Purrfectly Flealess

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 yapping 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.