Timmy Perkins
and the Pussycat Extravaganza
by Joseph M. Isenberg
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4 |
part 2
After I signed the requisition form, Hargreaves said, “Be careful, Perkins. The breed is rare,”
“Ah,” seemed the safest response.
“If you lose him, you’re on the nail for sixty thousand Impers, m’lad. That’s what the Fleet paid.”
“Yewhat?!” I was beyond shocked. I pushed the box right back and tried to grab at the form.
“The breed is endangered. A few came from the Union of Socialist Collectives as a cultural exchange item. The price is bid up beyond belief,” Hargreaves said.
I didn’t believe it. “That’s two years pay, sirs. I’m not sure I want—”
“Nonsense, m’lad.” Admiral Watson-ffyre pushed the box back at me and gathered up the form. He put it beyond my reach on a shelf. “What could go wrong?”
The cat shook himself loose and wandered over to Watson-ffyre. It flopped onto his lap. The old codger fussed over him. The cat purred blissfully.
“Does the cat have a name, sir?”
“That is a point of contention in IFFI,” Hargreaves said. “Everyone on the staff, myself included, thinks he should be called ‘Reginald.’ He behaves like he owns the place and resembles the fellow who actually does.”
“He damned well does not,” Admiral Watson-ffyre said. He scowled. The change in mood struck the cat, which scowled as well. Watson-ffyre went on. “I think the cat should be called MacGuffin.”
The cat noticed me for the first time and gave me a hateful glare. I really saw the resemblance and agreed with Hargreaves.
“In the end, Perkins,” Hargreaves concluded, “it’s your cat. You can name him.”
“Well, Admiral, I don’t expect you have a monopoly on your name. We may as well call him ‘Reggie MacGuffin.’ C’mere, Reggie.” I drummed my fingers on the table top. Watson-ffyre clearly liked ‘Reggie’ less than he liked ‘Reginald.’ Hargreaves smirked.
Reggie hissed at me and followed with a lunge for my hand, snarling, claws out. I pulled my hand back. Reggie swished his tail back and forth. I slid away from my place at the table.
Reggie settled a bit. For the hell of it, he knocked my pen and my copy of the file off the table. I bent over. Reggie went for my neck when I wasn’t looking. All he got was the collar of my brand-new uniform coat. I shook him off. He hurtled back to his crate. I put my hand back to check for damage. There was no blood. The fabric of the collar was shredded. Tailors could fix it. Somehow, I doubted I could send the bill to IFFI as “expenses.”
“With respect, sirs, Reggie seems not to like me. He adores either one of you. Why don’t you show him?”
“We, Perkins,” Hargreaves answered, “are too well-known. We need someone obscure.”
Reggie emerged from his crate and flopped down in front of me. He blinked once and licked his nether bits.
* * *
Hargreaves opened his file. Watson-ffyre and I followed suit. After the obligatory ‘Top Secret’ cover sheet, the first page was the formal picture of a young man, taken, perhaps, forty years ago.
“This,” Hargreaves began, “is Claude V. Sage, DCVM. Dr. Sage is a very successful doctor. He recently received a knighthood.”
I nodded. “Remind me, sir. Which order of knighthood is abbreviated DCVM?”
Hargreaves said. “That isn’t the knighthood. Sage is a doctor of chiropractic veterinary medicine. He adjusts the house cats of the rich and famous.”
“Do you have a more recent picture?”
“It’s his graduation image, from the chiropractic college,” Watson-ffyre said. “We’re having a hard time getting a good new picture. Turn the page over and you’ll see why.”
I flipped the page. The next photo showed the steps of an office on Planet Home. Dr. Sage was leaving his clinic. His face was covered in bandages. Only one eye peeped out. The area around that eye was bruised and black. Sage was smiling, but short one tooth. His right hand was wrapped in a handkerchief. His left arm was in a cast. He used a crutch and a therapeutic boot.
“Treats our Reggie, does he, sir?”
“Not so far as we know, but he will.”
I thought if IFFI wanted to whack the guy, there were more humane ways to do so.
“The problem, Perkins, is that Sage is busy with a different sort of pussycat. He is fond of wild alcoholic and dope-fueled parties. As you will see, IFFI needs to take an interest. Turn the page over.”
We all turned pages over. Reggie continued licking himself in an inappropriate fashion.
“This, Perkins, is his veterinary assistant, Manfrieda Barleywater, which is an alias. She has a criminal record as long as your arm.”
I wasn’t astonished by the revelation. Manfrieda’s record wasn’t the only thing that was long. Her legs went all the way up to her hips. Her skirt, on the other hand, didn’t go nearly far enough to meet the demand. The picture showed her holding the door. Someone else helped Sage.
