Hellcats: Anthology

by Kate Pickford

  Sitting on his back was a giant freaking Maine Coon in a blue sports jacket: my main cat, Mr. Smitty. Smitty flexed his claws, and the kid winced.

  “Sam can’t get a date?” Mr. Smitty looked up. He had the same expression when the new girl at the Can Has Cheezeburgers asked if he wanted extra cheese or not. “What do you care?”

  “I care.” I opened a Ziploc and tasted the white powder inside. “Because now the idiot has started blaming me for it.”

  The kid’s eyes went to the bag and then the pavement as I poured out the cocaine.

  “Oh man! Mister! You got me in real trouble!”

  “What, you didn’t think this was trouble?” Smitty raked the back of his neck. The kid howled. “Motherlover, you ain’t seen trouble!”

  “He saw this article on CNN that said women find men who share pictures of their cats to be less attractive.”

  “Oh please!”

  “No seriously; there’s no accounting for women and taste these days. ‘Oh, look! He has a cat! No, Match.com, I like my men looking like wife beaters in their wife-beaters.’ I’ll send you the link.”

  I flipped through the dealer’s wallet. Driver’s license said he was an Alfred Vasquez. A Triple-A card in I guess his mom’s name. Some small bills (I pocketed them). Too many credit cards for someone with sense. Sense wasn’t a human strong point. That’s why they need us. Need something done right, put a cat on the job.

  “Alright, fleabag.” Smitty smacked the man’s head. “Whose drugs are these? Tell us, and maybe we’ll let you go.”

  “They’re Miss Pawlina’s! They got us going into Melford Heights and Stratton! I can get you times, places, you name it! Just don’t mess me up, man! I’m sorry!”

  “Pawlina!” Smitty’s face went Full Sourpuss. “I knew that raggedy-ass Chihuahua was all up in this!”

  “Check your Facebook.” I started checking my feed. “I sent it to you. Oh—oh man.” I jumped on to my human’s page and checked his pictures.

  “What?” Smitty looked up from grinding the dealer’s face into the pavement.

  “That ungrateful, stick-legged dog’s son. Sam deleted his photos of me!”

  “That’s cold, Mewlius. Real cold. But the Chihuahuas are selling cocaine in our territory. Can your problems with your dumbass human wait?”

  “The hell it will! He deleted the Wing Night gallery! Wing Night!” I put my phone down. “Right, I’m putting an end to this. We’re going to get my human a date.”

  “We?”

  “That’s right. Screw the Chihuahuas; they’re just a bunch of posers. Let’s cut this idiot up, take some selfies, and high tail to find some tail.”

  My name is Mewlius Caesar. I’m a Persian crime boss and I own this whole damn borough. Hookers. Pawnshops. Dog fights. I got my paw in all of it. The police tip their hats and scratch behind my ears when I pass—you would too if you were on my payroll. Sooner or later, the feds will start sniffing around, but that’s what lawyers are for (I scratch behind their ears). I’ll be dead of old age before they have a strong enough case. Another crime cat will take over, and the cycle repeats. Crime has been our niche since Khufu commissioned Cheops—and we took our ten percent in veneration.

  Sam is alright. He’s a software engineer working for some DotNobodyCares, he’s watched enough YouTube instructable videos to cook without shame, and he’s never made Toilet Wine. He calls his parents every Sunday, reads graphic novels, and has finally shut up about “libertarianism.” I don’t go sniffing his ass, but it’s as close to roses as a human late twenty-something male in a studio apartment has any right to be. He’s dateable, is what I’m saying. Good enough for government work and human women.

  But women are like cats, and they don’t settle for just any old sand to take a crap in. My human was entering a blame-depression spiral: he wasn’t getting out of this dating rut (if you’ll forgive the word) without some serious help. My help. Surely this would be easy? I’m a cat for Bastet’s sake.

  There’s no profit in solving problems on an empty stomach, so we pulled up at the Can Has.

  Take a Wendy’s and give it IHOP aspirations, but have it instead descend into White Castle—and you have Can Has Cheezburgers. It’s always been a staple in my life. I remember as a kitten sneaking out the window to swap Tuna Bites and Darknet credit cards for cheeseburgers with the lot lizards out back (ask your mom what a lot lizard is; she is sure to know).

