by Nic Saint
“Oh, yes,” he said, before he could stop himself.
Tex’s demeanor changed. He grabbed the painting from his neighbor’s hands and offered him another frown instead.
Ted swallowed. He hadn’t forgotten how Tex had only recently accused him of grand theft gnome, and even though the misunderstanding had been cleared up, and Ted declared innocent of the terrible offense, it was clear that the episode still lingered.
“I think you better leave now, Ted,” said Tex coldly.
“Oh, all right,” said Ted. “You–you’re not mad at me, are you, Tex?”
“Not mad,” said Tex, though he sounded pretty mad to Ted. “Not mad at all. But I’ve got things to do, so…”
“Oh, sure, Tex. I’ll be on my way.” He cast one final glance at the painting, but then Tex quickly held it behind his back, making it obvious Ted’s company was no longer wanted.
With a sense of regret, Ted left the house and returned home. He needed to walk his dog Rufus. And he needed to think. Think hard.
22
That Roomba was still rumbling through the house, and we were still hiding in our respective safe places, to wit: I was on top of the couch, Dooley was hiding on a bookshelf, Harriet had escaped onto the windowsill, and Brutus lounged on one of the high kitchen stools. All in all we were safe for the present, but that isn’t to say we weren’t feeling the strain—intensely!
“Max—you have to do something before it kills us all!” Harriet yelled from the windowsill. She could have made the leap to freedom and into the backyard but that meant she had to jump to the floor first, and she wasn’t taking any chances. Not with this monstrosity roaring through the living room, like a life-sized out-of-control Pac-Man.
Though I should probably say Pac-Cat!
“Max has to do something?” asked Brutus. “Why are you asking Max to do something? What am I? Chopped liver?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, sugar plum!” said Harriet. “I just figured… Max might have inside information about this machine that we don’t.”
Brutus didn’t look happy by this development, and already his cocky demeanor was waning fast.
“I think it’s a UFO,” said Dooley, adding his two cents. “Except it doesn’t fly. So it’s probably more like a UNFO, an Unidentified Non-Flying Object.”
“It’s just a vacuum cleaner, Dooley,” I said, as I couldn’t stop staring at the Roomba as it rumbaed past me. It was eating its way through a stack of dust bunnies, that was for sure. Like a serial killer, whacking them one by one. I just wondered when it was going to tire of the bunnies and start on us. After all, even a serial killer moves from drowning kittens to his first human kill—there’s a definite progression there—or worsening.
“Do you think there are little green men inside?” asked Dooley, following his own train of thought, regardless of my input. “Little green men who control the machine?”
“It’s not a UNFO, Dooley,” I said. “And there are no little green men inside.”
“Maybe little green gerbils?” he suggested. “Or little green mice?”
“Don’t mention the word mice!” Harriet yelled. “Whatever you do, never mention the word mice around me ever again—I told you, Dooley!”
Harriet has had it in for mice ever since we were overrun with that large family of mice. Luckily they’ve since relocated, after an intervention by Clarice, one of our more heavy-handed feline friends.
“I think you could have asked me for a solution, that’s all,” said Brutus, still moping. “I mean, what’s Max got that I don’t? Seriously.”
“Oh, Brutus,” said Harriet. “Don’t be like that.”
“Maybe we should talk to the little green gerbils and ask them to stop,” Dooley suggested. “I’m sure they can hear us, so why don’t we try to negotiate a truce?”
“Okay, so Max is smart, but so am I,” said Brutus. “And frankly I’m a lot stronger than Max, so if it’s muscle you’re looking for, I’m your cat, not Max.”
“Okay, I’ll bite,” said Harriet. “Brutus, please save us from the horrible machine.”
Brutus looked nonplussed at this. “I’ll have to come up with a plan first.”
Harriet rolled her expressive eyes. “Max! Save us, please!”
“If we could just talk to the little green gerbils,” said Dooley, “I’m sure they’d listen.”
