DOG and CAT part 2

Copyright (c) 2017 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

By R. Peterson

I looked at Cat and he looked at me neither of us knowing quite what to do. Vincent Carminati gestured toward the man’s body floating face-down in the swimming pool and smiled. “Come to pay your respects eh?” Several of the men who had guns pointed at us snickered. “Go ahead! This I want to see!”

There was a moment of hesitation before Cat turned and walked toward the edge of the pool yowling as he did so. I followed a step behind allowing my tail to drag on the inlaid bricks. “It’s not Charlie,” Cat hissed as we reached the edge of the water. “But we still have to act as if we belong to the dead man.”

“Why?” I growled looking over my shoulder at the mobsters. “As we got closer I realized the man in the water was wearing Armani slacks and nine-hundred dollar Gucci shoes. I knew it wasn’t our simple friend who sold hotdogs out of a cart near the York Street subway entrance.

“Because I have to think of a way to get us out of this mess,” Cat whispered.

Cat yowled again, louder this time, dragging out the final vowels into a wail like a damaged World War II fighter plane falling out of the sky. I tipped my head back and howled at the moon which had just peaked from behind some clouds.

Vinnie and his men laughed outright. “Joseph Anabello must have been telling the truth about having no friends or family to pay his overdue debts,” Vinnie snorted. “Greed will do that to a person. I promised Joe he could see his pets one last time before his swimming lesson.” Vinnie shrugged. ‘I lied. The commotion at the gate must have scared away the driver when he brought them over.”

Vincent Carminati suddenly became serious as he grabbed the man next to him by the collar and slapped his face. “Go in the kitchen and see if we have any of that Bistecca Fiorentina left. Joe’s been here for two days. These animals must be starving!”

When the man left for the kitchen, another of Carminati’s associates asked Vinnie how much longer Joe’s body had to stay in the water. Vinnie looked at his watch. “Another twenty minutes,’ he said. “Angelo will show you the exact spot to dump the body in the river. The rental car hired with Joe’s Visa Card was driven off the bridge last night by Angelo’s nephew. He looks enough like Joe to be his twin. It was a nice ride he tells me. Too bad Joe never got a chance to enjoy it. The broken bridge railing and the police report will provide more or less an exact time of the accident.” Vinnie smiled. “The same exact time I was at an insurance convention with five-hundred witnesses.”

            “What about the dough he owed you?” a fat man holding a machine gun scowled at the floating body.

            “Joe had a million dollar life insurance policy with my invalid sister as his only beneficiary,” Vinnie snorted. “It’s standard policy for all the vendors who work my territory.”

-------2-------

The red-faced thug returned holding two sizzling platters. Obviously he had put the food in a microwave. “Give me those!” Vinnie grabbed the two plates. “You don’t heat food that you give to animals!”

Vincent Carminati walked toward us smiling and using some kind of baby talk. “Is you little ones hungry?” he asked, crinkling up his nose and making his eyebrows dance as he looked at Cat and then at me. “How about a drink?  I’ll have you brought something!” He suddenly turned back and his voice changed. “Fill up some bowls with milk and bring them out now!” At least four men sprinted toward the house.

Brooklyn’s most notorious gangster placed the two plates behind us and Cat turned sniffing and so did I. “Easy now!” Vinnie warned with a smile. “It might be a little hot.” Cat’s tiny mouth had just touched the sizzling meat when he hissed and leaped high into the air landing on the mobster’s astonished head. Cat dug his claws into the balding man’s thin scalp and thrashed like he was either break-dancing or trying to get to a rat hiding under a shag carpet. Vinnie screamed and thrashed around in circles. I didn’t know what to do, Cat hadn’t let me in on his plan … so I bit the man’s leg.

For the first time I noticed that Vincent Carminati wore diamond-studded Givenchy boots with matching socks. That probably cost more than poor Charlie made in a year. The half-dozen guards watching first stared stupidly as they pointed their guns at the fight and then with foolish looks at each other dropped them and ran forward to help their boss.

Vinnie was off balance and Cat leaped free just as he toppled into the pool taking three of his men with him. It was a shame about the shoes. I heard the door to the house open and four bewildered men came out, each one carefully carrying bowls of heated milk. I knocked the first one over right after Cat ran between his legs and the rest stumbled over him. Warm creamy liquid spilled on my back and my tail. I could have complained, but as the saying goes no use in crying over spilled milk.

“What did you do that for?” I growled as we raced toward the open door.

“Bistecca Fiorentina!” Cat hissed with displeasure. “I don’t like T-bone steak cooked in olive oil!”

-------3-------

With Cat’s help, I slammed the door as soon as we crossed the threshold. I looked but there was no lock. Cat scampered to the left and then leaped toward a red button inside a control panel embedded in the stone wall. A series of flashing lights sounded along with a massive thumping as bars descended over windows and steel doors became impenetrable. “How did you know that was there?” I gasped.

“I didn’t … not for sure,” Cat said. “But a mobster like Vincent Carminati lives in constant fear of attack by his enemies. An elaborate automated system to turn his house into a fortress is not unexpected.”

“What do we do now?” I asked. A moment before I had heard footsteps as a multitude of persons, most likely servants ran down a stairway.

“We won’t be able to do anything until the police arrive,” Cat told me. “Until then we’ll use the time to search for Charlie.” We were standing beneath a wide scene monitor which showed camera views of the outside. One of Carminati’s long black limousines screeched to a stop beside the swimming-pool and several of his men quickly loaded the drowned corpse into the trunk as Vinnie looked on, yelling profanity and enraged orders in Italian.

“Police?” I asked. “I thought Vinnie would have had an entire precinct under his control.”

“He most likely does,’ Cat said. “But in a direct assault situation like this one …” He smiled. “Carminati will rely on mostly legitimate police officers to come to his aide. Those who he has in his employ may also be too easily corrupted by his attackers.”

I couldn’t help but noticing the portraits of animals, mostly dogs and cats, that adorned every wall. Vincent Carminati may have been a terror to other humans, mostly competitors and gang rivals, but his love of domesticated creatures was apparent. But still after looking closely in every room. I could see no sign that he had any pets of his own.

            “Don’t worry he won’t bite.” Cat glanced toward a gilded statue of a wolf (that looked ready to pounce) placed just behind a sofa. “Our host left his love of animals as well as his childhood back on the dirty streets of Brooklyn when he became a man.”