  It was a slow morning. A retiree sat hunched in a corner, liver-spotted hands shaking as they opened the bright yellow paper around a fish burger. Two kids playing hooky laughed at dumb TikTok videos as they used-abused the unlimited refills at the Coke machine. A filthy-overalled construction worker with looks from still filthier housewife fantasies leaned over the brushed aluminum delivery counter. A pretty girl with a ponytail left the register to dump down four huge bags for him. She beamed and bid him, come again soon, as he left without a word.

  Pretty. Under-appreciated. Still tries anyway. Perfect!

  “Welcome to Can Has! My name is Cindy. How may I help you, Sir?”

  “Hey Cindy, I got this guy.” I jumped up on the counter and showed her Sam on my phone. “Clean, for a human, and feeds me the good stuff. You want to date him?”

  “Er—sorry?”

  “Do you want to date my human? He’s got a good credit rating and doesn’t do any weird stuff.”

  “Human sex is weird,” said Mr. Smitty, looking up from butt-licking. “And we’ll take two Double Salmons with extra fish oil, babe.” He returned to his excellent sphincter hygiene regimen. Smitty came from class.

  “I’m—ah—thank you, but I have a boyfriend!”

  “So?” Smitty flexed his claws. “The Boss here is doing you a favor, sweetheart.”

  She turned pale. The kids grabbed their shiny Pokemon school bags and rushed out the door. The retiree looked up, eyes wide.

  “It’s alright.” I waved the Maine Coon down. “I was just asking. I’m sure your boyfriend is a cool guy. But if you want a better one, you call me, okay?” I handed her my card.

  “Y-Yes. Thank you, Sir.”

  I rubbed myself against her arm (but not in a creepy old man way), and we left with our burgers.

  “So that didn’t work,” I said, getting into the car.

  “She was lying,” said Smitty.

  “I know.”

  “So why didn’t you push?”

  “It’s just Sam. And, not every problem needs pushing. You have to live life a little easier, Smitts. Enjoy the ride. That’s why I drive a Catillac.”

  “Mewstangs are faster and newer,” he growled.

  “I’m just not that kind of cat anymore. Okay, so now we know women won’t just jump to sniff a man’s butt. We got to be clever then. What do we know about Sam?”

  “That he’s not a Chihuahua encroaching on our turf that we ought to be dealing with right now?”

  “Sam is a nerd. He likes his MMOs and collects Lord of the Rings crap. He has the sword and everything.”

  “Anduril.”

  I gave him a hard look.

  “Seems he’s not the only nerd. We need to find him a nerd girl. That old bookshop still on Sanders Street?”

  “Yeah. You want me to get the owner to raise the rent on them? About time we got a pawnshop on Sanders.”

  “No, no. Let’s go see if they have a secretly hot librarian.”

  The bookstore was a moldy little place at the end of a moldy little street. Across from it were a Soul Food diner and a Brazilian-owned bakery that paid us to warn them when ICE was in town. Next to it, though, a two-story yoga studio led the gentrification charge.

  The bookstore had a cute neon sign of a dragon reading a book with "Bookwyrm’s Lair" underneath it. The sign was out. In the window beneath it were paper notices saying "used textbooks" and "ABSOLUTELY no refunds."

  Inside, the smell of old, yellowed books with worn spines filled my senses. The shelves told tales of library auctions, publishe
r overstocks, and the rare, eclectic treasures of bequeathed estates. A bearded, hipster turtleneck sat on a stool and photographed pages from a reference book on the decline of American unions that he had no intention of buying.

  Seated behind the counter, carefully gluing the spine back on a book by some Chomsky dude, was a mousy, curly-haired redhead wearing thick glasses. She noticed us, her eyes filling with poorly hidden, introvert unfriendliness.

  She’d do just fine.

  "Good afternoon, gentlemen." Even her voice was tiny. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

  "Yeah, I'm looking for a book," I said.

  "Sure!" She brightened. "Could I know the name and the author?"

  "It's ‘Great Tummy Rubs,’ by Sam Dershowitz."

  She opened a laptop and did a search.

