What begins as a neighborly concern over a missing cat slowly unravels into something far darker in Six-Toed Ollie by Michael A. Black. Equal parts suspenseful, gritty, and unexpectedly heartwarming, this story delivers sharp storytelling, memorable characters, and one heroic six-toed feline you won’t soon forget.
I noticed Six-Toed Ollie sleeping on the roof of my rear porch when I came back from my run that spring morning. The roof was easily accessible for a cat, since the banisters of the elevated back steps made it only about a four-foot jump. I stepped onto the porch and called his name softly, holding my hand up by the gutter and rubbing my thumb and index finger together. Six-Toed Ollie raised his flat, triangular head, squinted at me sleepily, and then gave an acknowledging mew.
The cat belonged to my neighbor, an elderly lady named Mrs. McCarthy. I figured that she must have been somewhere in her eighties, with iron-gray hair and large, gold-rimmed glasses. But she was a tough old bird. Every spring I’d see her kneeling in front of her house planting flowers, and she’d put me to shame working on a garden in the backyard. She was always pleasant and said hello to me when I’d come trotting up the block from my morning run. I lived two houses away on the same side of the street. It was on one of those mornings about two years ago that I saw her sitting on her porch holding this big tan and white tomcat. She motioned to me as I went past.
“Mr. Parker, come see my new boyfriend,” she’d said.
I walked up the sidewalk and smiled.
“I’m going to name him Ollie,” Mrs. McCarthy said. The cat looked dreamily at me, then closed his eyes. “And look at this.” She held up one of his paws and pressed it gently between her thumb and index finger. A flange of six claws fanned out momentarily. “He’s got six toes on each foot. That must mean he’s special.”
Hence the nickname I assigned to him: Six-Toed Ollie.
Mrs. McCarthy was always very careful about not letting Ollie run loose in the neighborhood. She was very proud of her bird feeder in the backyard, too, and didn’t want him “marauding.” So the only time I saw him out was when she had him on a leash. That’s why I was surprised to see him on my roof
I called to him again, and this time he got up, stretched by raising his rear end high in the air, and sauntered over to the edge of the roof. He rubbed his face against my upraised fingers then deftly jumped the four feet down to the two-by-four banister. Marveling at his display of agility, I picked him up with two hands and walked over to Mrs. McCarthy’s front door. He must have weighed a good fifteen pounds. A rust-covered blue Chevy Cavalier was parked by the curb. I’d seen the car there before and knew it belonged to her nephew, Paulie, who came over infrequently to cut the grass and do other minor chores. He pulled open the front door after I rang the bell, staring at me through the metallic netting of the screen door.
“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?” I asked, trying to be ingratiating.
“She’s sleeping,” he said. “I’m her nephew. Why?” He was about medium height but grotesquely fat. His little dark eyes seemed to be two dots of obsidian stuck in a slab of pastry dough.
“Her cat was sleeping on my porch,” I said.
“Oh, sorry.” He opened the screen door, grabbed Six-Toed Ollie by the scruff of the neck, and held the cat down by his side like he was snatching a gallon of milk. Ears flattening out, Ollie hissed and took a couple of swipes at fat Paulie’s pants leg as Paulie pulled the screen door closed.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to hold a cat like that,” I said without thinking.
He glared at me momentarily, then let Ollie drop to the floor. The cat scurried off somewhere inside the house, still hissing. “Mrs. McCarthy’s usually very careful about her cat. Is she feeling all right?”
“She’s fine,” he said slowly. Then asked, “You the cop that lives over there?”
He canted his head to the right.
I nodded.
“I’ll tell her you brought it back. Thanks.” He closed the door.
I didn’t dwell on the incident too much as I showered, ate, and got ready for duty. I worked an afternoon shift assignment and got off at midnight every night. I did notice the blue Chevy parked in front of the house again the next morning when I got up to run. I spent more time than usual walking around my yard cooling off, hoping I’d see Mrs. McCarthy out planting her petunias. But I didn’t.
When I was getting ready to go to work I got a call from my lady friend, Cathy.
“Can you do me a favor?” she asked.
“Name it,” I said.
“I got a call from the Animal Welfare League. They have a cockapoo that I’ve been waiting for. I need you to go by and put a hold on it for me.” She’d been waiting for about a year to get a suitable dog for her young son. “This dog sounds like a dream.”
I told her that I’d head right over, since it was on the way to the station anyway. Thirty minutes later I was pulling up in front of the brick building with the mural depicting various types of adoring dogs, cats, and other animals. After explaining why I was there, and putting a cash hold on the dog, the girl behind the desk asked if I’d like to see the pooch.
“Sure,” I said, and she began leading me back toward the rows of dog cages. That was when I heard a familiar plaintive whine. Turning, I saw the big, angular tan and white face staring at me from behind a steel mesh door. Our eyes locked momentarily, and the cat opened his mouth and cried again. I stopped and went over to him.
“Are you interested in a cat, too?” the girl asked.
At that moment twin paws, each containing six awesome-looking claws, curled around the box-like steel bars.