We found the stairway and could hear excited whispers coming from below. I trod cautiously down the steps but Cat forged ahead as if he hadn’t a care in the world. We found the humans, including a dozen women huddled behind a pool table. At least four of the females appeared to be older maids or kitchen workers hired for aptitude or culinary skills while the others were obviously employed for other purposes. They were all dressed in children’s rabbit-footed pajama bottoms and naked from the waist up although the youngest appeared to be at least seventeen and all were generously endowed with ample breasts. “Humans are so perverted and convoluted with their sexual desires,” Cat said shaking his head. “It is a wonder the species continues.”

Charlie was huddled in a corner along with two other vendors I’d seen before and who I suspected had also failed to make payments to Carminati. “It’s bad enough that that madman tries to extort money from my relatives,” Charlie moaned and rubbed his head with his hands. “But now he involves my friends that are not even human.”

            “Now what?” I asked Cat.

            “We wait for the cops!” he said.

-------4-------

It took almost an hour for an electronic specialist from the Seventy-ninth Precinct to open the electronic locks on Carminati’s fortress home. By that time Charlie and the others were crowded next to the front door. “Thank God you got the doors opened,” Charlie told the armed officers who swept past him and the others and began to search the rooms. “We thought we’d be locked in here all night!”

            Vinnie apologized profusely but Charlie and the other employees insisted on leaving with the police. Wisely, he and the others said nothing about being held captive. “The troublesome security in this place has convinced me to seek employment elsewhere,” he insisted and several others agreed. All the men and women in the basement left including the dozen women. The topless girls walked away with their noses held high conveying elegant theatrical posture and with their other remarkable attributes equally at attention.  Most of the police stared at the sewn-on rabbit feet while several, especially the younger officers, attempted to steal lustful glances without seeming obvious.

I thought for a moment that Cat and I might also be able to slip away with the officers but a glaring Carminati blocked our way. “That dog should be on a leash!” A rookie officer who obviously didn’t know about the mobster’s numerous department connections warned as he looked at me. Vinnie hastily agreed. “I assure you both of them will be restrained,” he said licking his lips. I could tell by the wild look in his eyes that his love affair with animals was coming to a quick if not an extremely sadistic end.

No sooner had the door closed behind the officers when Carminati and his men lunged toward us.

-------5-------

Cat moved through the forest of stomping Italian wing-tip oxfords with the ease of a mechanical loom weaving cloth while I just ran. He managed to make several of them trip and bring down the others. He caught up to me as I entered a second story library with tall, steel wire embedded cathedral windows that showed a city nightscape. We had about ten seconds before our impending death … maybe less. “There’s no way out,” I gasped as Cat studied the eight-foot tall bookcases.

            “I’m not looking to escape …. At least not yet,” Cat said. ‘I’m looking for a special book that I’m sure must be here.”

            “What a time to read!” I yelled, just as Carminati and his men entered the library behind us.

Cat leaped onto a bookcase and climbed the leather-covered volumes like a mountain goat. He was near the top center when his claws caught and tugged on a book with διαφυγής written on the red spine. “Watch out!” he screeched. At least four-hundred books crashed to the floor along with the mahogany bookcase and a foot-thick section of a brick and mortar wall.

About half of Carminati’s men were unconscious the rest stumbled helplessly in the dust and debris trying to figure out what happened. I followed Cat through the gaping hole in the wall, across a roof and down a towering Arborvitae to the ground. We were running across the rocky beach toward the river when I asked Cat how he knew the emergency exit was there. “It was the only book on the shelves with dust on it so I knew the maids had been warned never to touch it,” he said. “Besides διαφυγής is Greek for escape and I’m sure Vinnie still has trouble reading a Dick and Jane primer.”

           

-------6-------

If it was me I would have taken my chances swimming but Cat insisted we head toward a boathouse. Several guards walking along the riverbank had ran toward the house when they saw the wall crumble. Bullets struck and splintered the wooden door I was trying to open before Cat miraculously slipped under a two inch gap at the bottom. ‘How did you do that?” I gasped as he opened the door from the inside. “It’s an old mouse trick,’ he said as we climbed into one of two fishing boats and Cat searched under a seat cushion for an ignition key. “You can make any bone in your body become as flexible as Mozzarella string cheese … if you’re scared enough.”

            Cat found a key taped to the bottom of a half-empty bottle of Zacapa Rum just as the man-door behind us burst open and a storm of Uzi machine guns began to blow bullets our way. The double doors that dipped below the water were secured with a lock and chain and I knew we didn’t have time to search for another key as Cat cranked the engine. He thrust the throttle all the way forward and dual three-hundred horsepower marine outboard engines roared to life churning a rooster-tail wake behind that all but drown our pursuers in smoke, gas fumes and river water. With only a few feet to accelerate I was surprised when the doors exploded on contact. I could only surmise that the dozens of bullet holes had weakened the wooden structures.

            We were perhaps a hundred yards out and headed for the center of the Hudson River when the other boat started and roared after us. There was not a lot of recreational traffic in the hour before dawn and Cat steered toward the only vessel large enough to block the endless gunfire that struck the water around us and sent wood and fiberglass splinters flying above our heads: a slow moving and massive barge loaded with a mountain of oily, semi-composted refuse destined for India and other even less resourceful lands.

            I thought it was smoke that engulfed the reeking barge but on closer inspection and with the first glimmer of pre-dawn twilight breaking over the Atlantic we discovered it was flies. A square mile horde of dual-winged insects happily spawning an army of squirming maggots on the floating garbage piles of north eastern America’s largest cities.

-------7-------

As we thundered toward the rotting storm clouds I was tempted to throw myself overboard. Being struck by a bullet and drowning in the muddy water would have been dismal but at least quicker than being slowly torn apart by buzzing insects looking for fur covered damp places to lay eggs. Cat had the throttle fully open and never slowed as we raced alongside the edge of the barge. We were close enough to see water from our wake splash on the dark plastic used to keep the mountain from spilling over the side.

            Vincent Carminati was driving the pursuing boat himself and enraged fury forced him to follow every move we made with no thought to the inherent dangers involved.

            Machine gun fire began to tear apart the stern as Cat cut the boat’s wheel to the left and then sharply around and came at Carminati from the side. “Jump!” Cat hissed as he shoved me seconds before the two boats exploded into a massive inferno that set the floating garbage  mountain on fire.