  "I'm sorry, we don't seem to have any record of that book. I can try and special order it if you like. You don't by chance have any idea who the publisher might be?"

  "Why don't you pop his name into Google? Try Sam Felix Dershowitz; he lives in the city."

  "Woah! A local author!"

  Her fingers raced over the keys. She began scrolling through the results, her expression going from sudden interest down to uncertainty, then disappointment.

  I jumped onto the counter.

  "That's the guy!" I pointed to the link on the screen.

  She clicked it.

  "That's just a company profile."

  "Yeah, but check out the pale on him! He's just like you, but less Hermione Granger and more Harry Potter."

  "Dude, he's Ron at best,” said Smitty, glancing through the African National Congress’ Minutes, 1982-1983. "And Red here is Dobby the House Elf."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Lady.” I walked on to her laptop. “My associate and I are just saying that you look like you could do with a man in your life. The kind who likes long walks in the park, and the smell of—bookbinding glue. A man like my boy Sam over here! What you say I fix you up? I've got the inside track; I’ve been living with him for years! He's a catch."

  "Are these cats bothering you?" Beard Hipster set aside his pirating.

  "You're bothering me!" Mr. Smitty unsheathed his claws. "Get out before I check that bird’s nest on your face for eggs!”

  Beard Hipster took quick stock of the situation, decided perhaps to try his luck on Amazon, and left.

  "What are you doing!” She glared at Smitty. “You can't chase away our customers!"

  "He wasn’t going to buy anything,” I said. “We’re buying—and you've got the goods."

  "Small goods," said Smitty, looking at her sweater. He shut the door and turned the sign to “closed.”

  “What my associate is trying to say is that you’re not getting any younger. You’re what? 30? Prince Charming ain’t coming for you. He’s off banging some mean girl ex-cheerleader who’s working downtown now. You need to quit holding out, or the only way someone’s going to keep you warm at night is if you fall asleep here and we start a fire. You need to settle. So, what’s it going to be?”

  “Well, that went well.” Smitty picked his ass up off the ground. “Did we learn anything?”

  “I don’t understand! We offered her a great deal—can’t she see that?”

  “Evidently not.” Smitty licked the hair on my head back into place and adjusted my jacket.

  Women with ponytails and rolled-up mats under their arms were coming out of the yoga studio. An older, blonde one got into a silver BMW and checked her makeup in the mirror.

  “That’s it! We need a woman who knows she’s getting a deal. One who knows the score. A lady who’s established and secure—and past her prime. Someone who’s trying a bit too hard.”

  We regarded the woman in the BMW. She noticed, looked up, and smiled.

  “Looks like we’re all cats here,” said Smitty.

  We approached the cougar.

  “Hello!” She beamed and rolled down the window. “Are you two with the Pawlice?”

  “No,” said Smitty, bristling.

  “Oh? I just thought—maybe since you were staring at me?” She made a nervous laugh. “I thought, ‘Oh no! I’m going to get arrested!’ Haha!”

  I smiled and laughed.

  Smitty did not.

  “My associate and I were wondering if you could help settle a debate we’re having.” I batted my tail from side to side and pulled out my phone. “You seem like a smart, switched-on, confident woman. Am I right?”

  “Hee hee!”

  “And pretty, too!”

  “Hee hee!”

  I showed her a picture of Sam.

  “Oh, who’s this cutie?” She zeroed in on him like an attack helicopter on an ambulance.

  “That’s my human, Sam. He’s, a, he’s a good guy, but he’s been pretty bruised lately on the love scene.”

  “Oh, is that so? Poor sweetie.”

  “Yeah, he dated some younger women—but younger women are such morons, you know? Just don’t know a good thing. I think he’s ready for someone different. Someone looking for fun but with—how do you say—more real-world experience?”

  “Go on, go on.” She took my phone and studied her prey.

  “Dude.” Smitty poked me and pointed at the back seat. Lying there was a copy of Deepak Chopra’s Escaping the Prison of the Intellect. Next to it was The Pyramids - An Alien Mystery, and How to Talk to Your Friends About Crystal Health.

  “I see you’re quite the reader!”

  “Oh? Oh yes! You need to educate yourself these days; you can’t believe what they tell you.”

  “Who are ‘they?’” asked Smitty.