Finally I’d had enough. Between Dooley’s little green gerbils, and Brutus’s whining, and Harriet’s panicky screams, and of course the Roomba’s relentless rumbling, like a World War II tank crushing all resistance, I needed to put a stop to this thing. But how?
“Or it could be a terminator,” Dooley babbled on. “Sent from the future to hunt down the leader of the human resistance.” His eyes went wide. “You guys—do you think Odelia could be the mother of the future leader of the human resistance? She’ll have to watch out for this thing. It will probably try and kill her!”
Finally I couldn’t take it anymore, and I jumped. Yes, I jumped right on top of the thing. Now when twenty pounds of (more or less) lean feline beef rocket through the air and land from a great height, consequences will be had. In this case the consequence was a loud crack. The Roomba crashed right through its wheels, gave one final death rattle… and died.
I glanced down, and discovered the little blinking LED light on top of the thing had died, like the light in the eyes of The Terminator. And much to my relief, the terrible hoovering sounds had stopped, too, as had the relentless forward motion.
“You did it, Max!” said Harriet. “You killed the machine!”
“Any green gerbils that you can see?” asked Dooley, interested.
“No green gerbils,” I announced. “Only batteries.”
Slowly, my friends all approached, still keeping a safe distance, lest the Roomba rumbled back to life and started zapping them with its laser beams, like Ida Baumgartner’s late husband’s invention.
“I think it’s dead,” I said as I stepped down from the thing, then gave it a slight tap.
My friends all did the same now, and when a moment later Odelia entered the room she found four cats tapping away with their paws at her mother’s precious Roomba.
To her credit, though, instead of being upset that we’d killed this latest toy she burst into laughter instead. Marge then hurried in to find out what was going on, and when she saw us hitting the slain machine, she, too, had a laughing fit.
And so it was that the episode with the Roomba ended. The machine might have come from the future to kill the mother of the future leader of the dust bunnies, but it was no match for four determined and highly motivated felines.
And may I just add: good riddance!
23
Ted was still thinking hard about ways and means of reconciling his neighbor when he looked up and saw that Kurt Mayfield had chosen that exact moment to walk his dog, too.
Kurt was a retired music teacher and lived next door to Odelia, Tex Poole’s daughter. He was walking his Yorkshire Terrier Fifi and didn’t look all that happy to see Ted. Kurt was one of those people who liked to keep himself to himself and didn’t enjoy those conversations between dog walkers most dog owners love so much, and view as a welcome opportunity to socialize.
“Hey there Kurt,” said Ted.
“Mh,” said Kurt as Fifi lifted her hind leg for a tinkle against a deserving tree.
“Have you heard about the arrests of those art thieves?” he asked, never lacking for something to talk about, contrary to Kurt.
“Art thieves?” asked Kurt, looking up. “What art thieves?”
“The fellas that robbed Mort Hodge—the Mort’s Molly guy? They caught them after they robbed Mayor Butterwick this afternoon. Got away with the town’s collection of gold coins.”
“The Duke of Middleforth coins?”
“Yup, and they pulled off a couple of other robberies, too. Ida Baumgartner was one of their victims. Claims they lifted a genuine Picasso off her.”
&nb
sp; Kurt made a scoffing noise, which sounded as if a seal was spitting out a wad of phlegm. “Picasso my ass. If Ida owned a real Picasso my name is Tom Brady.”
Ted looked at him in confusion. “I thought your name was Kurt?”
“My name is Kurt,” grunted Kurt. He glanced around for a moment, then lowered his voice. “The trick is never to let them know that you’re in possession of something of value. That way you can never be robbed. Trouble is people go around bragging about owning Picassos. Naturally that’ll attract the criminal element.”
“So… do you own a Picasso?” asked Ted, who might not be the fastest mind in the Western hemisphere but could put two and two together just as well as the next man.
Kurt smiled and tapped his nose. “That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Ted.” And with a sour smile, he gave Fifi’s leash a goodish yank, causing the little Yorkie to yelp in surprise, then trip after her master.