I was in the water and paddling toward shore as the flames and subsequent explosions from ruptured fuel tanks lit the night sky. I searched for Cat in the water and up and down the rocky beach for hours after I reached land.  Later, I watched without emotion as the charred bodies of Vincent Carminati and two of his thugs washed up on shore but I could find no trace of my feline friend. I wasn’t surprised, Cat was many things but he’d never been a great lover of water and feared swimming, even in a small Central Park duck-pond, more than the back wheels of a delivery truck.

As the sun rose over the eastern horizon and left behind a darkening Europe and Asia I turned to a silvery moon just sinking into the lands to the west. I raised my head into an almost vertical position and howled to the ancient Gods that have ruled Earth since primordial times. I voiced a long and sustained heartbroken tribute to the best friend a dog like me ever had. And then I padded toward the city … as if waking from a dream.

THE END?

DOG and CAT

Copyright (c) 2017 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

DOG and CAT

By R. Peterson

The canary yellow Open-Toe Flats held the scent of dance-floor polish, mattress-semen and Black Opium perfume as I avoided them. I was looking for the source of the tapping I could hear somewhere up ahead. So many pairs of feet … and all of them moving. The intoxicating smell of Charlie’s Hot Dogs roasting in a portable cooker on wheels drifted to my nose from what I would estimate was two blocks over and I was reminded that I hadn’t eaten since the day before. I almost turned and followed the aroma radiating from my best friend but on this particular night my cultured palate cried for something far more elegant.

I began to drool as I followed the crowd down the scuffed green stairs and into the York Street Station and people began to give me more room. Rabies is a universal possibility that strikes fear into all people not just those who have read Cujo and I began to acquire a listing nervous jerk … I should have been on Broadway! The air in the underground transportation system smelled of butane, stale cigarettes and escaping human body odors. For a moment I lost the cane man’s scent and thought I might be in trouble. Transportation officials in New York City won’t allow animals to board subway trains unless they think your there for a good reason, usually one mandated by government disability laws.

I saw two cops wearing Timberland boots patrolling the subway platforms and thought I might have to abandon my elegant dinner plans. Luckily I spied the padded cane at 52nd Street followed by a pair of $800 Valentino sneakers playing the concrete up ahead and quickly padded alongside them as if I belonged there, stopping and moving when they did. I was going to be the disabled, but obviously rich, man’s best friend … at least until after I scored a good meal.

The two pairs of cop-boots turned quickly away when they realized who they thought I was escorting and moved toward four insanely expensive Air Jordan Playoffs and two Ankle-Wrap Espadrilles loitering belligerently against a concrete wall and turned ever so slightly in the direction of a cheap pair of women’s orthopedic shoes shuffling alone.

I walked arrogantly beside the blind man to the Service Entry gate and stepped through it when he did. The sense of power I felt as lines of people moved aside to allow us to enter the F Train ahead of them was indescribable. I lay silent, alert and obedient at the cane man’s feet between him and a middle aged woman wearing white ankle-wraps.  She smelled of Patchouli and he of Old Spice. After a minute of silence, the woman reached down and gave me a hand full of Bacon Bits retrieved from her purse. “That’s a good boy!” she petted and patted my head as I wolfed them down. So far the man I was escorting had made no objection to my presence although I did detect a slight smirk on his forward staring face. Perhaps the stranger realized that for a disabled individual to make his way in the world today one had to use all the available resources available … I hoped so. His handicap was being blind … mine was being a dog.

-------2-------

I can’t remember when I couldn’t read. Images from the blaring TV set where I grew up always showed images along with the corresponding sounds. My first words were Tide, Alpo, Pepsi and Hanes; all I really had to do was translate the English into Canine. A digital clock hanging from the ceiling of the subway-car said 7:30 PM. I hoped the cane-man was hungry … I was. The snack the woman gave me was just enough to make my mouth water. A dog has many talents that surpass those of humans, one of those abilities is detecting emotions especially those of fear, anger or desire. I didn’t just imagine I knew what people were thinking … I actually did know. The woman was looking at the well-dressed blind man thinking how attractive he was and wondering how it would feel to mate with him, perhaps in an expensive hotel room with a vibrating bed. He wouldn’t be able to notice the wrinkles just forming under her eyes or the tiny veins that had begun to appear in her legs. “Nice dog you have!” she said as she scratched behind my ears. My tail went up like a flag and began to wave at the lady.

“I don’t own a dog.” The man replied. You could see his other senses tune into the woman next to him as he began to gather dark data that unexpectedly promised a winding path leading to a stone tower on a hill filled with lust and romance. The woman instantly turned with disgust and slid her Ankle-Wraps as far away from the good looking stranger as possible. She couldn’t imagine any disabled person so callus as not to claim a loyal and trustworthy assistance animal, even though technically belonging to Social Services, as their own. She didn’t have to show me her ASPCA card; I knew it had to be in her purse.

The blind man got off at the Broadway station an hour and forty-five minutes later. I was starving …. Thank God so was he! I followed his expensive shoes into a swanky restaurant between 7th and 8th Avenue called Appetito’s. I learned the man with a cane was named Carson Henley and that he had a reservation. I’d always just been Dog as long as I could remember, as in Get that dog out of here and where did that dog come from? A maitre d', wearing a tux and with a white linen-towel draped over his arm, turned up his nose when he saw me but led us to a small table in the back, after Mr. Henley handed him two twenties and told him that yes … he’d be dining alone.

The waiter brought several wine samples to our table and rinsed-out separate glasses with an ounce or two of the expensive wine and then poured a small amount in each glass for Henley to sample. A second waiter, smiling under a mop of red hair that made him look like Superman’s pal Jimmy Olsen, brought a china plate with a four-ounce rib eye steak cut into bite-sized nibbles and swimming in broth. He set it on the floor beside the table for me to enjoy. I thought about asking him what happened to his reporting job at the Daily Planet but didn’t.

Even though I was starving, I tactfully waited until the waiter and the blind man were talking about the wine before I slurped it down. I may have grown-up in a dirty alley but I always hoped and imagined that I came from exquisitely bred and registered parents.

