by Rene Fomby
We sit in silence for a long time, drinking this all in. Cats have only one life? That might be more earth-shaking to me than anything else I’ve heard out of Fat Tony today. And—far more satisfying. But Tommy Tuxedo is obviously taking the news a little harder. Probably because he’s a cat.
“What do you mean, only one life? That’s crazy! Fake news if I’ve ever heard it!”
But Tony is refusing to back down. “Crazy or not, Tommy, it’s all settled science at this point, regardless of how some people might take it. Seems the whole thing was always just a myth, based upon our God-given ability to always land on our own four feet in tough situations. Plus, you gotta add in the humans’ inability to really tell any of us cats apart. Sorry to have to break it too you, buddy, but once you and I hit the big one, we’re burnt toast, same as anybody else. You got one life to live, so you better make the most of it.”
That kind of set a damper on the whole conversation, as if any of us needed more of a wet blanket on things—which, by the way, is a saying I’ve never really understood, since wet blankets always have a sweet, doggish kind of smell. But, being the one animal least emotionally affected by Fat Tony’s unexpected disclosure, I’m the first to step in and try to de-squirrel our discussion.
“Okay, so apparently Agents Double-O One through Seven are now off somewhere sitting in ceramic urns, waiting for their final resting place, or feeding the worms in some sinister, secret pet cemetery. So, where does that leave us? I’ve got din-din waiting for me at home in less than three hours, and as much as I appreciate your predicament election-wise, how exactly does that affect us pets way out in the suburbs? I mean, no offence, but PETSEC always likes to talk a big act about how they’re here for us, but in the end, saving Killer and the other animals at Southside Prison came down to a grassroots effort, if you’ll excuse me for saying so. Out in the ‘burbs, we kind of feel like you and the other blow-hards at PETSEC might just be taking us all for granted, just expecting us to vote a certain way, regardless of whether you really give a hoot about our needs. So, I’ll give you that Boss Dawg seems an unlikely hero for the PETSEC organization, but you still haven’t sold me much on the alternative. Especially given what I know about the—ahem—establishment candidate.” I toss Tony what I think is a meaningfully arched eyebrow.
“That’s fair,” Tony acknowledges, moving around the huge desk to join us, ending up standing just a few feet off to my right. “And I’ll agree with you that PETSEC has in many ways lost its own way, lost its true path. We’ve been way too focused on the institutions of government, and not on the actual constituents of our government. Or, even more importantly, on our non-constituents, the pets and other animals we should be serving every day regardless of how they vote. Every day in every way.” He seems to be examining the bottom of his left paw for a second, like maybe something’s caught between his toes. “But, okay Moose, maybe now it’s our time to change our ways, maybe it’s finally our time to shine. With any luck, and with help from the—grassroots folks like you, folks who actually have their noses at the grass roots level each and every day—PETSEC can evolve into something different, something truly great. Become a government where all of God’s animals have equal rights under the law. Where we learn to serve all of the downtrodden beasts of this planet, where every single animal is protected, regardless of their abilities or economic accomplishments.”
As much as I try to appreciate what Tony’s trying to say, I can’t help but think it sounds an awful lot like that crazy liberal guy I heard about when I was just a puppy. Carl Barks, I think his name is, going on and on about how my bone is your bone and all that. Crazy stuff, like I said. The thing is, as an Aussie I have to think back on the origins of my own people, back to a time when survival of the fittest was the only way to survive at all, and I have to believe there’s gotta be some kind of middle ground in all of that. I mean, idealism versus realism, that’s a concept for you. But then again, all this kind of thinking is really way above my food grade. After all, in the end I’m just a dog. My whole world pretty much boils down to bones, breakfasts and walkies. Get all three in one day and I’m one satisfied little puppy.
Suddenly I realize Tony and Tommy have been talking while I’ve been thinking. Not the first time that’s happened, I’ll assure you. Bella’s always complaining I only hear half of what she’s saying most of the time. But, in my defense, she yaps on almost non-stop about pretty much nothing of any consequence, so—
Tony is staring at me expectantly, like maybe he asked me a question when I wasn’t paying attention. I decide to cover it up with an old trick I often use on Bella.
