Sam Spayed and the Persian's Eye (494 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 1.63 on 11 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Oscar Z Acosta (View user info) at 2008-02-17 14:24:13 EST
By the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp I look at my watch. The time is just after quarter past three. That means that it's at least two minutes since the last time I looked. Time drags when you're awake at this time in the morning.
I peer from my hiding place at the building opposite. 'Sakato's Superior Sushi' is painted in large bold letters over a picture of a grinning fish. Can't think why it's grinning, the weather is foul.
A cold wind is whipping in from the Bay and the street is slick with the rain that has just finished falling from the low clouds that hide the night sky. The few working streetlamps do little to lighten the scene, which is a dull monotone. That's black and white to you bud. So what's new? Us cats haven't got colour vision anyway.
I glance at my watch again. It's a gift from a grateful client - it's cheap but it works. Personally I'd have been happier if he'd just paid me. It's now not quite twenty past, which means I've been crouched in this phone box for over an hour. If the cats I'm waiting for don't show soon then I'm going to have words with my source when I catch up with him.
I pull the collar of my trench coat up so that it almost reaches the brim of my fedora. That doesn't stop the wind knifing through the small gap and rubbing the fur on the back of my neck up the wrong way. Hey! Reasons to be cheerful. I try to remember a worse stakeout. I come up empty.
I decide that I'll give it 'til half past. If there's nothing doing by then, then even the two hundred dollars I've been promised for solving this case isn't going to keep me in this glass sided excuse for a refrigerator. I try to keep warm by thinking of the ways I'm going to make Scuzi suffer if his tip doesn't pan out.
Once more with the watch. Two minutes 'til half past. My patience goes and I pull open the phone booth door to follow it. The courtesy light doesn't come on for the simple reason that I've unscrewed from it's fitting - I didn't want to give away my presence. I'm reaching up to repair the damage I've done when I hear a truck turn on to the street. I duck back into the booth on pull the door shut behind me.
I watch as a beat up old Ford growls up the street in low gear. I know that this has got to be my boys because no one on legitimate business drives around at this time of night with their headlights turned off. As the truck draws level with me it slows down even more. I draw further back into the shadows so that I'm not spotted. I needn't have bothered because the occupants of the truck cab are all looking the other way.
They're eyeing up the warehouse and, more particularly, the padlocked gates that separate it from the street. I see that there are three of them so I know that there won't be any heroics from me tonight - not that heroics is my game anyway. I'm not keen on physical pain, especially my own, and the pay in this job just doesn't make it worthwhile.
With a crash of gears the truck labours away. I ease the tension in my back by flexing my shoulder blades and then I stretch my legs to loosen the muscles. When the truck comes back I'll need to keep still. I don't want to spook the guys in it and waste the discomfort I've put myself through - and I don't know when, or if, I'll get another crack at these guys.
Sure enough, after a couple of minutes the truck reappears from the same corner it came from earlier. This time it drives up to the gates with much more purpose. Just down from where I'm watching it stops and the passenger side door swings open. A cat jumps on to the street and sprints over to the mesh gate. He pulls a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters from under his jacket and makes short work of the padlock chain. I can hear the sharp retort of a metal link being severed. He's joined by one of his partners in crime and together they yank open the gates. The third guy guns the engine and the truck moves into the yard. It disappears round the back of the warehouse followed by the cat with the bolt cutters. The second cat swings the gates to, then wraps the ends of the broken chain round them to make it look like nothing is wrong. He fades into the gloom as well. I've got to admit to being impressed - these cats are smooth. I can see why they'd been making monkeys out of the police for so long.
I give the thieves a couple of minutes to get into the warehouse and get their sticky little paws onto the merchandise before I pick up the handset and make my call. There were six rings then a voice says, "BAPD, Thirteenth Precinct, how-may-we-help-you?"
"I'd like to talk to Lt. Purrvis," I say. There's no need to whisper the thieves can't hear me.
"Trying to connect you. Could you tell me who's calling please?" The voice asks.
Me and Purrvis don't have what you'd call a smooth working relationship. I know that if I give the telephonist my name to pass on then the chances are that Purrvis will be too busy to talk.
"Tell the Lieutenant that I know where the Warehouse Bandits are," I say. "Right at this very minute."
I know this will get his attention. As I've already mentioned this bunch of raiders have been evading the city's finest for quite some time. The Mayor was getting heat from the Chamber of Commerce. Which meant that the Chief of Police was getting heat from the Mayor's Office. Which meant that the Precinct Captains were getting it in the neck from the Chief of Police. And this meant that good old Lt. Purrvis was having is ulcer aggravated by his Captain.
Sure enough, after a few seconds, "Purrvis here!"
"Good morning lieutenant," I greet him brightly.