Henley decided on a Chateau Montrose, a steal at $180 a bottle, and ordered Cacciatore with onions and bell peppers. Another waiter brought Bruschetta and warm bread from the oven while the smiling redhead sliced a plate of Pecorino Toscano (cheese) for me. I felt like a wolf at a sheep and lamb camp.

A violinist, who was surely destined for Carnegie Hall, played a serenata by Toselli while the blind man savored his Cacciatore and I delighted in the extra-large bowl of the same they brought for me. The classis song by Elvis Presley rumbled through my head when I finally got up to leave. I wasn’t no Hound Dog … I didn’t catch the rabbit (Cacciatore) but I ate it and as I wandered toward the door a waiter opened it for me, they must have thought I had business to do outside. Just before I left I turned back. Mr. Henley raised his cane in the air and smiled in my direction. I had the feeling that he’d known I was there all the time and didn’t really mind. Loneliness is an awful thing.

-------3-------

It took almost two hours to get back to York Street, sitting between two nuns who thought I was sent to them from heaven, but it was worth it. Everyone has to live it up once in a while. It was just after 12 P.M. when I left the F train and I decided to pay Charlie a visit. He should have been just closing up his portable hot dog stand. The old Italian’s license was good until midnight. He always had a few leftover wieners and buns for me, no mustard it gives me gas, and even though on this night I happened to be stuffed, I still enjoyed being scratched behind the ears.

Traffic was light and I hugged the brick wall of a bakery as a black Lincoln spun in a half circle as it rounded the corner and then roared past me. The car screeched to a stop in front of Charles Visconti just as he was folding the hinged piece of plywood that covered his cooker. I didn’t have to see Charlie’s face to know he was scared. Fear is a smell that has drifted on the wind since time began. “I don’t have the full two-hundred,” Charlie stammered holding out a fistful of bills and coins as four big men poured out of the car. “I’ve got a little more than one-forty … I’ll have the rest tomorrow!”

“Charlie - Charlie …” The man in front held his hands at arm’s length as he approached the old man. “You know how Vinnie operates …. You don’t got the lousy fifty a week the next night it’s a hundred then we come back and it’s two-hundred … you ain’t got it now … you ain’t gonna have it tomorrow!”

“I’ll call some people,” Charlie told them. “I’ll get you the money I swear!”

“You can call your friends in a few minutes … I’m sure Vinnie will let you use his phone.” The big man said as he jerked Charlie toward the car. Vincent Carminati was a big time insurance broker specializing in catastrophic accidents. He extorted money from all those who did business in this part of the Big Apple. You paid up and he made sure you were covered. Like the hundred dollars per year the city charged for a Mobile Food Vendor Personal License. It was perfectly legal … as long as you kept quiet about it and the cops got their cut.

The other three men turned Charlie’s hot-dog cart on its side and began to kick it to splinters. I knew no matter how much money Charlie came up with they weren’t bringing him back. The old man was my only true human friend in the city and I wasn’t about to let him go down without a fight.

I growled and hurdled toward the car just as Charlie was pushed inside. One of the men’s boots connected with my head and I was sent sprawling. The other man drew a gun but before he could put a bullet in me the third man stopped him. “Killing a dog is like killing a cop,” he said. “People don’t like it.”

“See you later, Mutt!” The man with the gun smiled just before the door slammed. I was seeing stars and couldn’t make out the license as the car sped away, but everyone knew where Fortezza was. It was a mansion on the banks of the Hudson surrounded by twelve-foot tall chain link and razor-wire fencing. At least a dozen guards, most of them off-duty police officers, patrolled the grounds to keep unwanted guests from entering without an invitation.

There was only one other creature in the city who could help me bring Charlie back alive and he lived in the dark side of the city. Like me, he had no real name but he had amazing talents that more than made up for it. I headed for the subways once again, planning this time to ride the Metro north. It would most likely take the rest of the night to find my friend and then pay Fortezza a visit. Like most of the other black residents of Harlem, Cat survived by using his wits in the mean and ugly part of the city. I hoped for Charlie’s sake that we would not be too late.

-------4-------

 I could hear the fight when I crossed W. 120^th. Street into Marcus Garvey Park. At least a dozen spitting and hissing toms had Cat cornered in the dark end of a shelter. As I drew near I could see him standing in front of a silver-tipped Persian in heat. The feline also smelled of Oribe Gold Lust Shampoo and her silky fur glistened from the reflected light of a diamond studded collar. She had obviously snuck out of an expensive Manhattan apartment for a little défense romance and found herself suddenly in the presence of animals.

A large yellow tomcat, with goo dripping from one eye, lunged toward my friend just as I entered the shelter and I could see a whirlwind of razor-sharp claws just miss Cat’s ear as he ducked and moved to the side. He clamped his teeth down on yellow’s tail and used the momentum to vault himself into the fray. I lunged too and the felines began to scatter in all directions. Bringing a one hundred sixty pound black lab to a cat fight was like pulling a gun on someone with a knife. I was surprised when an angry Cat swiped my nose with his claw. “What did you do that for?” he demanded. Cat could speak seven languages including pigeon and canine.

“I just saved your life,” I told him. “Those alley-tigers were ready to kill you.”

Cat shook his head as he watched the Persian slink away with her nose in the air. “You ruined my life,” Cat said. “It took me a week to choreograph this fight with my friends. I was going to be the hero saving her from a gang of ruthless can-bangers.

Cat sat and glared at me as he licked my blood off from his claws. “Missy hates bone chewers,” Cat said. “Her owner pays an extra two grand a month for an apartment that forbids pets that even look like they could bark … now she probably thinks I’m a dirty dog lover!”

            “Sorry,” I said. “I wouldn’t have come here if it wasn’t important!”

Cat just looked at me as he licked his paw and began to wipe his face so I went on. “A bunch of Vincent Carminati’s men grabbed Charlie earlier tonight and busted up his vending-cart. They took him to Fortezza … and I’ve got a feeling it’s a one-way ride.”

            “I’ve ate a few of his overcooked wieners after closing time,” Cat said. “But who hasn’t. Why should I help?”

            “Because I need you,” I said. “Fortezza is Italian for fortress … and there is no way I can get inside there without your skills!”

