finding all the little bones in it. He removed the plastic wrap and eased the can out onto the landing, then backed away, just out of sight.

  As the cat devoured the salmon, Rich wondered about the second step. He had his cat. But how to keep it? He’d have to persuade Mr. Chang to let him have the cat even though he’d signed a no-pet lease and had no pet deposit. It’s just a small cat, Rich thought. Except, now that he got a good look at the beast, it was larger than the first cat had been. It’s very friendly? No, that sort of thing never worked with Mr. Chang. And when Rich reached out to touch the cat, it hissed, then went back to licking out the can.

  No, Mr. Chang liked useful things. He’d need to persuade Mr. Chang that the cat had a purpose, a real one, like being a service animal or something. Like the Podezemany family did when they kept a carp in their bathtub to fatten for Christmas. “Hmmm, the cat is my muse?” Eh, no, that wouldn’t cut it with Mr. Chang. Or would it?

  As Rich thought about it, he’d seen little bowls set out behind the building once or twice. And no one did anything like that without the Changs’ permission. Maybe it was Mr. Chang feeding animals? Mrs. Chang wouldn’t but maybe Mr. Chang liked cats. As he thought about it, Rich had to admit that the landlord had been very tolerant of cats, more so than of dogs and fish. “Yes, well, you can’t spring a leak and ruin carpet and sheetrock in two apartments, can you?” he asked the orange beast.

  The cat, offering accepted, retreated to the far edge of the fire escape and began washing, one eye on Rich. When he leaned out the window, it backed up a little more, just out of reach. No, Rich decided, the cat didn’t hold enough liquid to do what a broken 100-gallon fish tank could do.

  So, if Mr. Chang were secretly fond of cats, how to find out? And how to nudge him farther that direction, at least enough to allow Rich to pay off the deposit over time, say fifty-dollars a month more for five months? The
orange cat glared at him and turned a little. Rich had always been a good tenant, paying on time, not causing trouble or making noise. That would help, as would his raking up the mess after the idiot teenagers had set a bunch of garbage on fire in the parking lot after the Changs chased them off one night. He had a serious stack of karma points built up, now that he thought about it. Rich decided to turn the form in early and see if he could catch Mr. Chang when his wife was out of the office.

  Alas, he looked back outside in time to see an orange tail disappearing down the steps. Rich wiggled out the window and saw his cat flowing down the steps, well out of reach. “Dang it!” He squirmed back inside and ate his now-cold sandwich with angry bites. Twice he’d had plot cats come by and both times he’d lost them! He washed his hands and threw himself into his work chair, pulling at his hair. “It’s not fair.” He glared at the screen. “And just when I had a way to get the cat into—.”

  That’s how he’d get William past Mr. Fats and into the factory, Rich realized. Convince him that William was on his side and not part of the protest group, which he wasn’t, and use that incident with the bonfire on the beach as part of the proof. Rich began typing as fast as he could. By that evening he had the bones of the rest of the book finished, at least in outline form. The next day he wrote eight thousand words despite having to get groceries, and decided to treat himself to an ice cream cone at the place by the park. On the way he notice three dogs of varying size, but no more cats.

  Two weeks later he met Archie at the Burnt Bean again. “And?” He’d sent Archie the file two days before.

  “You’ve got a real novel, Rich. Great work! It’s rough in places, but nothing a little copy editing and light polishing can’t fix.” The older author gave him a high five before stirring his coffee. Murphy the bat came by with the clean-up cart and took their empty plates. “Thanks. So, you have a market yet?”

  Rich nodded. “XYZ Press. I’d floated it with them back in December, then that magazine bit came up, but they still want it and possibly a sequel.” He blew on his cappuccino and sipped carefully. “They think there’s a new market opening up for books about good industrialists.”

  Archie rolled his eyes before knocking back the rest of his Americano. “Shorter than Atlas Sneezed, I hope. I guess it was only a matter of time before the,” he made air-quotes with his fingers, “evil-factory-owner plot got tired.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rich told him, “Were-vampires are still in.”

  “Oh. Joy.” Archie wrote and illustrated children’s books. He had lots of butterflies and stars and moose, but no were-vampires. “Well, congratulations on breaking the block. Speaking of blocks, have you heard anything about that highway work?” He pointed up the road.

  “Yeah, something about airport improvements.” The conversation turned to other things.

  The next day, Rich opened his mailbox to find a thick booklet in an envelope jammed into it. “What?” He got to his apartment, opened the envelope, read the booklet’s cover and shook his head. “No.” He closed his eyes, counted to five, then opened them and read it again.

  The XYZ Press Authors’ Guide and Plotting Catalog contained a list of all the series, sub-series, and forthcoming story outlines for their western and romance lines. A letter told him that the book for their thriller and mystery lines would arrive in a separate mailing.

  His plot cat had arrived.

  Murphy and Mascots: or Go Team Go!

  Charles turned to the next page. “South Side Springbok.”

  “No; that’s the Sutherland Consolidated High mascot.”

  He scratched through the students’ first choice. “South Side Aviators.” The assistant administrator looked up. “The campus is not far from the airport.”

  “Hmm, no. Aviator is the male, and that might be taken as discriminatory against women. Plus most pilots are white, so it could be offensive to minorities.” Jerry Sloan, the head of the school district’s Inclusivity and Awareness program frowned. “The students should have been cautioned about that.”

