D.b. Hayes, Detective

I tried not to shake as I took it from his hand, but my legs were emulating gelatin just like my insides. He knew it, I was sure. It probably gave him some sort of salacious thrill to go around scaring people by being polite. Let it. I just wanted him gone.

Less than a minute later he was.

“Well,” Trudy said, coming to stand in the open doorway. “He wasn’t much for conversation, was he?”

I sank down in the swivel chair and it tilted precariously until I readjusted my weight.

“Is everything all right, dear?” Aunt Lacy asked, coming into view, as well.

“Terrific. He even paid me.”

Except, how had he known what to pay? For the first time I really looked at the check in my sweaty palm. Once again my heart began to pound.

“He overpaid.”

“That’s nice, dear.”

“No it isn’t. It’s terrible. Now I have to call Mr. Russo and return the extra three hundred forty-seven dollars he overpaid.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that, dear. A man like Mr. Russo can afford to tip generously.”

“Tip? You think it’s a tip?” When he read my report and saw I’d lost them at the motel, he’d want more than his “tip” back.

“At least he didn’t shoot anyone,” Trudy said glibly as the two of them moved out into the workroom.

No. That would come after Mr. Russo read the report. I’d placed an itemized bill right on top. He’d know exactly how much he’d overpaid. I closed my eyes and groaned.

“Dee?” Trudy called out. “There’s a young man up front to see you.”

Now what? I wasn’t sure I could put on a friendly, professional face right now. I felt sick. It wasn’t wise to mess with gangsters. I should have listened to Aunt Lacy and Trudy right from the start and turned the job down.

I stuffed the check inside the desk drawer and squared my shoulders before going out to meet the newcomer. Once again I had to look down before I spotted him.

“Mickey!”

He was dressed in green shorts and a striped top today, but other than that he looked exactly the same. The same amazing chocolate-brown eyes looked up at me with an expression of hope mixed with fear.

“Did you find him?”

“I think so,” I told him. “Actually I found two cats. I’m not sure which one is Mr. Sam.”

“I gave you a picture,” he said, sounding disgusted.

“Yeah,” I said trying not to be defensive, “but he’s gray. So are these two guys.”

He looked around the shop and started toward the back. “Where are they?”

“At my place. Come on, I’ll give you a ride over and take you home afterward.”

Doubt filled his expression.

“I’m not allowed to ride in cars with strangers.”

Great. A kid who actually listened to his parents.

“You’ll have to bring them here,” he told me, sounding extremely adult.

I didn’t even have to think about that. The back of my hand was still smarting from the last set of scratches.

“How old did you say you are?”

“Ten.”

Going on thirty, I decided uncharitably.

“If you’re ten then you’re old enough to understand the difference between getting in a car with a stranger and getting in a car with me. I work for you, remember?”

He thought about that before standing a little straighter.

“Okay, but what about my bike?”

“Trudy, would it be okay if I take the van over to my apartment for a few minutes? My client and I need to pick up a cat.”

“No problem. We don’t have any deliveries until later this afternoon.”

“Thanks. This will only take a few minutes.” To the boy I asked, “How were you going to get him home on your bike?” If those cats had seemed frantic in a car, I could just imagine their reaction to a bicycle.

“I attached a basket to my handlebars and brought the cat carrier with me,” he explained.

Reaching down, he picked up a small carrier that had been on the floor at his feet, out of my line of sight. Based on its size, Sam One was the missing cat. Sam Two would have needed a shoehorn.

I secured the bike in the back of the van and drove the short distance to my apartment. I’d be glad to have those animals gone before the super realized they were inside the building.

“What happened to your hand?” Mickey asked.

“Mr. Sam. He doesn’t like cars.”

“Most cats don’t,” the kid said philosophically. “I hope you put something on that. Cat scratches can be dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?” I asked nervously.

“You know, germs and stuff.”

“Right.” Germs and stuff. No good deed goes unpunished, as Trudy is fond of saying. In this case, I devoutly hoped she was wrong. If I got an infection because of that stupid cat, I was not going to be happy.

Mickey tensed a little as we started walking into my building a few minutes later. I hated to go against the smart conditioning his parents had put on him, but I was not going to go up there and try to cage that little monster by myself. He’d had all the skin he was going to get off my body.

I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door carefully. No blur of gray came running out to greet us.