            “Why should I help you?” Cat asked. I realized then that I didn’t have the answer. Cat and I had met at an animal shelter two years earlier when we were both about to be euthanized. I was scheduled to die because I was unwanted and Cat because of illegal generic experiments that gave him an I.Q. of 196 - genius level even when compared to humans. The scientists responsible for his super brain were terrified of getting caught and were even more afraid to dispose of him themselves. There were too many ASPCA card-carrying interns working in the bio-lab although none knew the complexity or the extent of the project. The scientists wanted the dangerous experiment terminated but decided to have it done legally through a local shelter. I didn’t speak Feline then, but Cat had picked up enough Canine in the two hours he’d been locked up to convince me to chew on a bar of soap that he’d somehow stolen and play dead. When an attendant unlocked my cage and reached in to pull me out I bit his hand and then kicked his dropped keys into Cat’s cage. Cat did the rest. While the terrified attendant was on the phone trying to have someone give him a shot for rabies we escaped from the shelter along with dozens of others … and never looked back.

            “You’ve saved my life a dozen times,” I told him. “I guess there’s no reason why you should!” I turned and started to leave and was surprised when I found Cat walking beside me shaking his head.

            “If you don’t know the answer then I’ll tell you. It’s because we’re friends!” Cat said. “And never for as long as you live forget that! Friendship should never be brushed off or taken lightly!”

            “I’m sorry, I guess I forgot.”

            “Don’t let it happen again.”

It didn’t surprise me at all when Cat retrieved an i-Phone 7 from an unlocked sprinkler control box where it had been charging and then began dialing numbers after he laid the phone on a large flat rock bordering a flowerbed. The automated answering systems that humans hated allowed Cat to summon a pet limousine service to pick us up at the park and drive us to an address destination all without speaking. I watched as he punched in a credit card number along with a security code and then wondered who would get the bill.

            There was a tray with several kinds of dog treats plus water in the huge backseat of the limo and I gorged myself as Cat made several more phone calls. I knew Cat had a plan but I didn’t know what to expect. The Pet limousine dropped us off a block from the gated entrance to Fortezza and we hid in some bushes until a pizza delivery van arrived.

            The guards at the gate appeared skeptical until the man driving the van said the six large pizzas were for them and had already been paid for. When they asked him to exit the running vehicle he showed them a receipt with Vincent Carminati’s credit card number. Cat used the diversion to slip inside the van and jam it into gear. My feline friend slammed all of his forty pounds down on the gas pedal and the van with the open door crashed through the locked gates. At least a dozen guards surrounded the van with guns drawn as the horrified delivery driver with a pair of pudgy hands wrapped around his neck tried to explain with a wheezing cough that he must have forgotten to put on the parking brake.

            I slipped past the guards and into the shadows of the compound, Cat joined me minutes later. “What do we do now?” I asked.

            “We’ve got to find out where they’re holding Charlie,” Cat said.

We waited until after two police cars arrived and took away the driver and then a tow truck dragged away the van. The armed guards were all eating Pizza and watching as a crew repaired the damaged gates.

Cat said it was time to move and we kept to the shadows as we dodged security lights and hid behind a long square building. The moon slipped out from behind swirling clouds and reflected off an Olympic sized swimming pool. Something about the man floating face down in the water made me stop and hold my breath.

Suddenly we were bathed in bright light and Vincent Carminati stepped from the shadows. He was not alone; a dozen guns were pointed directly at us. I could smell greed, lust and violence smoothed-out with limoncello spirits.

            “I see you came to pay your last respects …” A hideously grinning Vinnie emphasized the word last.

I looked at Cat and he just shrugged his canine shoulders as if unconcerned. “Some nights are not that great,” he sighed.

TO BE CONTINUED …

THE MAGIC OF KISSING part 3

Copyright (c) 2017 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

By R. Peterson

Allison Weatherbee spent the rest of the morning trying to avoid Greg Johnson. Although the school’s most popular boy seemed to be getting over the strange infatuation that had overpowered him when they kissed two days before. Allison noticed him still giving her strange, sometimes longing, looks while she and her best friend were eating lunch.

Vicky Jenkins’ robust enthusiasm for tomorrow’s school fair balanced out Allison’s dread for the same event. “I’d give anything to be in that booth selling kisses even if I was sitting next to icky Marsha Hicks,” Vicky vowed as she spread light-dressing on a leafy salad. Just outside the cafeteria window, members of the school’s shop class were busy putting together a booth that resembled a thatched-roof Polynesian dwelling. In keeping with the theme for Back off Boys, a stage performance about a nurse that falls in love with a ship full of World War II sailors, bamboo torches had been erected on both sides of a path leading to the hut.

“I don’t want to kiss anyone,” Allison told her best friend. “I’m thinking about staying home tomorrow!”

“You can’t!” Vicky gasped. “Marsha Hicks breaks up too many couples as it is. For once I’d like to see a few of her boy-friends get stolen!”

“You’re welcome to take my place,” Allison told her. “I don’t want a repeat of the disaster that happened during rehearsals!” The entire school had been turned on when Allison used techniques learned from a fourteenth century book when she kissed the school’s most popular boy during a drama rehearsal.

“What disaster!” Vicky argued. “Someone overloaded a circuit and a breaker got tripped. When you lip-locked Greg Johnson even I felt something. Everyone wants that kind of fairytale magic to happen when they suck-face. You can’t blame people for chasing after you wondering just what is was that made you different. “Perfume? Aphrodisiacal breath mints?” Vicky gave her an appraising look. “It can’t be your breast size! What the hell would make the Coverdale Stallions’ quarterback drop to his knees and worship the ground a poster-girl-for-social-anxiety walks on after just one tiny kiss?’

“I’ve heard the word witchcraft come up more than once,” Allison said. She took a drink from her milk-carton then sniffed it with a wrinkled nose before tossing it in the closest garbage can. She was reaching for her entire lunch-tray with a look of revulsion on her face when Vicky slapped her hand.

“You’re not going to throw that away too,” she said snatching the corn-dog that Allison had already laced with mustard. “I lied to Mrs. Farmer when I said I’d be grazing on the north-forty today.” Vicky took a big bite. “Unless there’s a cute bull around!”

