Sammy Keyes and the Art of Deception (30 page)

“Thirteen? Really?” I ask.

“That's not so old for a dog,” ol' Bleachy Brain says. “Especially not a beagle.”

“You mean dachshund,” Hudson says.

“Same difference,” she mutters, frowning at Rommel.

Hudson hands her the slice of cake. “So if a cat happens by, how will we know it's Snowball?”

Her face pinches at the sight of the cake. Like she thinks Hudson's trying to poison her. She waves off the offer and says, “He's black.”

“Black?”
I choke out. “Why'd you name him Snowball if he's black?”

“Because he's mine and I could.” She turns to Hudson. “Snowball's fluffy, with green eyes and a long, bushy tail.”

“Does he have a collar? Tags?” Hudson asks.

“Just a Zodiac.”

“Pardon?”

“A flea collar,” I whisper.

“Oh,” Hudson says.

“Not that he
has
any of those nasty beasts,” she says. “But since there are flea-ridden
dogs
in this neighborhood, you can't be too careful.” She scribbles her phone number on a napkin and says, “Call me if you see him.” And just like that she clomps out of the house. No, Sorry I accused your dog of mauling my cat. No, Thank you for listening. No nothing.

“Wow,” I whispered when she was gone. “She's something.” Then I asked, “And what's with the tiara?”

Hudson shrugged. “She was once rodeo queen.”

“Her? When? A hundred years ago?”

He pinned her phone number to a small bulletin board by the table. “Don't be cruel, Sammy.”

“Cruel? I'm not trying to be cruel. But she must be, like,
fifty
. Are you saying she's still wearing the crown she won when she was a teenager?”

Hudson nodded. “That's what I've heard.”

“Hudson, that's crazy. Why would anybody want to go around wearing —”

“Because she's trying to hold on to the past, Sammy.” He sighed and shook his head. “I can only feel sorry for her.”

“Feel
sorry
for her? Why?”

“Because it's pretty obvious that the high point of her life was that crowning moment at seventeen or eighteen. You can't relive your glory days — and there's no living new ones if you're a prisoner of the past.”

I thought about that a minute, then said, “So why haven't I ever seen her before?” I laughed and added, “Believe me, I'd have noticed!”

“It's been a good five years since
I've
seen her. She lives in that orange adobe place down the street.”

My eyes bugged out. “
That
place? Every time I go by, there are cats everywhere. On the fences, on the porch, in the yard … that place is just creepin' with cats!”

“Very well put,” he laughed.

“And she wants to be called
Kitty
?” I shook my head. “I think she's more like
crazy
.”

Hudson gave a little nod. “She's definitely someone who could use a little help.”

I snorted.

And that, I thought, was the end of that.

After the Kitty Queen left, Hudson invited me to watch him develop some pictures in his darkroom. Now, if it had been a school day, I might have gone. But it was Saturday, and it was beautiful outside. Flowers were blooming, birds were chirping, there were little puffer-belly clouds all across the sky. And the air smelled sweet — like pine resin and honeysuckle and … sawdust. I love the smell of sawdust. Don't ask me why, I just do.

Anyway, the point is, I didn't feel like being cooped up in a dark little room with stinky developer and a bare red safety bulb. I wanted to go
do
something. And normally I would have ridden over to Marissa's house, only Marissa had been kidnapped by her parents for a weekend of “family love and reacquaintance” in Las Vegas, of all places.

So instead I headed over to the Pup Parlor to see if I could get my friend Holly to break away from her chores. But as I was cruising up Broadway, clicking along the sidewalk past the Heavenly Hotel, this lady I know named Gina — or Madame Nashira, as she's called by her clients — steps out of the lobby.

“Sammy,” she sings. “How
are
you, girl?”

“Great,” I tell her. “How about you?” I size up all her scarves and bracelets and her mountain of shellacked hair. “You going to work?”

“Yup,” she says. “The House of Astrology awaits.” She grins and adds, “Got a birth chart to finish — some classy lady's paying me double to do a rush job.”

“Cool,” I tell her, 'cause even though I don't believe in all that stuff, Gina makes it seem interesting. I mean, listening to her talk about the twelve houses of the zodiac, and conversions into sidereal time, and all the other stuff she jabbers on about when she's telling you what she does as a fortune-teller, well, it almost makes you believe that she really is a star scientist.

Anyway, she says, “Don't be a stranger, girlfriend. Stop by and see me sometime.” And she's hurrying off, tippytap-tapping her way down to Main Street in her spiky high heels, when all of a sudden she turns and says, “You're an Aries, aren't you?”

For a second I just stare, but finally I nod and shrug like, Yeah, so what?

She tippy-tap-taps back to me, then tilts my chin up and looks deep into my eyes. “And you have a birthday coming up real soon, don't you?”

I break free of her and shrug again, saying, “Yeah. Tomorrow,” as I toe at microscopic rocks with my high-top.

“Tomorrow! Well, hey. I know you think it's bogus, but you ought to let me do your birth chart. I promised it to you way back in what? September? Let me give it to you for your birthday. All I need is a birth certificate.”
She laughs. “You got one of those, right? Everybody's got one of those.”

I shake my head. “Well, actually, no.”

“Well, your
mom
does, right? She's got to. So get it from her. Then come in and see me.” She starts walking down the street, calling, “It'll be fun!”

So I head up to the Pup Parlor, trying to shake off the thought of my birthday. And when I jingle through the door, I call out “Hi, Vera. Hi, Meg!” to Holly's guardians. “Is Holly around?”