If you could hear the temperature drop then the silence on the other end of the line sounded like the finale to the '1812' by Beethoven.
"What do you want, Spayed?" He finally growls.
There was no time for witty repartee so I come right out with it. "Sakato's Superior Sushi, pier 31. They've just gone in so I reckon you've got about fifteen minutes to get down here."
I can almost hear him struggling for a put down but in the end his need to make an arrest is too great so instead he slams down the receiver trying to deafen me.
I look at the dead handset with a smile on my face.
"Thank you for your information Mr. Spayed. You're welcome, just doing my duty as a law-abiding citizen Lt. Purrvis," I think to myself.
You'd think he'd be a little more grateful seeing as how I'd probably just pushed him a couple of rungs up the promotion ladder.
I settle myself down for the wait. Not that I expect it to be too long. Arresting the self styled Warehouse Bandits will end an embarrassing seven month crime spree so the police will be swarming all over the place in next to no time.
I keep glancing at my watch to make sure that time is passing. The minute hand creeps round. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. I begin to wonder if the police want to catch these guys after all. Where are they? You'd have thought that there would be wall to wall squad cars by now.
Finally, after nineteen minutes, the cavalry arrive; but a swarm it is not. Two black and whites come from one direction and two from the other. A dull sedan follows these. I'm relieved to see that they've managed to resist the temptation to draw up sirens blaring and lights flashing. The cars come to a stop and a total of eight uniforms and two plain-clothes guys get out on to the street. I recognize the two plainclothes guys as being my old friend Lt. Purrvis and his sidekick Sgt. Mogg. I leave the shelter of the phone booth, wincing as I step out fully into the icy wind. I go over to Purrvis.
"Glad you could make it," I say to him.
Then, nodding at his assembled troops I add, "Sure you could spare the men?"
He gives me a glare and growls, "O.k. Spayed; the real law is here now. Just keep out of the way."
I'm glad to oblige. I retreat back into the shelter of the phone booth so as I can watch the police go about their business in a bit of comfort. There's not much to watch as all the action takes place behind and in the warehouse. The ten cops sneak through the gate and out of sight. There are a couple of minutes of silence then I hear Purrvis on the bullhorn telling the crooks to give up. More silence then I see lights waving about through the buildings windows. There's some bangs and crashes as the police bust in. Then some muffled shouting mixed in with the sounds of running paws and the grunts and groans of a struggle.
I didn't hear one sound for which I was grateful. There was no gunfire. I may be in a line of work where you'd think a gun was necessary, but I don't carry one. Lot's of my professional colleagues do and can't understand why I don't. The answer is simple. When you've got a gun in your hand it makes you feel invulnerable. You've got an answer to whatever the bad guys throw at you, so you don't have to think. The problem with that is that the bad guys have got guns too and they feel exactly the same way. And if you solve your problems with a gun then the solution tends to be permanent even after you realise that the problem wasn't.
Before the cops could come out with their captives my attention was diverted by the sound of what was happening down the street. Headlights on full, engines revving several cars are tearing towards me. They all arrive together with much squealing of brakes and how they avoid each other is a miracle. The cars empty and I realise what is going on when I see all the cameras. My suspicions are confirmed when I recognise one of the cats on the street as 'Scoop' Purrkins, ace city beat reporter on the Bay Area Gazette. The press has arrived.
I step out onto the sidewalk. 'Scoop' sees me and hurries across. Over the noise of even more cars arriving to add to the number of reporters and photographers milling around he asks me, "Is it true?"
"Is what true?" I answer, watching the crowd grow.
"We got a call from the Chief of Police's press office telling us to get down here and witness the arrest of the Warehouse Bandits," he says.
"Well you won't see that because it's already happened," I say, "but if you're quick, and you don't get trampled in the stampede, you'll get a quote from Lt. Purrvis over there as to how it happened."
'Scoop' looks up at the warehouse gates and sees Lt. Purrvis emerging with his men and the prisoners. 'Scoop' gives me an apologetic look then hurries over to where the police are getting back into their cars. If he wants to get close enough to Purrvis for a useable quote he'll have to be quick because there are now more pressmen than policemen.
I wait for the huddle of reporters to finish their questions and then get back in their cars. They'll never get back in time for the first edition but if they race back to their newsrooms they may get the story in shape for the second edition.
When they've roared off I walk over to Sgt. Mogg without trying to let Purrvis see me. Mogg is much easier to wheedle than Purrvis and so if I want any inside information it's him I'm going to have to talk to.
"Morning Sergeant," I say after I've sidled up to him.
Mogg starts and turns to me.
"Morning Sam," he replies.
He looks nervous and edgy, so I know something is up - but before I can start to grill him the Lieutenant spots us and hurries across.