Marsha Hicks happened to be walking past and she stopped to glare at the two social outcasts. Allison noticed the popular cheerleader had just a few fish-sticks on her tray and a handful of chips. “Both of you eat like pigs,” Marsha smirked as Vicky stuffed the breaded wiener into her mouth and mustard ran down her chin. She turned vicious eyes on Allison. “The only reason you got cast as Rachel in Back off Boys was because Miss Wolf felt sorry for you!” Marsha looked sure of herself. “After tomorrow, you’re going to have to accept the fact that you are going to get grossly fat and live in a trailer court with a half-a-dozen smelly, snot-nosed brats playing in the dirt. And you won’t even know for sure who donated their sperm. Take my advice,” Marsha said smiling. “Don’t show up at the kissing booth tomorrow and avoid the humiliation. Do you really thing my lover boy, Giggy, or anyone else is going to choose you over me?” Marsha laughed. Allison glanced behind her to where Greg Johnson sat with a group of his friends. Greg saw her looking and after a moment of hesitant recognition smiled. His enchantment was fading … but wasn’t gone yet.

            “A thirsty man will drink at the town pump when he has to,” Vicky told Marsha giving the pretty girl her dirtiest look. “But he’ll always look for cleaner water … if he isn’t desperate.”

Marsha stomped away and as she did Greg Johnson rose from his table and began to walk toward them. Marsha noticed Greg too and the next instant a tray clattered to the floor followed by Marsha’s wail. “I think I sprained my ankle,” she cried. Greg rushed to help the struggling girl to her feet and Allison couldn’t help but notice the dramatic display of Marsha’s cleavage.

            “You’re right,” Allison told her friend as Greg led the clinging girl with her arm wrapped around his neck to his table. “For once that bitch needs to lose at something!”

-------2-------

            Melania just shook her head when Allison told her about the kissing booth fundraiser and sent her downstairs with a second basket of dirty clothes. The old woman’s basement was a vast cavernous labyrinth of dingy rooms filled with boxes, books, brooms and spider-webs. Thank God the laundry-area was clean and brightly lit.

            Just as Allison placed the basket on the floor, the clothes-dryer stopped and the door opened. A balled-up sock sprang out and after shaking into a foot shape began to hop across the floor. It was pursued by a pair of ladies Monaco trousers. The rest of the almost-dry laundry tumbled out of the machine in an orderly fashion and proceeded to lounge across several lines stretched between an upright water heater and a broom closet. “Just set the basket by the washing-machine,” Melania yelled from the kitchen above. “They’ve been cleaning themselves for years!”

Allison stumbled towards the stairs and climbed them backwards, unable to take her eyes from the designer pants as they hustled the wayward sock back to the washing machine. With a thumping heart she watched as a bell-sleeved silk blouse poured Tide laundry detergent into the quickly filling washer.

            “People often ask where those missing socks go,” Melania chuckled as Allison closed the basement door. “They run and hide … and if they are not caught they end up as dirty-rags sleeping in allies and wiping garbage cans.”

-------3-------

            After helping Melania remove all the cans and packages from the pantry and clean the shelves - rodents had chewed into the food supply and made a mess - Allison followed the old woman into the library. “I haven’t seen Simon since yesterday,” Melania said. “Each time that cat goes off on one of his adventures the mice celebrate by having a lavish feast at my expense.”

            “Have you tried setting traps?” Allison asked as they sat at the table where La magia di baciare e come usarlo the fourteenth century book that translated as The Magic of Kissing and how to use it lay open on chapter three.

            “The mice in this house are very clever,” Melania said. “They would rather drag traps into my bedroom to catch my toes rather than their tails and they often do. Many is the time I’ve leaped onto my mattress still wearing shoes and kicked them off beneath the covers.”

            “I’m sure Simon will show up in a day or so,” Allison said.

            “I hope so,” Melania said giving Allison an appraising look. “We need his talents more than you know.”

            “What happened to Niccolo and Juliana?” Allison asked, remembering that in Melania’s last story the young priest and his lover had been tied to a stake in the village square and were about to be burned alive.

“The false Pope Baldassarre Cossa was a wicked man and had Niccolo stripped of his authority and everything that identified him as a man of the cloth,” Melania told her. “He feared that if he allowed even one official to leave his now corrupted church more would follow. To him the wooden crucifix that hung by a chain and adorned Niccolo’s humble robes was a symbol of his own lusting power, wealth and vanity. Cossa laughed triumphantly as he tore the cross from the young man’s neck.”

            “That must have been awful for those poor people,” Allison said, “to have the very foundation of their belief and devotion seized and used by a fraud and a thief.”

            “Faith is something that can never be taken … but must be cast aside by those who have it,” Melania said. The old woman placed a withered hand above her own breast and closed her eyes as if reluctant to see horrible images from the past before she continued. “Niccolo had a small silver crucifix on a steel chain hidden under his robes and as the flames erupted  he somehow was able to loosen one of his hands and held the tiny cross above both his and Juliana’s heads and praised God in a loud voice even as the fires of hell began to consume them.”

            “How horrible!” Allison gasped.

            “It might have been, had the young priest’s faith not been so very great,” Melania sighed. “To Niccolo the sacred cross was not a symbol of vain riches and authority but of love and devotion. It held an eternal and everlasting power far greater than that which the corrupted Cossa had seized. A glowing light flowed from the cross Niccolo held above their heads. The celestial illumination surrounded Juliana creating a divine shield that protected her from the flames even as Niccolo himself was consumed by the fires. The evil Cossa, unable to stop what was happening, fled from the village having never seen a true miracle before. The man who had sought control of the church for his own greed and lust was terrified and went into hiding. Later, armies of the faithful from all over Italy pursued him and he was eventually driven from power.”

            “What happened to Juliana?” There were tears in Allison’s eyes.

            “Julianna was cool and unharmed when the terrified villagers sifted through the ashes,” Melania said, “but Niccolo was gone. All that they found of him was the crucifix. The silver had melted in the tremendous heat into the shape of a heart with a jagged crack down the center. Some of the villagers fell to their knees and worshiped the young girl as a saint, while others grew fearful. They spat, threw stones and called her a witch. After a number of days Juliana couldn’t take their adoring empty stares and sly plotting whispers anymore and she took the silver heart necklace and traveled to the north. Some legends say she finally died there after hundreds of years while others say the power of love made her immortal and that she would never die completely but be reincarnated again every thousand years … always searching the centuries that followed for her long lost lover.”

            “Do you believe the story is real?” Allison asked Melania.

            “Belief is the most powerful thing in the universe,” Melania told her. “Belief can make even the most outrageous dreams and ideas become real.”