Ted stared after Kurt for a moment, wondering if he did or did not own a Picasso, then shrugged and turned his mind to the problem that had been vexing him all along: how to be a better neighbor to Tex, and remove that touch of frostiness that had existed between them. And it was with a frown on his brow that he proceeded to walk Rufus, a happy and fluffy big sheepdog, who gamboled along and deposited little puddles of pee at regular intervals, and even one little pile of doo-doo, too. For that’s what dogs do.
Jerry and Johnny were listening intently to the words of their spiritual advisers who’d been so gracious to join them in their prison cell. Elders Thaddeus and Marcus were responsible for their local Kingdom Hall and had heeded Jerry’s call of distress with the kind of alacrity one likes to see in one’s church leaders.
In fact it had been Chief Alec who’d placed the call, at Jerry’s instigation. The chief of police had been pleasantly surprised that these two convicts, instead of asking for a lawyer, had asked for a priest instead. He probably hoped they were in need of their Last Rites. With prisons as overpopulated as they were, this must have appealed to the cop.
And it was with bowed head that the two career criminals listened as Elders Thaddeus and Marcus read from the scripture and words like ‘final revelation’ and ‘repent, ye sinner’ and ‘Jesus saves’ flew through the small prison cell fast and furious.
Jerry had specifically asked for Thaddeus and Marcus, not because of their religious fervor but more for their physical appearance. Thaddeus was about the same size as Johnny, and Marcus could have been Jerry’s spitting image. Both elders had come dressed in their usual garb: nice new suits with clean white shirts and matching ties.
And it was after the third hallelujah that Jerry felt the time had come to thank the two elders for their services, and proceeded to knock them both out with a well-aimed tap to the noggin with the sturdy Bibles they’d brought for the duo’s edification.
“I don’t think you should have done that, Jer,” said Johnny. “God doesn’t like it when you knock out his priests.”
“God doesn’t like it when his people are imprisoned for no good reason,” Jerry countered. “Now help me undress them, and be quick about it.”
Within moments, both men had been stripped of their outer garments and tucked onto the metal bunks and covered with state-issued threadbare brown blankets.
“How do I look?” asked Johnny as he showcased his snazzy new outfit.
“Perfect fit, just like I thought,” said Jerry, well pleased as he inspected himself.
Being dragged from the street into the paddy wagon and straight into the police station holding tank had soiled their own outfits to a certain extent. But even before that, since they were on a budget, and they’d been forced to return the money stolen from Capital First Bank, they’d never been able to splurge on these kinds of super-duper suits.
“Now for the next part,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Let me do the talking.”
“Okay, Jer,” said Johnny.
“I mean, not a peep, okay?”
“Sure, Jer.” The big guy glanced at the two elders. “Are you sure they didn’t suffer?”
“Nothing that two ibuprofen won’t fix,” grunted Jerry, then hollered, “We’re ready in here, officer!”
A young officer came ambling up, noticed the two inert figures tucked into bed and grinned. “You managed to sermon them to sleep, did you? Good job.”
“They are contemplating their evil deeds,” said Jerry, adopting Elder Thaddeus’s high reedy voice and holding his Bible in front of his face, as did Johnny. “Thinking hard about their sins and possible redemption.”
The sound of a key turning in a lock and the iron door swinging open was like music to his ears.
Vesta and Scarlett were celebrating the latest win for their neighborhood watch seated outside Pier’s Pont, the popular bar in downtown Hampton Cove.
“The watch is quickly becoming a force to be reckoned with,” said Vesta. “Pretty soon now Alec will have to admit we can’t be ignored.”
“Yeah, we did great,” said Scarlett as she checked her look in a small pocket mirror. And as she did, she couldn’t help but notice how Vesta’s son and Mayor Butterwick were seated only a couple of tables back, talking with Dan Goory.
“Don’t look now, but Alec and his girlfriend are chatting with Dan Goory,” she whispered.
Of course Vesta had to glance over, though she did manage to be discreet about it.