“Uh, I think I may be missing something here, Tony. What exactly do you mean by that?”
It seems to have worked. Tony clears his throat and repeats himself, while Tommy just rolls his eyes.
“I said, Moose, can we count on you two to work together undercover to figure out what’s going on out there?”
Undercover? As a matter of fact, I love being under the covers, especially this past winter when it seemed I could never ever get the chill out of my bones. So I’m all in for that.
“Uh, sure, Tony. Whatever you need. But I must say I’m a little confused about how that’s really going to help the situation. I’m still quite a bit in the dark about all of this, if you catch my drift. But, sure, I still have bed privileges with my humans, so I don’t think getting under the covers will wind up being all that big a problem…”
Tommy’s shaking that smashed-flat face of his and making little ticking noises with his tongue. “See, Tony? I told you it wasn’t gonna work. The kid’s a regular moh-ron. He has absolutely no idea what we’re talking about, not a word. Like I said, working with him, he’ll get us both killed, I tell ya. He’s like walking into a backyard minefield with blinders on, any moment you just know you’re going to wind up stepping in something really nasty.”
For the first time since I walked into Tony’s office, I see a little doubt creep into the old cat’s eyes. Somehow I know I’ve done it again, missed something important and then doubled down on it by saying something truly stupid. Which is part of why Bella keeps telling me I’m not cut out for this kind of thing. That I need to just quit pretending to be somebody important and accept the fact that I’m really nothing more than a common house pet who somehow got really lucky for a day or two.
But I shake all that off. Literally, I shake it off, like I just had a bath and I’m spraying water droplets all across the room. Then, with a small growl from deep in the bottom of my stomach, I fix Tony with my best steely gaze.
“Look, buddy, I may not be the most sophisticated dog in the world, and sure, I didn’t manage to run some big-city crime syndicate like this fancy two-toner here, but I think my bone-a-fidos speak for themselves. And you for one saw the whole Southside thing right up, close and personal. Who was the only dog willing to step up for Killer when everyone else was content to let him take the fall for his girlfriend’s death? Who stood up to the Crimson Canines when they were threatening to gut the both of us and turn us into bite-sized appetizers? Who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with you when we went back into the heart of the Crimson gangs’ territory to gather intel on what was going on with the cat crack? Who came up with the whole prison break caper, and then risked his life keeping the prison guards busy chasing his chopped-off tail while the rest of you directed all the inmates down the escape tunnel? I can assure you it wasn’t a certain fat cat here who spent almost the entire time plotting how he was going to make a few quick bucks off all the sacrifices everyone else was making.”
I can tell that pretty much won Tony over to my side for good, when suddenly Tommy jumps up on the desk and takes on Tony eye-to-eye. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I was expecting from that arrogant little Yorkie yapper. ‘Look at me! Look what I did!’ That’s pretty much all I’ve heard ever since that day at Southside Prison. Ads all over the city, bragging about what he did. Even on the back of cat
food cans! And to hear him tell it, he pulled it off all by himself, none of us were even there. What an ego! The very thought of it all just makes me want to puke!”
Wow. I have no idea where all that came from. I mean, ever since the prison break I haven’t talked to a single soul about what happened that day, except for a time or two with Killer and Bella, and that one long conversation I had with Tony, right here in this office shortly after it happened. But I glance over at Tony, and he’s bobbing his head up and down like he agrees with the Tuxedo. So clearly I’ve missed more than just a few snippets of conversation, here.
Tony sits back on his haunches, looking several times like he’s about to say something, then thinking better of it. Finally he rubs a paw wearily across his eyes and responds to Tommy’s outburst in a low, quiet voice.
“Okay, now I get it. All the animosity you seemed to be harboring for our little Terrier buddy here. I was kind of thinking it had something to do with the old Cat versus Dog thing, or some variation on all that. Kinda hoping that’s all it was. But now it seems I read the whole situation completely wrong.” He squeezes his lips so hard they turn bone white, then reaches a fat paw across the desk and grasps Tommy by the shoulder. “But you got it wrong, my friend. You got it way wrong.”