Melania pointed to the ancient book with the brass gilded wooden covers and told Allison to turn to the last page and then to read the last paragraph. “There is much to learn from this volume but tonight I want you to know Juliana’s finale thoughts … at least those of that age in which she once lived.”

Allison opened the book and read the last lines.

“Io passo i percorsi di dolore. Autostrade scure morbide e sereno. Per raggiungere la fine della solitudine. E lì in attesa di trovare l'amore”

After a pause Allison stammered. “I caught a little of it. My comprehension of Italian is not that good. What does it mean?”

“It’s a kind of poetry and also a promise,” Melania said as she closed her eyes and translated the words into English. Allison noticed a tear rolling down the old woman’s cheek.

“I tread the paths of sorrow.

Dark highways soft and fair.

To reach the end of loneliness.

And love find waiting there.”

“Do you think Juliana will ever find her lost lover?” Allison asked.

“I hope so,” Melania told her. “But it’s late … and you have a very exciting day tomorrow.”

“I know you told me not to kiss anymore,” Allison stammered, “at least until we get things under control … but I don’t know how I’m ever going to get through it!.”

            “Remember the balance of all things,” Melania said. “Pleasures always have a dark side and the greater the pleasure … the more chaos and danger.”

            “I’ll do the best I can,” Allison promised. She gave the old woman a tearful hug and then left the mansion.

Melania stood at the window and watched the emotional young girl as she walked into the night. The old woman’s withered hand involuntarily reached inside her blouse until her fingers grasped the tarnished glob of silver that had been melted into a heart shape centuries ago. The treasured object hung around her neck by a rusty chain. Her arthritic fingers traced the jagged crack down the center. “I know you will,” she muttered.

-------4-------

It stopped snowing right after Allison’s first morning class and by lunchtime the sun was smiling on the High School fundraiser erected on the lawn.

There were several booths selling drinks and even one selling bananas with the name of a boy written with black marker on each yellow skin. After a girl purchased a banana with a certain boy’s name written on the side, the named individual was required to peel and hold it for her while she ate it. Principal Dunn thought it was a wildly stupid idea and he was clueless as to why so many girls lined up to buy the fruit especially from the more popular boys. But he had to admit it was definitely a money-maker. Dunn was even considering mentioning the idea to the stuffy PTA at the next school board meeting … as a possible source of future funding.

The path to the Back off Boys kissing booth was lined with flaming Citronella bamboo torches and even Allison thought it gave the booth a tropical look. She was actually in a good mood until she stepped in the booth and found out Marsha Hicks had gone all out to win the lead in the school play.

Marsha had poured herself into flesh-colored leggings so small they looked painted-on and the super-thin, off the shoulder, white Parker Yasmin blouse she wore did little to conceal the bulging pink bra underneath. Her hair looked like at least a two-hundred dollar visit to a stylist and her make-up was exotic enough to make Cleopatra hide her face.

Allison suddenly wished she hadn’t worn jeans and a baggy green-tee that said My other shirt is dirty, but then she wasn’t planning on kissing any boys today. She had already decided that she was perfectly happy to let Marsha simply win and take over the female lead in the play … or so she thought.

Several boys walked past the booth with Kisses $5 written in block letters on a banner across the top but so far they were only looking. It took pimple-faced Lewis Cramer to break the ice. He charged all two-hundred eighty pounds of his bulk toward Marsha and tossed a five dollar bill into her glass jar. Lewis licked his lips and then bent her backward with a kiss guaranteed to make every hillbilly in West Virginia blast squirrel-guns in the air. Marsha came up wobbly and out of breath but she smiled broadly when she noticed two other boys lined up to taste her lips … and not a single one for Allison.

Allison tried to look nonchalant but she knew her face was turning red and in all actuality she had never been so humiliated in her life. It didn’t help when Marsha turned to her between kissed and said loud enough for half the school to hear “Perhaps you should lower your price!” Several girls laughed … and even a few boys. Allison wanted to melt and sink into the ground.

Suddenly, as if Superman had come to life wearing black jeans and a letterman’s jacket, six-foot two inch tall Greg Johnson appeared from the gym door and was staring directly at Allison as he approached. “Let me have at least one paying customer … and let it be Greg,” Allison closed her eyes and prayed to James Dean the Patron Saint of teenagers. Greg was close enough for Allison to see the ocean-blue sparkle in his puppy-dog eyes when he was suddenly distracted and turned toward Marsha.

A gasp swept the crowd and even more boys crushed toward the popular girl. The cheerleader with the Cleopatra eyes had just removed her bra and was sliding it out one thin shirt sleeve. Even with the sun shining, the cold October air made both of her nipples stand at attention like soldiers saluting a flag during a parade. Every boy in the crowd was suddenly filled with uncompromising patriotism. Allison looked across the lawn and saw Principal Dunn staring at the cheerleader but then just as quickly saw him turn away. Modesty and virtue almost always fly out the window when large sums of money are involved.

Tanya McKinsey, one of Marsha’s friends, talked loudly and her voice carried above the surging crowd of males. “You should have left your bitch at home Marsha … or at least given her a bath … dogs don’t belong at school!” She was pointing at Allison and all but a few of the crowd roared with laughter.

So many tears filled Allison’s eyes it was hard for her to find the latch on the gate that would allow her to exit the booth. All she wanted was to run all the way home and hope that by some measure of grace God would allow her to die tonight so she wouldn’t have to return to school tomorrow. Vicky Jenkins hand on hers stopped her just as she was reaching for the latch. “Where do you think you’re going?” Her voice was accusing.

“Home,” Allison bawled. “I’ll think about how to end my horrible life later.”

“You going to let her win?” Vicky pointed to Marsha who was brushing lips and pushing boys out of the way so fast she looked like a postmaster stamping mail.

“I can’t compete with Marsha Hicks … I never could,” Allison wailed.

“But you can,” Vicky argued. “Whatever  you used to turn up the heat during the auditorium search for it. Find it and pull it out now!”

Allison turned and Marsha was smiling broadly at her while an agitated group of males licked their lips and waited. The gallon jar in front of Marsha was full and she was emptying the bills and coins into a bag that a beaming Miss Wolf was holding out for her. The drama teacher didn’t even glance in Allison’s direction. It was as if Allison were invisible. Suddenly Allison was angry and reached for the thimble-sized Brown Sugar and Vanilla lip gloss that was still buried in her purse.