Manfrieda was favored in other ways. She was blonde, with curves. I was happily married. I tempered my enthusiasm. I might have referred Froofi and sent Mircea along for an adjustment, to see if there was a bulk discount.
Reggie carried on licking with even more enthusiasm.
“Turn the page over, gentlemen,” Hargreaves said.
The next photo was a better shot of the woman assisting Sage. She was a brunette, perhaps verging on a redhead. That was fine by me. Clarissa is a brunette.
I realize the Ancients said, “Gentlemen prefer blondes,” but I don’t hold with that. I’m only a gentleman by operation of law. I also belong to a faith that has neither bishops nor stained-glass windows. This woman was beautiful enough. If things were different, I would have preferred someone like this to Manfrieda. But I would never kick a hole in anything for this particular gal.
I must have looked shocked. Hargreaves noticed. Watson-ffyre noticed. Even Reggie paused, for a moment. Hargreaves said, “This woman is the receptionist, identity unknown. Do you know her, Perkins?”
“Me, sir? I’ve seen her at Planet Stratford, growing up. She’s my age or a little older.”
Hargreaves said, “That explains a lot. Dig into it. See if you can find anything.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. I thought, Not during this lifetime.
“All three of them have a nice little play group for nobles, the odd serving officer in the Fleet or Army, members of the Imperial Assembly and so on.”
I still didn’t see why IFFI cared. I said as much.
“It gets more complicated. Next page, please.” We all turned the page. I recognized this individual. He was tall, dapper, in his mid-fifties. He went to the same tailor as Hargreaves. He had a cage. The door was turned away. I couldn’t see the patient.
Reggie paused, looked at the picture in my file, hissed and spat at it for good measure. I didn’t begrudge him, even if he made a mess on my file. I wiped it off with my handkerchief.
“Colonel the Most Honorable John Profundity Haldane, Imperial Army, retired,” Watson-ffyre said. “Member of the Imperial House of Delegates, Minister of State for the Army and budgetary obstacle, for our sins, to the Fleet.”
“Is there a Lady Haldane?”
“Yes,” Watson-ffyre said. “She’s been away for the last three years. She wants to find her ‘inner ka energy,’ whatever that is.”
“It must be well-hidden,” I mused.
“Haldane goes every day to Sage’s clinic. Someone must need a lot of adjustments,” Hargreaves said. There followed a number of pictures of Haldane, on his way to or from appointments. Sometimes he carried one cage, sometimes two. Sometimes he had none. I might have pondered this, but Hargreaves had other plans. “Next page, please, gentlemen.”
This picture was of a stout, balding, middle-aged gentleman, in an ill-fitting suit. He stood on the steps of the clinic with a cage.
“Captain Dmitrii Dronkenoff, naval attaché of the Union of Socialist Collectives. We never pegged Dronkenoff for a cat fancier, yet here he is. He shows up every day before Haldane. Their stays overlap. Sometimes he leaves first, sometimes Haldane does. It looks sinister. It probably is sinister.
“The icing on the cake, Perkins, is that both Dronkenoff and Haldane are registered to show cats at the Pussy Extravaganza at Planet New Cornwall next month. Something big is about to go down. We need someone to figure out what that big something is and report back.”
“Someone being me,” I said. “It sounds dangerous.”
“Not at all, m’lad,” Watson-ffyre replied. “Who ever heard of a cat lady riot?”
“I can’t afford it on my own, and if I use expense money, I’ll be obvious.”
“We’ve thought of that, too, m’lad. We have a number of friendly businesses.” Watson-ffyre pulled out a packet from his file. “You’re in the reserves. You need a civilian job. You’ll go as regional sales manager of the Cleverman Gravitic Tractor Company. You can combine the cat show with a trip to build their business and use that as cover. They’ll honor any deals you make, within reason and pay base salary and commission. You can keep that money.”
Reggie MacGuffin paused in his licking for a moment and pawed at one ear.
“He does that a lot. You have an excuse to take him to Sage’s clinic,” Hargreaves said.
I resigned myself. “There’s no way around this for me, is there?”
“Not unless you enjoy the Junior Officers’ Waiting Room, Perkins. You can sit there, indefinitely, or you can go on a nice trip with your family and Reggie MacGuffin,” Hargreaves said.
Reggie MacGuffin snarled at me.
“What if something urgent comes up and I don’t have time to get instructions?”
“Use your discretion.” Hargreaves busied himself herding Reggie into his box. He went willingly. “Here you are, Perkins. Dismissed.”
I stood up. Watson-ffyre and Hargreaves were already working on the next item of their agenda.
* * *
Copyright © 2025 by Joseph M. Isenberg