  Beneath her field of view, I tried to swat him away. He swatted me back.

  “You know. ‘Experts!’ The CDC. So-called Egyptologist Zahi Hawass.”

  “I see. I’m really not sure what to think,” he replied, raising his tail and baring his butt hole in her face.

  “See? That’s what I mean! They don’t want people to know.”

  “Say, er, tell you what.” I took my phone back. “Something I forgot—we need to be somewhere right now. How about I just bring him over so you can meet him? He wants to try out yoga, anyway.”

  “Oh, that’s great! Can I get your digits to stay in touch?”

  I gave her the number to an Armenian-owned chop shop. Vasili would forgive me.

  Eventually.

  The late afternoon sun showered the park’s pond in gold. A tourist was throwing bread crumbs to some ducks who ate them, circled him, and extorted the rest of his sandwich (don’t mess with ducks, dude). A college kid sat on a sheet on the grass, reading a giant textbook. Further off, a boy tore after a frisbee and just missed crashing into a jogger. The jogger turned rose-red by the summer sun, glared, and puffed on past us. Good on him—he was getting somewhere today.

  I sure wasn’t.

  “It’s been fun,” said Smitty, jumping off the bench, “but I got to get going. Kittens need to see Daddy, you know? Tangle some yarn.”

  “No worries. Say hi to Fatsy Bum-Bum and the kids for me, will ya?”

  Smitty tipped his hat to me and left.

  I curled up on the bench and tried to figure out where I'd gone wrong.

  Women didn't seem interested in jumping into bed with just anyone—but that was always a given. Why were they reacting that way when I presented Sam? What was it about my human that was turning them off so badly? Come on, Sam. We need to fix you!

  I looked down at the pond, my wavy reflection staring back with dancing yellow eyes.

  Of course, there was another possibility. Was I just going about this all wrong? Was it my approach? My assumptions? My je ne sais quoi?

  I felt an aching in my haunches. My foot pads felt broken, calloused, useless. Getting old is the issue for a cat. It's no longer being the world’s greatest being that gets you down. Maybe it wasn't a new girlfriend that Sam needed.

  Maybe it was a new cat.

  "Well, well, well!" The voice was rude, irri
tating, and utterly high-pitched. "If it isn't Mewlius Caesar!"

  I turned.

  Sauntering up towards me like they owned the place were three Chihuahuas. The smallest one had a baseball cap on sideways and a New England Patriots jersey, three sizes too big. Around his neck was a chunky gold chain with "Masta Spanka" inscribed on a golden dog tag.

  The biggest wore mirrored shades and a brown leather jacket over a turtleneck (which somehow didn’t suck). He moved with the deliberate, easy steps of handbag-sized, hired muscle.

  Walking up between them like the Queen of England’s corgi, came Miss Pawlina.

  She was a white, skinny bitch wearing a black fur stole. Her paws had gold rings set with sapphires. On her head was a tiara that caught the sun and threw it back in a thousand glints. She gave me a smile of ice and fangs.

  "You got no business being here." I jumped off the bench, my coat fluffing out. I turned sideways and approached.

  "Whatevs, you old pussy!" snapped Masta Spanka. "We go where we want, fool! And right now, this is our park." He took in the surroundings, nodding. "Oh yeah! This is our city."

  "All our city," said the muscle.

  People took note. The college kid closed her book and sped off like she was avoiding a strange man on an empty street. The father tucked the frisbee under his arm and said to his kid, hey, ‘why don't we get ice cream!’ The tourist, of course, was too stupid, but the ducks knew what was what. One snatched his wallet, the other his camera, and they took off across the water like the CIA after a botched job in Venezuela.

  "You better teach your people to show some respect, Pawlina." I unsheathed my claws. "Or I'll do it for you. I know you been dealing in our streets. That ends now. Take your people and go, and I'll be over to collect your apology—in cash. This is the bit where you say ‘Thank you, Mewlius.’ ”

  Miss Pawlina smiled again.

  "Ah, Mewlius! I just got back from Eurovision in Barcelona." She pronounced it ‘Barthelona.’ "So many new ideas! So many different ways of doing things. The time for you Italians is over. This city has gone to the dogs."