Vincent sighed. He had yet to have a merry Christmas.
On his way to the Old Town, Vincent noticed the houses along the way. A few were draped with colored strings of lights, some flickering, some not. None of them approached the grandiosity of Division Avenue, but they evoked emotions nevertheless. He thought back to his first Christmas five years earlier.
He was only a few months old, and living with a carcass of a man who made his way in life as a personal injury attorney. The man had decided, in a drunken rage, to visit an opposing counselor and took Vincent along for the ride. While the attorney spent most of the night cursing the man from outside his house, Vincent sat in the car watching the Christmas lights along the street flash on and off. When they arrived home, Vincent was left, forgotten, in the backseat of the car amid legal briefs and empty beer bottles. Finally the man returned for him, but not before Vincent had had an accident on the floor of the car.
Vincent recalled the rest of that night with a shudder. No one should have to spend their first Christmas alive like that. And the next two years were not much better. The lawyer became increasingly violent as his life deteriorated from alcohol abuse. Often finding himself at the business end of a counterfeit Bruno Magli, Vincent developed quick reflexes, but he never raised a polydactyl paw against the man. Through all the injustices suffered at his hands, Vincent still felt pity for him. But not enough to stick around forever.
The best day of my life, Vincent thought, was squeezing through that barely open window and leaving the drunk to die miserable and alone. He looked at the lights twinkling in front of him now and put the memory behind him. The first three years of his life were barely worth remembering. They were not without merit, though. Without all the drunken abuse, I would not be the streetwise, tough guy I am now, would I? Vincent thought. But do I really need to be a tough guy? All I ever really wanted was a warm place to sleep and a family… a family that doesn't kick me around the room for fun.
That's not too much to ask for, is it? Vincent wondered, looking up into the dark sky above.
Vincent looked both ways and crossed Ruston Way, arriving at the old Tacoma waterfront. He meandered between the bustlingf alehouses that now lined the shore to the kluges of rotting pier pilings, remnants of Tacoma's golden days as a proud port city. Carefully, he crawled down to the craggy rocks among the pilings, rocks that had claimed the lives of too many cats. Slimy stone and frigid tides were not a feline's best friend.
Still, he liked coming here when business was not involved. He remembered the stories he had heard of the old neighborhood, full of colorful longshoremen unloading the freighters coming in from parts unknown. Now these old docks were the refuge of the occasional homeless person, or in this case, a rogue gang of fish-poaching Vietnamese felines.
It was these poachers, the Phuong brothers, to whom Vincent owed this late night visit. Vincent's boss, Rolfondo of Washington, had given them permission to intercept a small shipment of prawns destined for the Tacoma fish markets. They had turned a tidy profit on the job, but were very delinquent in paying Rolfondo his proper percentage. Weeks had passed, and it was time for Vincent to deliver a reminder. He had been doubly gifted at birth with immunity to catnip and with polydactylism: six claws on each paw. These gifts, combined with reflexive skills learned at the foot of the trial attorney, had earned him a title within the Tacoma family and the respect of cats as far south as Los Angeles. He was the only collector-enforcer in the family, capable of bringing in an ounce of 'nip at a time, impervious to its effect, an effect that made simpering blobs of lesser collectors.
This was Vincent's specialty. The three Phuong brothers had arrived from Vietnam on a container ship sailing under the flag of China. While True was testing the waters with Rolfondo's family, the other brothers started trading in foreign baubles and exotic fish. After True's return, they moved primarily into the catnip business and became one of the more notorious gangs in the city.
Amid the pier pilings Vincent now struggled through, they had found a secure niche at the base of a much-decayed concrete foundation and constructed an impressive fortress of some of the strongest crates in the business.
As he approached their enclave, Vincent gave his signature high-pitched warbling mewl, and waited. He watched carefully for any signs of movement. Though the brothers had recently become their own best customers, they were still dangerous. Personal history aside, True could still make trouble for Vincent.
A face appeared above one of the crates. Tran Phuong, the family deal-maker. Strictly business, Tran was the cat Vincent wanted to deal with.
"Ah, Vinnie the Craw!" Tran said, his accent mutilating Vincent's street name.
"Vincent of Tacoma, Tran." Vincent sighed. He had never liked his moniker, "The Claw," but it was tradition and held an air of respect.
"Okay, Vinnie. You don't come around to say Merry Christmas, yes?"
"No, Tran. I come to say you still owe for the prawn job. You are very overdue."
"Oh, payment, yes. Let me see here." Tran disappeared.
Vincent heard whispering and approached the fortress. The Phuong brothers didn't always play fair.
Lesser collectors had returned from their turf with scars to show for it. He crouched and peered inside.
Scattered about were twigs of pine, folded into absurd wreaths bound with soiled crimson ribbon and decorated with bottle caps. In the center of the place was an old cinderblock where two chipped sake cups sat, filled with cold tea.
A Vietnamese Christmas, Vincent thought. Good for them.
Another face appeared. Much larger than Tran, it was True.
"Hello, True," Vincent said pensively. "Is Loc in there with you too?"
"Loc? Oh yes, he is sleeping," True said smiling. "He is waiting for Santa Crause. You came for 'nip, Vinnie, but… we have none. You know how it is right now. We…"
Vincent interrupted him. "You guys have had five weeks. No 'nip in a month? C'mon, I know you better than that."
Tran popped up behind True. There was a slight daze in his eyes. His head rolled to one side as he looked at Vincent. He's high, Vincent thought. So much for no 'nip. At least he won't be much trouble.
"Vinnie," True said. "It is hard times. Not much 'nip come by the old docks right now. Not even dirt weed. We promise, after New Year's, we pay up." Not in the mood to bargain, Vincent stretched, opening his claws wide, and looked at True. True's head hung lower, his eyes half-open. Holy Morris, Vincent thought, they are both high. Definitely not much trouble.
Vincent yowled and leapt at True, swiping a claw just above his head. True lifted a claw in defense, but was too late. Vincent's claw nicked True's ear, drawing blood. True whined from the attack.
Vincent landed behind Tran and easily pushed him aside with his forepaws. He faced True.
"Vinnie, please," True said staggering, "for old times sake."
And Vincent saw something in True's eyes. Something familiar. A silent request, almost desperate, for compassion and leniency.
Vincent shuddered. He knew that look; it was his own, many years ago. It was the same soft plea he had given the attorney years earlier, before being booted across the floor by the drunk.
Vincent sympathized with the emotion behind True's pitiful gaze. Why, he thought, should tonight be the same for the Phuong brothers as it was for me? Roughing these guys up, on Christmas Eve, of all nights. To what benefit? They are sitting down to have some cold tea and wait for Santa Grause and I have to screw it all up because they are too stupid or lazy to keep a couple grams of catnip out of their noses.
"You guys gotta pay up soon, you know," Vincent said.
"Vinnie, of course. I promise. I make it up to you."
How does the billboard go? Vincent thought. You can break the cycle.
"Okay, not tonight." He looked at their silly grins and smiled. "Merry Christmas, Phuong brothers."