“I think that’s my neighbor’s cat,” I said. “Six-Toed Ollie.” With the mention of his name, he emitted another mournful sound. “He’s got six toes on each foot.”
“Oh, wow, he sure does,” the girl said, walking over. “Give me the information.” She wrote down the cage number.
The record showed that the cat had been brought in as a stray late the previous afternoon. Since it was obviously well cared for, the usual procedure was to hold it in case of inquiries. I didn’t know Mrs. McCarthy’s phone number, but explained that I would let her know of Ollie’s whereabouts the next morning.
“She’s an older lady,” I said. “Why don’t you take my number just in case?” She did.
The next day the blue Chevy was again parked in front. I changed into my sweats and running shoes, but walked over and rang Mrs. McCarthy’s bell before I started the run. I could hear the sound of a hammer pounding inside. I leaned on the doorbell several more times. The pounding stopped and the fat nephew came to the door and opened it just enough to frame his big head in the space.
“Yeah?” he said. He squinted at me through the screen door.
“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?”
“No. I took her to the doctor,” he said. “Why?”
“I just wanted to let her know that her cat’s at the animal shelter,” I said. “Did he get loose again?”
“Oh, yeah. He did. I been looking for him, too. What place is he at?”
I told him the address and phone number.
“Okay, thanks a lot,” he said, grinning. “I’ll give ‘em a jingle and we’ll get him this afternoon.”
“Give my regards to your aunt.”
He said he would and pushed the door closed.
Later that evening my partner and I were in the middle of a boring shopping-center surveillance when my cell phone rang. I answered it.
“Mr. Parker, this is Jeannie from the Animal Welfare League,” the voice on the other end said. “Were you able to get a hold of your neighbor about the cat with six toes?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I talked to her nephew. He was supposed to contact you.”
“Well, nobody’s called, and my supervisor doesn’t seem to think we can place a full-grown cat his size.”
I glanced at my watch.
“What time do you close?” I asked.
“Seven o’clock, but we have somebody on duty till midnight.”
“How about if I drop by around eleven-thirty?” I said. “I’ll pick the cat up and deliver him back home.”
“That would be super,” Jeannie said.
I picked up small bags of kitty litter and cat food at the shelter, and figured I could find a suitable plastic box to allow Six-Toed Ollie to spend the night at my place. After all, it was after midnight by the time I got home. Then in the morning I would talk to Mrs. McCarthy.
But when I pulled down the alley I noticed that the lights were still on in the back rooms of her house. I’d stopped by my garage and was waiting for the overhead door to finish going up when I saw Paulie’s blue Cavalier swing out from the space adjacent to Mrs. McCarthy’s old decrepit garage. He kept going in the opposite direction from which I’d come. I backed into my garage and hit the button on the remote to close the door. Unfortunately I also opened my car door out of habit, forgetting about my rider, and Six-Toed Ollie shot off my lap like greased lightning. My hand immediately shot up and hit the button again, freezing the descent of the door. Then, swearing, I lumbered out of the car in time to see the big tomcat run into the alley and turn right. Pulling out my small mini-mag flashlight I went after him, thinking what an idiot I was for not holding on to him better. The beam lit up the alley and I saw Ollie stop and pause in the light, his eyes gleaming like two beacons. I strode purposefully, but not too fast, toward the crouching feline. Six-Toed Ollie stayed in the circumference of the light watching my progress with an almost patient expression, until I was a few feet from him. Then he burst forward with alacrity toward Mrs. McCarthy’s backyard.
I quickened my pace, thinking that if he paused on her porch, I could probably grab him there. The flashlight traced the trotting tan and white body, which now leaped up the old wooden steps, stopping and sitting by the back door. He cried once and lifted his front legs up almost to the door catch, letting all twelve claws dance over the jamb. Slowly, I reached down and secured him in two hands, picked him up, and held him to my chest. Since I was there, and the lights were on, I figured that I might as well try to rouse Mrs. McCarthy. I was a little bit disturbed by the events of the past few days, and wanted to be sure she was all right and knew what had gone on with Ollie. After pounding several times, I listened for sounds inside the house. No voices, no movement, no television.
I licked my lips and pulled open the screen door. The back door was locked. Letting the screen door slip closed, I went to the windows at the back of the house and peered inside. It was the kitchen. Stacks of pots and pans littered the floor, and dishes were everywhere. The cabinets stood open, and I could see what appeared to be large holes in the walls. That uneasy feeling continued to grow, and the cop in me took over.
I went around to the back section of the house where a triangular wooden structure covered the entrance leading down to her basement. The storm doors weren’t locked, and I pulled them up and shined the flashlight down inside. Past a maze of cobwebs, an old padlock dangled unlocked from a hasp on a door at the bottom of half a dozen cement steps.
Carrying my squirming burden, I went down the steps, brushing the wispy tendrils away. I removed the lock from the hasp, and pushed on the cellar door. It opened with a creaking sound. I stood debating what to do for a few more minutes, then Six-Toed Ollie made the decision for me. He managed to wriggle out of my grasp and ran into the dark interior. Heaving a sigh, I followed his progress with the flashlight beam, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
What the hell, I thought. Cops are sort of kissing cousins to burglars anyway.