“Probably talking about the article on Dan’s website,” said Vesta, lowering her voice and darting occasional glances at her son over Scarlett’s left shoulder.
“What article?” asked Scarlett, who didn’t read the Gazette. Or any other newspaper for that matter.
“They were both caught playing hooky. Skipping work so they could spend a late lunch together. I could have told Alec that if he wanted to do some canoodling to do it either at his place or hers. Though he probably wouldn’t listen,” she added with a mother’s proper pique. “That’s kids for you. Always getting themselves in trouble.”
“Canoodling? You mean they were…”
“Nah. They kept it strictly PC, but some sourpuss still took offense and snapped a couple of shots on a smartphone and sent them to Dan, who published it on his website, the jerk. As if public servants aren’t entitled to enjoying a proper love affair.”
“Do you think Alec and Charlene will get married?”
Vesta shrugged. “Kids these days don’t get married anymore, honey. Not like in our day. They hook up, move in together, and that’s it. No muss, no fuss. Too bad, I say. I like a nice wedding.”
“I think they make a great couple,” said Scarlett, glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder. “I hope they stick it out.”
“I think they will. It takes more than an amateur paparazzo to break up that band.”
And as Vesta smiled a rare smile at the thought of her one and only son finally finding love again, suddenly she thought she saw two familiar figures walking across the street. They were both dressed to the nines, only something wasn’t quite right about them.
And then she got it.
“Hey!” she said, getting up. “It’s those two crooks! They’re getting away!”
Her shouts hadn’t missed their effect: Alec was also looking in the direction she was pointing, and so were Charlene and Dan Goory.
Johnny and Jerry, for that’s who they were, must have discovered they’d been discovered, for they broke into a frantic run.
Alec went in pursuit, stomping across the street, and so did Charlene and Dan, followed by Vesta and Scarlett. Scarlett, on her high heels, was last, and soon fell behind.
Vesta, who hadn’t run a race in forty years, was soon huffing and puffing, and had to give up. Her son, too, quickly lost his puff, due to his voluminous size, and supported himself against a parked pickup, sucking in breath by the cubic meter, red in the face.
Dan, on the other hand, was still going strong, his white beard flapping in the wind, but it was actually Charlene who was in pole
position, and gaining on the two crooks. The robbery to which they’d subjected her clearly still rankled and she was determined to get her men.
Vesta watched the drama unfold from her position on the sidewalk, and even climbed a chair to get a better view.
Johnny was slowing down, while Jerry clearly suffered from a stitch in his side. What actually finished it for them, though, were Wilbur Vickery and Father Reilly stepping out of the General Store for a chat, and accidentally stepping into the fleeing duo’s flight path.
There was a big collision, and it was up to Charlene to identify the crooks in the tangle of arms and legs. Soon Johnny and Jerry had been duly arrested by Alec, still puffing like a cigarette smoker after his second pack of the day, and the race was run.
“You did it again!” Scarlett cried, finally catching up. “The neighborhood watch is on fire!”
“We did it,” Vesta corrected her friend. She grinned at Father Reilly and Wilbur. “If you guys hadn’t stepped out when you did, they might have gotten away.”
“We caught them,” said Father Reilly, checking his chassis for scuffs, scrapes or dents.
“Glad to be of assistance,” said Wilbur, gingerly touching his jaw where presumably one of the two gangsters had smashed into him.
“Now this is the kind of stuff you should be writing about,” said Charlene, addressing Dan, who was snapping a couple of shots of the neighborhood watch for his newspaper.
“I know, I know,” said Dan, looking a little rueful. “But you gotta admit it’s not a good look when the mayor and the chief of police spend their time fondling each other when they should be handling their workload.”
Charlene winced a little at the man’s words, then nodded. “Fine. You’ve made your point. Now can we leave this episode behind?”
“Less talk, more pictures!” Scarlett said.
And so Dan shot more pictures of the four neighborhood watch members who’d made all the difference and had caught the bad guys. Again!