Tommy starts to protest, but Tony holds up his other paw to cut him off. “No, you’re right about the rumors that went around almost immediately after everything happened down south. Rumors that over-emphasized some facts and some roles in the prison break while minimizing others. But you see, none of that was Moose’s doing.”
Tony flicks his eyes in my direction, a painful grimace slowly playing across his face. “You see, Tommy, it was all my fault. I’m the one who placed all those ads.”
Fat Tony’s Office
T
he room is suddenly deathly quiet, and you could have heard a kibble drop as Tommy and I stare at Tony, who suddenly seems to be far more interested in something happening in a distant corner of the room.
“What do you mean, you placed the ads?” Tommy looks like he’s ready to come across the desk at Tony, his fangs showing, his paws twitching uncontrollably. “Why in the world would you do a stupid thing like that?”
Tony still won’t look at us, but slowly the story begins to leak out, like my slobber does when I smell something really juicy. Or a bell rings.
“I guess—I guess Moose already understands some of what went down. You see…” Tony stops to clear his throat, the effort sounding more like he’s gagging on something. Which maybe he is—gagging on the truth. After a few seconds, he starts up again.
“You see, this Fat Tony gig, this whole ‘world’s greatest cat detective’ bit, it was all mostly just smoke and mirrors. I—when I first got started in this business, I played it all up completely legit. Hung out a shingle with my real name on it. Anthony Shapiro.”
“Shapiro?” Tommy sputters. “But that’s not an Italian name. That’s—”
“Jewish. Yeah, I know. But, the thing is, I wasn’t pulling in any real traffic, and it got to the point where I couldn’t even pay the bills. And I had racked up quite a tidy obligation to Big Ollie at the Shedd, gambling and what not, so I knew I had to make some changes. And quick, before Ollie decided to call in some of the loans. That’s when I went out and hired this big high dollar marketing firm downtown, paid them good money to do a complete makeover of my PI business.”
I already knew about all of this. I’d confronted Tony—Anthony—about everything, right after the prison break. But it was becoming abundantly clear this was all unwelcome news to the Tuxedo.
Tommy sits down hard on the desktop, suddenly looking completely deflated. Crushed, like his whole world had just collapsed. Which I guess it somehow had. After a long moment, he tilted his face back up toward Tony, who was still refusing to catch our eyes. “So, I’m guessing they told you—”
Tony is nodding, slowly. Painfully. “They recommended I rebrand myself as Fat Tony, a world-wise Italian with a paw into just about everything happening on the streets. Instant credibility with all the people who really counted. Potential clients. Dogs and cats with the hard cash I desperately needed. And then, right after the Southside thing, they pushed me hard to push out all that stuff, too. The ads, seemingly everywhere you turned around in the city. They thought it could bring in a boat load of new business for me. And sure, I got a few new clients out of it, but not even enough to cover my increased marketing costs. That’s why, when the job at PETSEC opened up, I literally jumped at the opportunity. The opportunity to actually pull in a regular paycheck for a change, instead of always living paw to mouth.”
Tommy is slowly rubbing a paw through his own whiskers, remembering. “So, when I first met you a few years back, and you sprung me out…”
Tony nodded again, his guarded eyes now flicking back and forth between Tommy and me, seeming to be carefully gauging our responses. “Yeah, I had just made the transition to ‘Fat Tony’ by then. Took a few language classes to pick up some useful Italian lingo and take on a halfway believable Italian accent. When you called, it was my first chance to see if the new branding would work. Turns out it did. At least for a while.”
Tommy is still rubbing his whiskers, hard. “Okay, I get the whole rebranding thing. People do it all the time. And I guess it really worked out for you in a way, made you pretty famous around these parts. Particularly after what you pulled off in Evanston—”
“Yeah, about that.” Tony is back to staring off into the far corner, refusing to face us. “That whole thing about Evanston. About the Greyhounds. That was all kinda part of the rebranding, too.”