"O.k. Sergeant, let's load them up," he orders.
Then turning to me he says, "Fun's over now Spayed, you can go home."
I toy with the idea of grilling Purrvis but know it will be pointless. Instead I just annoy him a bit by saying, "Good job Lieutenant; you must be very pleased with this night's work."
The look he gives me says it all. He isn't pleased at all. He knows that he couldn't have made the arrest without me and knows that his superiors know that as well. He thinks I do this sort of thing to deliberately show him up. I don't. It's just that when it comes to smarts, I've got more of them than him.
`He's also irritated because for him the rest of the night will be a pile of paperwork, endless cups of cold coffee and maybe a lukewarm burger for breakfast that'll give him gas. Whereas me; I can look forward to a few hours sleep, a nice big reward for my efforts and maybe a slap-up meal at a swanky restaurant to celebrate.
I watch him get into his car and drive off, followed by the four squad cars and their loads. Then I walk the two hundred yards down the street to where I've left my car. Like me it's battered round the edges and has seen better days; but also like me it's kind of reliable and so useful to keep around. During all the excitement the time has flown and now it's nearly half past four. I toy with the idea of going back to my apartment but can't muster the enthusiasm - I remember the state I'd left it in - so I get in the car and head for my office.
It takes twenty minutes to drive downtown and during the ride I realise how beat I am. Not for the first time I think to myself that I'm getting too old for this game. I need to get out.
I draw up to the sidewalk outside my office and turn off the engine. I open the car door and step on to the sidewalk. I stretch and hear various bones in my back and neck pop. I shut the car door. In this neighbourhood the hoods can steal your hubcaps while the car is still moving so I don't bother to lock it. I've come to a financial arrangement with the local gang leader and now they guard the car instead of using it as a spare part dump.
I cross the sidewalk and open a door - not locked, same principle - shoehorned into the wall between a pawnbroker's shop with not much to sell and an all night launderette that could do with a clean itself. Once through the door I fumble in the dark for the light switch. I find it and flick it down. The bulb that comes on does little to brighten the gloom, not that there is nothing much here to see. I climb a flight of stairs and make my way down shabby corridor at the top of them. At the end of the corridor is a half-panelled glass door the scuffed writing on which announces to the world who I am and what I do. As I know both these facts I push open the door and step into the front half of my domain. I make quick count of the furniture - one, two, three, four, and five - and know that nothing has been stolen. There is a ragged and overstuffed couch on which my clients can sit and wait, 'though this doesn't happen that often these days. There is a large imposing desk, with a matching swivel chair neatly tucked in behind it. The desk is bare except for a telephone. I tell myself that this is down to Kitty McClore, my secretary, who is the ministering angel who makes sure that both my paperwork and myself are in order. In reality it's because, with the successful conclusion of the Warehouse Bandit job, I've not got any other clients. This lack of employment is born out by the last two things in the room, a pair of filing cabinets, which don't contain more than some old bills and a couple of empty bottles.
I shamble to the other side of the room and through the door to my inner sanctum. The only thing of interest to me in this room is the sagging leather sofa against one wall. Just a quick catnap I'm telling myself. Who am I kidding? I reckon I'm asleep before I've finished making myself comfortable.
(part 2 to come....possibly)
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2008-02-19 00:36:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
HI CAPN THORNS
Submitted by corn_nugget (user info) at 2008-02-18 15:32:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
I wish you would have had a conclusion here. I feel like I just read all of that for no reason.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-02-18 11:26:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This was good, but I felt that this paragraph was redundant and detracted from the atmosphere.
"The look he gives me says it all. He isn't pleased at all. He knows that he couldn't have made the arrest without me and knows that his superiors know that as well. He thinks I do this sort of thing to deliberately show him up. I don't. It's just that when it comes to smarts, I've got more of them than him."
Submitted by sick.little.weasel (user info) at 2008-02-18 00:10:55 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
just not sure how i feel about cats doing human stuff. plus i couldnt get through much of this.
Submitted by HurtByTheSun (user info) at 2008-02-17 23:28:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
Long and not brilliant, but well written I suppose.
Submitted by Ltap (user info) at 2008-02-17 22:46:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
It was too long, but I'd feel bad to break the +2 streak.
Submitted by RyuFu (user info) at 2008-02-17 22:36:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
WTFINRATMF
have a +2
Submitted by HellRazer (user info) at 2008-02-17 20:59:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Jesus that was long. (That's what she said!) *rimshot*
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2008-02-17 19:02:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
You owe me, Oscar.
Submitted by Jeanneee (user info) at 2008-02-17 17:17:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
More.
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2008-02-17 16:29:02 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
i didn't read this, i just felt bad it had no reviews after being up for so long.