            “What are you doing?” Vicky looked at her strangely as Allison coated her lips.

            “Applying my war paint!” Allison told her.

Allison noticed several boys sniffing and even Vicky’s nose twitched a little but still there was no rush to her side of the booth. She looked for a boy … anyone who could get things rolling but the crush was all on Marsha’s side. Allison looked at her watch it was already 12:45 and Principal Dunn had only allowed one hour for the fair. ‘It will take at least two hours to clean the lawn,” he had told the faculty. Several boys were beginning to turn away from Marsha and look around but things were going much too slow. If Allison didn’t kiss a boy soon … or anyone right now she was going to lose! Desperate times call for desperate measures and to this day Allison still doesn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was some long buried coming-out-of-the-closet impulse that caused her to grab a startled Vicky Jenkins and kiss her on the lips … but when she did … all Hell broke loose at Cloverdale High.

-------5-------

Melania was asleep in a soft recliner when her eyes suddenly flew open. “I should have expected this,” she muttered as she looked for her coat. “What a time for Johnny … oops I mean Simon to decide to go stray!”

            Five minutes later her garage door rattled up and the 1949 Buick Roadmaster came to life with a rumble. Melania tried to think of all the places Johnny Lang might be and in the end had to rely on her own instincts to find him. I don’t blame the poor girl Melania thought to herself as the classic car turned onto Vineyard road and then roared west toward the desert. All people can be cruel but it takes a rival girl in school to be truly horrible.

A plume of snow arched behind the fire breathing car like a boat’s wake as Cloverdale’s resident witch searched the dark highways of Comanche County looking for the one person who could set things right.

-------6-------

To call the School Fair bedlam would be a vast understatement exploding chaos would be a better word but still understated. Every student in Cloverdale High School watched as a wide-eyed Vicky Jenkins kissed Allison Weatherbee back … and on the lips. “Wow!” Vicky exclaimed as she staggered on wobbly legs after Allison finally pushed her away. “All this time I’ve had my batteries in backwards!”

Greg Johnson was the first to throw a five into Allison’s jar and he punched Luke Jensen in the mouth when he tried to push his way forward with a handful of bills. Allison closed her eyes when Greg kissed her, but heat made her open them quickly when Lewis Cramer bashed Greg in the head with a flaming torch that he had pulled from the ground only seconds before.

Allison could smell smoke and heard the crackle of wood burning.

 She felt like she was being tongue raped when Lewis forced his file-like appendage into her mouth and was only vaguely aware of him dropping his entire wallet into her jar.

It took at least six boys climbing and crawling like monkeys to knock Lewis out of his front row position … by then most of the nearby females had also become affected. Tanya McKinsey slammed Vicky with her purse and yelled “Back off bitch!” before pushing her way toward Allison with eyes overflowing with lustful desire. Miss Wolf pushed her back and then gave her drama student a much too matrimonial come-on look that said what exactly will you do for an A?

The entire football team was fighting each other while the wrestling and track teams ran in circles trying to get in a few blows. Marsha was knocked to the ground and almost trampled as the crowd driven to lustful madness surged forward and broke apart the booth. Allison was pulled from the burning wreckage by three members of the girls’ volleyball team who individually swore to her their never ending devotion and loyalty as they stole kisses and tried to lead her away. She felt groping fingers unfasten the button on her jeans.

One moment Principal Dunn was screaming for everyone to stop the fighting and the next instant he was brushing cheeks with Allison explaining in a whimpering yet somehow hopeful voice that he and his wife were drifting apart and would soon to be divorced.

In the distance sirens could be heard, but Allison held out no hope for an end to the riot … people, ambulance and firemen were just more soon to be infected people coming to join in an out of control passion party. She was knocked to the ground by another surging brawl of lustful desire. Only by crawling on her hands and knees was Allison able to escape the frenzy.

When she found her herself finally free of the madness she sprinted across the street and hid behind Elmer Larson’s apple tree. “What have I done?” she voiced her thoughts out loud.

“It looks like you decided to become a winner!” Allison looked up to see a smiling Johnny Lang leaning against the back of the tree. His brilliant blue eyes and swept-back dark hair took her breath away. It was then she noticed Melania’s Roadmaster idling just down the street. The old woman looked like she was listening to music and seemed to be pre-occupied.

Allison knew what was coming and she looked forward to it … but then she didn’t.  She knew it was the only way to end the madness but the sooner it started the quicker it would finish. And she knew from the past that Johnny Lang was impossible to walk away from without tears and pain in the heart.

She held her breath as Johnny’s lips moved closer to hers. Her heart was racing - pumping her up with desire and she was sure her bra would break both elastic straps. Perhaps hoping it would and wondering what would happen if it did.

Johnny Lang’s lips were electric and Allison felt the tiny cars in all her secret places turn on and rev to redline before racing up and down her legs. Checkered flags were waving in all her most embarrassingly damp and erotic spots. Allison was a child again riding a white pony in a carousel that kept turning faster and faster. She was sinking deeper and deeper into glorious pools of sensual bliss and there was no going back. Suddenly Allison felt warm, wet and wonderful and she was afraid to move … afraid that if she did it would destroy the moment and she wanted it to last … and to never end.

            After an unknown length of time a shadow passed over her even though both her eyes were closed. She felt the oversize ruby ring with the masking tape on the band slip from her finger and was aware of something rising and floating ghostlike above her head. And then with a dull ache the feeling left like a soft summer breeze … and she knew the phantom Johnny Lang was gone.

When a tearful Allison finally opened her eyes a wide-eyed and dumfounded …but thankfully no longer lustful …Vicky stood behind her panting. “What the Hell just happened?” her best friend asked, trying to catch her breath from the run. From over Vicky’s shoulder Allison could see students and faculty milling around on the lawn. No one seemed to realize just what had taken place. A fire-truck was putting out the flames and the mist and rising smoke made it seem as if everyone were just awakening from some kind of ethereal dream. Principal Dunn and Miss Wolf were searching the littered lawn yelling at students and picking up five dollar bills. A black cat crossed the road and slipped behind an old Buick Roadmaster idling next to the curb.

Vicky was nothing if not persistent. “What was all that?” she demanded again.

            “It was the magic of kissing,” Allison whispered.

THE END?