Fiends

Wars’

    I was glad to find that she was not quite as smart as she thought she was.

    ‘CPR stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation. It’s a technique used to revive people who…’

    ‘Oh, that!' She suddenly looked very pleased with herself. And very prim and very superior. Her head dipped from one side to the other while her shoulders oscillated. ‘So, the kitty wasn’t dead. Monica told you she wasn’t dead.’

    ‘Oh, but she was very dead.’

    Monica shook her head. ‘Was not.’

    ‘She was dead, and I brought her back to life with the CPR. Right there in the bathroom. Pretty soon, James came home. I told him what had happened, and he let me have the kitten I’d saved. So I named her Lazzy, short for Lazarus. Do you know who Lazarus was?’

    ‘Of course.’

    ‘Who?’

    ‘None of your business.’

    ‘Whatever you say. Anyway, I brought Lazzy home with me. And do you know what?’

    Monica sneered at me.

    ‘Lazzy never grew any larger after the day I brought her back from the dead. That was six years ago. She has been the size of a little kitty, ever since. So you see, she’s my pet. She’s not part of the litter I want to give away. She’s the mother of the litter.’

    ‘But she’s tinier than they are!’

    ‘And she’s been dead.’

    Monica stared at Lazzy for a long while. Then she turned to me, no longer looking the least bit shaken. ‘She isn’t either the mother. You made the whole thing up just so you could keep the cute one.’ She rushed over to the blanket, snatched up Lazzy and hugged her and kissed the dark brown M on her honey-colored brow.

    ‘Put her down,’ I said.

    ‘No.’

    ‘Don’t make me take her from you.’

    ‘You’d better not.’ She glanced at the kitchen doorway behind me. ‘You’d better get out of my way, or you’ll be in very very bad trouble.’

    ‘Put down Lazzy. You may still take one of the other kittens, but…’

    ‘Get out of the way,’ she said, and walked straight toward me. ‘As soon as you’ve…’

    ‘Mr Bishop said, “Come into my house. I have a little kitty for you.” ’ She halted and leered at me. ‘But when Monica went into his house, he told her a urine story and he took off the towel he was wearing and he said, “This is the little kitty I have for you. His name is Peter.” ’

    I could only gasp, ‘You!’

    ‘And he told me to pet Peter and kiss Peter. I didn’t want to do it, but he grabbed me and…’

    ‘Stop it!’ I blurted, and stumbled sideways out of her way. ‘Take the cat! Take her and get out of here!’

    As she strutted by, taking away my Lazzy, she winked at me. ‘Thank you so much for the kitten, Mr. Bishop.’

    I watched her leave.

    Just stood and stared as she sashayed through the den and stepped over the threshold of the open sliding door. Immediately after setting foot on the concrete, she burst into a run.

    Apparently afraid I might find a smidgen of nerve and attempt to retrieve my cat.

    But I didn’t move a muscle.

    An accusation such as she had threatened to make… How does one disprove such a thing? One doesn’t. Such an accusation, once made, would cling to me like leprous skin for all the days of my life.

    I would forever be known as a pervert, a child-molester.

    So I let her steal my dear Lazzy.

    I stood frozen with terror and let her.

    And from outside came a familiar reeooow! followed by a quick harsh yelp - the sort of yelp a girl might make if the cat in her arms decided to claw its way to freedom - followed by a thudding splash.

    I still stood motionless.

    No longer terrified.

    Amused, actually.

    The poor dear. Fell and got herself all wet.

    Lazzy leaped over the threshold and came scampering through the den, fur abristle over the ridge of her spine, her tiny ears swept back, tail curled up in a small, bushy question mark.

    She slowed down, then rubbed her side against my bare ankle.

    I picked up my tiny little cat. I held her in front of my face with both hands.

    From outside came more splashing sounds.

    Cries of 'Help!’ and ‘Help!’

    Was it possible that Monica’s bag of tricks did not include swimming?

    I dared not get my hopes up.

    There were no more cries for help. I did hear some choky gasps and quite a good deal of splashing, however, before silence replaced the disturbance.

    I carried Lazzy out to poolside.

    Monica was at the deep end. Face down, arms and legs spread out, hair drifting above her head, blouse and jumper shimmering slightly.

    She rather looked like a skydiver enjoying a freefall, waiting for the very last moment to pull her ringcord.

    ‘I suppose I ought to pull her out,’ I told Lazzy. ‘Give her some CPR.’

    Then I shook my head.

    ‘No. Not a good idea - a man my age putting his hands on a ten-year-old girl? What would people say?’

    I headed for the sliding glass door.

    ‘Why don’t we go pay a visit to James? Who knows? Maybe someone will be lucky enough to find Monica while we’re away.’ Lazzy purred, her little body vibrating like a warm engine.

The Bleeder

    The spot of wetness on the sidewalk at Byron’s feet looked purple in the mercury glow of the streetlight. It looked like a drop of blood.

    He squatted down and peered at it. Then he pulled a flashlight out of the side pocket of his sport jacket. He thumbed the switch. In the bright, somewhat yellowish shine of its beam, the spot appeared crimson.

    Might be paint, he thought.

    But who would be wandering around at night dripping red paint?

    He reached down and touched it. Bringing his fingertip close to the flashlight glass, he inspected the red smear. He rubbed it with his thumb. The stuff was kind of watery. Not gooey enough for paint. More like blood that had been spilled very recently.

    He sniffed it.

    He could only smell mustard from the hot dog he’d eaten during the last show, a smell strong enough to overpower blood’s subtle aroma. But it wouldn’t have masked the pungent odor of paint.