Tommy stopped his paw in mid-stroke. “You mean that never happened? But it was in all the—”
“In the news. Yeah.” Tony took a big gulp, like he was swallowing something big and hard that refused to go down, like that chicken bone I chomped down on that one time. Never make that mistake again. Tony was still explaining. “The Evanston Greyhound caper, that was a real thing. What wasn’t real, though, was my part in any of it. The marketing guys, they came up with all of that.”
Like I said, this was all just rechewing old kibble to me, but Tommy looked like he was taking it hard on the chin. What little chin he had.
“So, what I’m hearing here, Tony—Anthony— is that ninety-nine percent of the stories we’ve all heard about you are just plain bull hockey?”
“W-e-l-l, maybe not ninety-nine. More like eighty-five. Ninety at the most.”
The office gets deathly quiet again. Tommy hops off the desk and starts pacing back and forth, the sound of his well-manicured paws striking the ground like a clock ticking away in the background. Back and forth, back and forth. Finally he stops, and turns to stare squarely at me, his eyes slightly squinted.
“So, Moose, you don’t seem to be at all surprised by any of this. I take it this isn’t the first time you’ve heard this story?”
I shake my head no, not really knowing what else to say. Tommy glances back at Tony, who now appears to be shrinking to the size of a small lost kitten, stuck on top of his desk with no place left to hide.
Tommy’s voice is dripping with venom. “And, putting two and two together, Anthony, over the past year, your people—your marketing team—have been flooding the airwaves with all these stories about the Southside prison break, just so you could keep your name fresh in everybody’s minds? Your second big accomplishment, after the Greyhounds? Except that, once again, you really had very little to do with any of it. All just one big stinking lie. Is that about it? Is that what I’m hearing here?”
Tony doesn’t look like he’s going to be talking anytime soon, so I decide to throw in a few words in his defense. “It’s not like he didn’t do anything. I mean, he helped me hunt down the Crimson Canine gang. And then he led me to you, to figure out how to break into the prison.”
“I gotta respect your loyalty, Moose,” Tommy says, still keeping a sharp eye on Tony o
ver his right shoulder. “But the thing is, if I’ve got things right, the Crimson Canine angle turned out to be a dead end, a dark alley that ultimately led to nowhere. And it’s not exactly like I’m all that hard to locate. I mean, unlike our Maine Coon cat friend here, my reputation has always been on the up-and-up in this city. I earned all my accolades. The hard way.”
I’ve got to admit he’s got a point, there. While Tony did help me find the CCs and figure out who killed Killer’s girlfriend—and why—at the end of the day it didn’t help us save Killer from being put down, even in the slightest. At the end of that day, quite literally. But that’s old history, now. The real question is, where do we go from here? And what does any of this mean to our new mission? I start to say something when Tommy beats me to it.
“Okay, I guess we got all the cards on the table now.” He stares meaningfully in Tony’s direction, who manages to squeeze off a barely perceptible nod. “Good. No more surprises, then.” Tommy leans back against his chair, staring up at the ceiling, looking for all the world like he’s just escaped a mauling from a pack of wild dogs. “So, the way I see it is, we’ve got two problems to deal with now. First—” He flicks one claw out from a toe on his left paw. “We gotta figure out who’s behind the push to get Boss Dawg elected president, which I think we can all agree would be a disaster of epic proportions. Even given the unfortunate alternative.” He says that last part with a low doggish growl, as Tony and I can’t help but nod our agreement. “Second.” Another claw. “There’s the issue of what to do about our friend Shapiro, here. After Boomer’s death, he’s now the establishment’s candidate for the top job, whether we like it or not. We just don’t have time over the next—” He glances out the window at the Chicago skyline, now nearing mid-day “—day and a half to install any reasonable alternatives. Of course, our choices would be a whole lot different right now if the powers that be had ever managed to hang something on Boss Dawg—we could have blocked his election on constitutional grounds. But he’s got way too many people on his payroll making sure that never happens, so I guess that means we’re going to have to dance with what brung us. If our only options at this point are a president who’s a pants-on-fire liar, versus one who’s a cold-blooded killer, I guess—a liar it is, you know?”