The basement smelled musty and stacks of cardboard boxes were everywhere. I heard the pit-a-pat of the cat’s feet bounding up a slanted wooden staircase ahead of me. Cautiously, I followed, trying my best to be as quiet as a mouse. The stairs went up to an open trap door that led to a pantry. Afraid I would knock something over, I swung the flashlight around and caught sight of the hanging cord of a light bulb. I pulled it and switched off the flashlight. Six-Toed Ollie sat on the table watching me, the ovals of his greenish eyes split by perpendicular slashes of black pupils. I held out my fingers again and clucked softly, hoping this would allow me to grab him again. But no such luck.
Now inside the main part of the house and desperate, I called out, identifying myself. It felt stupid at this point, but since my intentions had been honorable, I figured I would be able to explain my presence.
“Mrs. McCarthy!” I called out again. “It’s Tom Parker, your neighbor. I’ve got your cat.”
No response.
I’d searched enough buildings to know the feel of an empty house. I tried one more verbal announcement, as Ollie darted off the table and into a small room next to the kitchen. In one impressive bound he leaped up and landed with a resounding clunk on top of a large deep freeze. The small room appeared to be another pantry of sorts, and I switched the flashlight back on. Instead of doing another fancy leap, the big tomcat watched my approach and delivered a haltingly uneven howl. Then his big claws extended and retracted in rhythmic fashion on the metallic surface. By this time I’d gotten a whiff of something that I knew from experience wasn’t spoiled meat. I went to the lid of the deep freeze and Ollie nimbly jumped up on top of an adjacent refrigerator.
Slowly I raised the lid, already knowing what I’d find. The two plastic garbage bags had been rather hastily duct-taped together, but a fringe of iron-gray hair protruded from a tear near the seam.
Suddenly I heard Six-Toed Ollie begin with a hiss that transformed into a feral growl. His ears flattened and he shot off the top of the refrigerator like a white and tan cannonball. That’s about when I caught the hint of movement behind me, and whirled in time to see fat Paulie coming at me holding an upraised shovel like a harpoon. The cat passed between us in a flash, and twenty-four sickle-shaped claws dug into the substantial gut bouncing over the dark blue work pants. Paulie screamed, smacking Ollie away while trying to aim the shovel at my head as he swung. The curved metal edge sank into the top of the freezer with a sharp thump. He grunted and tried to lift it for a second swing, but the fingers of my left hand were already curling around the shaft. A second later my right fist collided with his nose. The shovel came away in my grasp, and Paulie seemed to sit down rather hard on his corpulent backside. A stream of red flooded from his nostrils, and the beady black eyes stared up at me in defeat and exasperation.
From a few feet away, big Ollie arched his back and delivered an accompanying hiss, his tail flaring as big as a raccoon’s.
“It was all because of that damn cat,” Paulie said, the sobs wracking his voice. “After all the things I always done for her, she was gonna leave her money to that damn cat.” He swung his hand in an effete gesture toward the feline, but received only a defiant slap from the Six-Toed Ollie.
I pulled out my gun with my right hand, dropped the shovel behind me, and grabbed my cell phone with my left. I thought about saying, “Tell it to the judge.” But sometimes the silence plays better.
#
Paulie kept right on squealing during his interview with the investigating detectives. For my part, all I had to do was twist things a tad by saying that I heard what I took to be screams from inside the house and went to investigate. Could I be faulted if it turned out to be the cat? After all, a cat’s scream can sound awfully human sometimes.
But, like I said, Paulie spilled his guts almost immediately anyway, telling how he had strangled poor old Mrs. McCarthy in a fit of rage after finding out she intended to leave a substantial portion of her estate to provide for the care of her beloved kitty. Believing that the old lady had secreted a stash of money somewhere in the house, Paulie had been systematically dismantling the interior searching for it. When the odor from the deep freeze, which he’d forgotten to plug in, started to become a bit noticeable, he’d decided to bury her in a nearby wooded area. Having been a fan of the old Columbo TV show, Paulie figured that it would be smart to dig the grave first, then go back and reconnoiter, before returning to pick up the body. That’s when he saw me chasing the cat inside the house.
Naturally, after the story broke, all kinds of other family members, who’d never even given poor old Mrs. McCarthy the time of day when she was alive, came out of the woodwork trying to vie for a piece of the pie.
And as for Six-Toed Ollie…
I watched him this cold winter’s day as he adjusted his back to get more of it against the heating vent in my living room. Then, as if sensing that I was looking at him, he raised his big, triangular head and bleated a cry that sounded more like a baby sheep than a sixteen-pound tomcat. But as Cathy pointed out, he turned out to be the perfect pet for a guy who works afternoons like I do. He sleeps most of the day, eats when he feels like it, and tolerates my presence the rest of the time. But then again, how many other guys can say that they have a roommate with nine lives, six toes, and a tail, who just happened to have saved their life?
The End
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