When the Cat's Away

“When the Cat’s Away
gleams with wit and insight and that hard-eyed look at a perturbing world that is Kinky Friedman’s trademark.”
—ROBERT B. PARKER

When the Cat’s Away

KINKY FRIEDMAN

“The Damon Runyon of the ’80s”
(New York Woman) is back with the third in a series of mystery novels renowned as much for their wisecracking, cigar-smoking, cat-loving reluctant hero-detective as for their pungent New York-based stories.

And he’s at his funniest and sharpest in
When the Cat’s Away
, which begins with the search for a cat that has mysteriously disappeared from the cat show at Madison Square Garden, a tranquil lovefest populated by cuddly kittens and their adoring but eccentric owners. But when it’s disrupted by the kidnapping of Kinky’s friend’s cat, he promises to help find her.

While searching for this white-pawed wonder with the aid of his modern-day Watson, Ratso, Kinky stumbles into a gang war between Colombian cocaine cartels, a smoldering love affair with a pretty Palestinian, and several rather ghastly murders.

The race to find this friendly kitten’s link to violent murder is vintage Kinky.

By Kinky Friedman

When the Cat’s Away 

A Case of Lone Star 

Greenwich Killing Time

Copyright © 1988 by Kinky Friedman

Lyrics on dedication page are from the song “Autograph” by Kinky Friedman and Panama Red 1975 by Kinky Music Inc. BMI

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to Permissions Department, Beech Tree Books, William Morrow and Company, Inc., 105 Madison Ave., New York,
N.Y. 10016

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Friedman, Kinky.

When the cat’s away / Kinky Friedman, 

p. cm.

ISBN 0-688-07555-X 

I. Title.

PS3556.R527W47 1988    88-13970

813’.54—dc 19    CIP

Printed in the United States of America 

First Edition 123456789 10

BOOK DESIGN BY JAYE ZIMET

The word “book” is said to derive from
boka,
or beech.

The beech tree has been the patron tree of writers since ancient times and represents the flowering of literature and knowledge.

One magic midnight show 

She taught you how it feels 

Once, oh so long ago 

When rock ’n’ roll was real

For Kacey Cohen,

The angel on my shoulder

1

Winnie Katz’s lesbian dance class was like God. Mankind never saw it, but you always knew it was there.

Of course, Moses had seen God. In the form of a burning bush, interestingly enough. Then he took two tablets and went to bed.

There are people who have seen God since, but we have a place for them. It is called Bellevue and the area around it, for a twenty-block radius, is regarded as having one of the highest violent-crime rates in the city. That’s because it’s impossible to tell who’s insane in New York.

Every seven minutes they let a perfectly normal-looking guy out of Bellevue. He walks a block or two, buys a pretzel on the street, asks somebody what time it is, then has a flashback to the Peloponnesian War. He takes out a Swiss Army knife and cuts some Korean woman’s head off. Uses the wrong blade. The one you’re supposed to cut nose hairs with. Of course, it isn’t his fault.

Not everybody’s had the opportunity to be in the Swiss Army.

I listened to the rhythmic thuddings in the loft above me. I wondered what the hell was really going on up there. If somebody’s wayward daughter from Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, was being broken down like a double-barreled shotgun, it’d be a hell of a lot of early ballroom lessons gone to waste. On the other hand, what did I know about modern dance?

It was a chilly evening in late January and I was sitting at my desk just sort of waiting for something besides my New Year’s resolutions to kick in. If you’re patient and you wait long enough, something will usually happen and it’ll usually be something you don’t like. I poured a generous slug of Jameson Irish whiskey into the old bull’s horn that I sometimes used as a shotglass. I killed the shot.

Like my pal McGovern always says: gets rid of the toothpaste taste.

I was dreaming the unisexual dreams of the everyday houseperson, when the phones rang. There are two red telephones in my loft, both connected to the same line, at stage left and stage right of my desk. When you’re sitting at the desk they ring simultaneously on either side of what you’re pleased to call your brain. While this may upgrade the significance of any incoming wounded you’re likely to receive, it can also make you want to jump into your boots and slide down the pole.

I woke with a start, which was a good thing. Daydreaming while smoking cigars can be a fire hazard. It can be as dangerous as drugs and booze unless you know what you’re doing. If you know what you’re doing, it can be as safe as walking down the street. Long as you’re not daydreaming within a twenty-block radius of Bellevue.

2

I watched the phones ring for a while. I’d been dreaming about a girl in a peach-colored dress. Another couple of rings wasn’t going to hurt anybody. I took a leisurely puff on the cigar and picked up the blower on the left.

“Spit it,” I said.

A woman was sobbing on the other end of the line. I tried to identify her by her sob but I couldn’t. Maybe it was a wrong number.

Finally, the voice collected itself somewhat and said, “Kinky. Kinky. This … this is Jane Meara.” Jane Meara was a friend of mine, a pretty, perky, intelligent girl and one of the authors of the book
Growing Up Catholic
. At the moment it didn’t sound like she’d grown up at all.

Grieving women are not my long suit. I have found, however, that a direct, almost gruff demeanor is usually quite effective. Anyway, it was all I had in stock.

“Jane,” I said, “pull yourself together. What the hell’s the matter? Your guppies die?”

This, apparently, broke the dam. A heartfelt wail was now coming down the line. I put the blower down on the desk. I puffed several times rapidly on my cigar. When I picked up again it was just in time to hear Jane saying, “I wish, I wish my guppies
had
died.”

“C’mon, Jane,” I said, “what is it? You’re cuttin’ into my cocktail hour.”

I could hear her shoulders stiffen. She sniffled a few more times. Then she said, “My cat’s disappeared.”

“Relax, Jane,” I said. “We’ll get it back. What’s the cat’s name?”

“Rocky.”

“What’s he look like?”

“It’s a she.”

“Fine.”

I got the pertinent details from Jane. Rocky was yellow and white with four white paws. According to Jane she “looked like she was wearing sweat socks.” Rocky’d disappeared—vanished into thin air—right in the middle of a cat show at Madison Square Garden. Jane had stepped away for just a moment and when she’d returned the cage was empty and the cat was gone.