“Maybe we should ask Odelia to buy us all electric toothbrushes and brush our teeth every night from now on?” Dooley suggested.
I bridled at the thought of a human sticking a toothbrush into my mouth. Then again, more sharp knives and pliers wasn’t a pleasant prospect either, so instead I said, “Let’s ask her. Though between four cats and her own teeth, Odelia will have a lot of work.”
“They could divvy up the work. Gran could brush my teeth, Odelia could do yours, Marge Harriet’s and Chase or Tex could brush Brutus’s teeth. And then we’ll never have to go to Vena ever again.”
I had to agree he was onto something. If I never had to set foot in Vena’s house of horrors ever again, I was a happy cat, even if I had to give up a big chunk of my dignity by having a human brush my teeth for me.
“If we do this, though,” I said, “you have to promise me never to tell a soul.”
“And why is that?”
“Can you imagine what cats will say? We’ll be the laughingstock of the town.”
“Because we care about dental hygiene?”
“Because they will laugh at us.”
“But why?”
“Because cats don’t brush their teeth, okay? We just don’t.”
“Well, we should,” he said stubbornly. “So maybe we’ll be pioneers.”
I smiled.“Maybe we will.”
Frankly I didn’t know what the big deal about dental hygiene was either. Nowadays with all the pampering going on, and kitties getting massages, and saunas, and facials, and pedicures and manicures, why not add brushing teeth to the mix? Take Pussy, for instance. She was a bona fide Instagram star, and no one laughed at her. On the contrary, cats admired her, and aspired to live the kind of life she lived. So maybe Dooley was right, and I should put aside my petty prejudices and allow Odelia to brush my teeth.
And I was still thinking about this when suddenly a panel van stopped right next to us and two men jumped out.“I’ll take the fat one, you take the midget,” a big, bearded man announced. And before we knew what hit us, we’d both been scooped up into some kind of fishing net, and deposited in the back of the van. The doors were slammed shut and then we were off, being taken to a destination unknown.
Though I had a pretty good idea what that destination could be, and so did Dooley, judging from his next words, spoken in visible and audible distress.
“Max, they’re taking us to the pound!”
Chapter 14
Jacob Turner, mayor of Hampton Cove, pounded the table with his fist.“Where’s my Duffer! I want my slice of Duffer!”
Lewis Ferries, who would be his server today, came running.“I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor, but we’re all out of Duffers, I’m afraid.”
“Then get me some from the Duffer Store,” said the Mayor, showcasing the keen intelligence your local politician needs.
He was having lunch at Fry Me For An Oyster, conveniently located around the block from Town Hall, and had ordered his usuaclass="underline" a slice of Duffer as an amuse-bouche.
This was his daily routine, and one from which he hadn’t varied since beginning his stint as Hampton Cove’s mayor.
“I’m afraid they’re all out, too, Mr. Mayor,” said the server, wringing his hands.
“Get me the manager!” the mayor yelled, never satisfied with dealing with underlings when he could be dealing with the brass.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor, sir,” said the server, hurrying away.
The mayor, a sixty-something man of impressive proportions, pulled at his white mustache. It was this mustache that had played an important part in his career. Even as a young man the mustache had lent its hitherto hapless owner prestige and a certains?rieux, and when that mustache had suddenly turned from its original mustard color to a distinguished white, as had his hair and sideburns, that prestige had grown with leaps and bounds. One look at the Turner mustache and voters knew that here was a man they could trust. A man in whose hands they could safely place their future. It had been thus when he’d been a lowly bank teller at the First National Bank of Long Island, where people entrusted him with their hard-earned paycheck, and it had been so when he’d gone into politics and had reached the pinnacle of his political career by becoming mayor of his town, twenty-five years ago today. The only thing that hadn’t changed in all those years, except the volumeof his mustache, was the nature of his favorite salami.
He liked his Duffer and he liked it on a daily basis.
Wallace Banio, the ma?tre d’ at Fry Me For An Oyster, had arrived and was clasping his hands in front of his white apron. He was a nervous little man with a nervous little black mustache, and looked even more nervous now. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mayor,” he said.
“Stop saying you’re sorry!” said the Mayor. “I want my Duffer and I want it now!”
He’d resumed his habit of pounding the table with his fist, and the sound made the ma?tre d’ flinch. Other customers were already turning in their seats and staring in their direction. And a disgruntled mayor could very well be the kiss of death for a five-star establishment like the Fry Me For An Oyster, especially in these troubled times, when competition was relentless and restaurants popped up like a rash all over the place.
“I’ll try and wrangle one up for you, Mr. Mayor. Please bear with me. Five minutes.”
He hurried away, already taking his phone out of his pocket. Surely there was a Duffer somewhere he could supply to this most distinguished customer.
“Hello, is this the Duffer Store? Yes, this is Wallace Banio, ma?tre d’ of Fry Me For An Oyster. Mayor Turner is one of our patrons today, and he wants a Duffer. Yes, the XXL.”
“I’m very sorry, Wallace,” said the voice on the other end, after identifying itself as belonging to Colin Duffer himself. “But we’re all out of Duffers right now. As soon as the new stock arrives I’ll send over a box of the XXL with my personal compliments.”
“You don’t understand, Colin. If I don’t get the Mayor a slice of his favorite salami right this minute, he’ll go nuts! The man has been gorging on Duffers every day for the past twenty-five years and he’s become superstitious about it. If he misses even a single day he thinks it will be the end of his mayoralty!”
“I’m sorry, Wallace. Like I said, we’re all out.”
“One Duffer, Colin! Just give me one Duffer. Half a Duffer! A single slice! Please!”
But Colin had disconnected. The ma?tre d’ returned to the Mayor’s table, with lead in his shoes. “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Mayor,” he said, sweat trickling down his spine, “but they’re all out.”
“Not even a slice?” asked the Mayor, suddenly losing a lot of his bluster.
“Not even a slice.”
“But surely…”
The ma?tre d’ shook his head mournfully. “Alas.”
“Oh, no,” said the Mayor, his fingers reaching for his mustache. “This can’t be happening.”
“I’m afraid it is.”
“I’m not going to get my slice today, am I?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“I haven’t missed my daily slice in twenty-five years, Wallace, do you realize that?”
“I do realize that, Mr. Mayor.”
The mayor stared at the white hair he’d just pulled from his mustache with a horrified expression, then allowed it to fall from his limp fingers and flutter to the nice oak wood floor below. He reached for his mustache and pulled at the next hair. Wallace eyed it with a wealth of feeling. Before him sat a broken man, and they both knew it.
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]
“We need new Duffers, Chris,” said Colin the moment he put down the phone. “Even the Mayor is starting to make a fuss.”
“You know as well as I do that the meat has to cure,” said Chris. “Which takes time.”
“How long?” asked Colin, even though he knew the answer as well as his brother did.
“We’re still collecting the ingredients, fine-tuning the machines. Two weeks at least.”
Colin thought about this for a moment. The meat had to cure, that was the key, and they needed to add their secret ingredients to create the exact mix their grandfather had perfected, the recipe of which had been handed down from generation to generation. That would take another couple of days, and only then could they start creating their uniquely flavored Duffers, which came in three sizes: the M, the X and the XL. And for very special customers, like the Mayor and other dignitaries, they also created the XXL.