  Before Charles could answer, they heard a tap on the door. “Yes?” Sloan called.

  The door opened and a large bat carrying a sack and a coffee tray appeared. “Delivery from the Burnt Bean,” Fleder Murphy squeaked.

  The two men cleared a space on the table between them and Murphy walked in. He set the tray down, then handed the bag to Charles. “Sign, please?” He pointed with one claw at the tag clipped to the bag.

  Charles double-checked the order and the contents of the bag before signing. “Thank you,” Murphy said and sort of waddled a little out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  “They sent organic, hormone free butter as well as soy spread,” Charles said, setting the condiments on a napkin. “One organic, agave-nectar glazed carrot muffin.”

  “Goodness, they certainly don’t believe in small portions, do they,” Sloan observed, taking the muffin.

  “No, but they have never been cited for short-changing customers, either.” After several minutes of munching, Charles returned to the list. “South Side Salmon.”

  Jerry considered it as he finished his bite. “That passes. Salmon are strong, noble, endangered, and don’t have any ethnic or religious connotations. Yes, salmon is approved.”

  “Very good.” Charles made some notes, including one about telling the Bayside Bruins that they could not use the picture of the bear catching the fish in its mouth as a rally poster when they played South Side.

  He flipped through the forms to the next school. “Ah, all that is left is Annadale, and they are just starting the nomination process. They will submit their choices after the first of the month, according to this. And the principal has already told the students that anacondas, arachnids, aardvarks, anarchists, and aborigines are all prohibited.”

  Jerry nodded, sipped his coffee, and glanced up at the clock. “That was easier than I’d feared. I suppose the disaster last year encouraged a little more careful vetting of the students’ suggestions.”

  “I’m sure it did.” After all, Charles thought, enjoying his cinnamon-twist latte, the threat of having the award from any potential lawsuit taken out of the school budget, including salaries, tended to have a marvelous way of concentrating the mind on the task at hand. Really, who had imagined that Riverville Redlegs would not cause trouble, even if it was the proper name for the largest hawk in the river valley?

  Back at the Burnt Bean, Fleder Murphy had returned from the delivery and began loading trays of scones and onion buns onto the cart to take up front. “Hey, Murph’, you see this?” Andy Jarvis, one of the other employees, held up the sports page of the newspaper. “You’ve got a second job if you want it—team mascot.”

  Murphy leaned around the corner of the tall cart and read aloud, “Baytown Bats minor league baseball team just signed Lorenzo ‘Shouter’ Dow to play shortstop.” He studied the team logo. “What’s their record?”

  Andy turned to the schedule page and Murphy slid the last tray into its slot. “Ah, so far they’re eight and oh, and they got as far as the finals last season. Lost to the Ardenville Anteaters. Paper says the word is they’ll go all the way again this year, since they’ve got the same roster except for Dow and a new relief pitcher, Antonio ‘Carne’ Assada.”

  Murphy nodded as much as his short neck permitted. Then he started pushing the cart, a hint for Andy to get out of the way. Andy scooted. “You don’t mind a team called the Bats?”

  “Not if they win.” With that Murphy rolled the cart to the front.

  “Just in time,” Holly, filling in for the day manager, said. “I’ll take care of stocking. We’ve had a run on onion buns.”

  Andy and Murphy both shrugged. Airport people really would eat anything that wasn’t actively fighting back.

  The school year ended without a decision from Annadale, probably because the district had not finalized drawing the school’s intake boundaries. However, those students already at the facility drew up a l
ist of names for the incoming students to consider. Or so the principal reported to Jerry Sloan. “I removed four objectionable names and one that is used by a community college with a very touchy trademark and copyright protection expert on staff.”

  “Good catch, Mrs. Jones.” Well, Jerry thought, voting on a school mascot would unify the student body come September. Although he really did not see why in these enlightened times anyone needed a totem. That’s all a mascot was, after all, a totem and a place-holder so journalists and sportscasters did not have to repeat the school’s name over and over.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sloan. The administrative assistants have drawn up ballots and everything will be ready for the start of the fall term.”

  “Good.” After a bit of polite chat and a reminder of the need to remind the staff of the upcoming district-wide diversity and inclusivity training opportunity, Jerry ended the call. “Well,” he said under his breath, “that was remarkably easy. Much easier than this will be, I fear.” He picked up the new federal guideline for student ethnicity classifications to be used when students applied for student aid and when the district petitioned for federal funding. Jerry remembered when the list had only included five classes: white, black, Asian, Indian, other/mixed. Now students (and administrators) could choose from twenty-eight. He skimmed the list and frowned. What about non-humans, like the bat who made the deliveries for the Burnt Bean? They probably counted as Native American, based on species, he decided.

  The summer passed quickly and a new year started for the Riverville Amalgamated School District. Jerry Sloan discovered that indeed, the new federal classification options stymied some of the students, a few of the younger of whom insisted that they were brown, human, or in one case steadfastly maintained that “I’m a brontosaur!” After some intense discussion between the school administrator, a representative from the district’s mental health evaluation team, and the parents, the child had been removed for home schooling. Jerry wasn’t entirely satisfied with the agreement, but it did not come under his department so he kept his thoughts to himself.