Meg was combing out a cairn terrier, and Vera was busy soaping down a golden retriever. Both of them said, “Sammy!” and then Vera added, “Holly's out back, dumping the trash.”

“Probably peeking in on that carnival next door,” Meg said.

Vera blasted on the water sprayer, calling, “Go on back and see!”

“Thanks!”

I went through the grooming room, turned left at the register, and made my way past pet carriers and stacks of towels to the back door. And sure enough, there was Holly, crouched behind the bumper of a long white van, peeking in Slammin' Dave's back door, a big plastic garbage bag at her side.

“Hey!” I whispered when I got up close.

She jumped a little, then laughed. “You should never have gotten me started on this.”

I laughed, too. “I know. But how can you
not
watch?”

There were guys pumping iron over to one side and bodies smacking onto mats on another. The guy with the cat hood was there, talking to a man wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Slammin' Dave was coaching two wrestlers in the ring. One had a good-sized gut hanging over tight black wrestling shorts. The other guy was in skimpy red shorts and had the biggest outie I'd ever seen. I swear, it looked like a little fleshy toilet plunger, without the stick. Both of them were wearing tall black wrestling shoes, knee pads, and elbow pads.

“That's Ronnie Reaper in black and The Blitz in red,” Holly whispered.

Ronnie Reaper dragged The Blitz along, spun him around, then lifted him up and dropped him so The Blitz's stomach squashed across his knee.

Holly cringed, “Oowww,” as The Blitz collapsed onto the mat.

Slammin' Dave pulled Ronnie Reaper back, and when The Blitz straightened up, I was sure his outie would have been plunged to an innie, but there it was, poking way out.

I whispered, “I always thought pro wrestling was so bogus, but man, they are really hurting each other.”

Holly nodded. “Meg and Vera call it a carnival — which it kind of is — but they won't even give it a chance.”

Just then Slammin' Dave comes charging toward us, saying, “How many times do I have to tell you? This is not a peep show!”

“Hey!” I call as he's shutting the door in our faces. “I'm thinking about signing up!”

He hesitates, and looks me over. “You?”

“Yeah!” I flex a biceps at him. “I've got potential, don't you think?”

He snickers.

“C'mon!” I flex a little harder and turn from side to side like a body builder. “I may be scrawny, but I'm tough. And Holly here's a real gymnast. She does flips and stuff like you wouldn't believe.”

Holly looks at me like, I do? but Dave doesn't seem to notice. Instead, he stops scowling and actually opens the door a little wider.

“Besides,” I tell him, “everyone's always saying how bogus pro wrestling is, but I tell them you're for real.”

Now he's grinning. “You do, huh?”

“Yeah! So come on. Don't close the door.”

All of a sudden the guy in the cat mask is standing behind him. “We're ready,” he says to Slammin' Dave. His voice is low and raspy, which is kind of creepy right there. But then he looks at me, and I about freak. He's got
cat
eyes — yellowish gold with long black pupils. And I know he's just wearing a pair of those wacky contact lenses you can buy for parties and stuff, but the whole package of him in his cat hood and those eyes is giving me chills.

“Well,” Slammin' Dave says to us. “We do need the ventilation, so as long as you're interested in the sport, and not just gawking … ”

“We'll be cool,” I tell him. “And don't worry, we won't put up bleachers or anything.”

He laughs and wags a finger at me. “Start pumping some iron — someday we'll put that spunk of yours to good use.” Then he props the door all the way open and heads back inside.

The cat guy, though, doesn't follow him right away. He waits until Dave's out of earshot, then steps toward me and whispers, “Go away!”

“Dave said we could stay.”

He glances over his shoulder, then says between his teeth, “Curiosity kills the cat, so scat!”

Now, I'm not big on being bossed around. Especially not by potbellied cat dudes. So I lean forward a little and — just because it seems like a good way to get my point across to this guy — I bare my teeth and let out a low, doggy growl.

He doesn't say a word. He just squints his cat eyes at me, then follows Slammin' Dave back to the ring.

“Wow,” Holly whispers. “That guy's got issues.”

“No kidding.”

Anyway, we keep watching for a little while, and we get totally into the way The Blitz and Ronnie Reaper are going at it in the ring. Holly and I even try a couple of moves that they're practicing on each other. One's a block, and the other's this slick twisteroo–hammer-hold–make-'em-bite-the-mat move. It takes us a couple of tries to get that one, but when we do, Holly and I both go, “Oh, that's cool! Let me try it again.”

So we're in the middle of twisting each other around when the guy in the white T-shirt and jeans comes out with some trash.

He sees Holly and says, “Hey, chiquita. What's shakin'?”

“Hey, Tony,” she says back. “We're just watching.”

“Looks like you girls are preppin' for the big leagues.”

Holly and I both kind of blush, but he doesn't make a big deal out of it. He throws the trash bags into Slammin' Dave's bin and says, “So when you gonna get your old ladies to hire me? I'm quick. I'm cheap. Lots of people around here use me.” He takes her trash sack and flings it on top of his heap. “Let Tornado Tony do your work — you girls should be at the mall.”

Holly laughs. “Thanks, but we do fine on our own.”

“Don't you even want to know my rates?”

Holly shakes her head. “It's never gonna happen, Tony.”

“Hey, I don't believe in never, so expect me to keep trying.” Then he nods and says, “Cha-cha, girls,” and goes back inside.

Holly eyes Slammin' Dave's trash bin, which is now overflowing. “I'd better not leave that there,” she says, more to herself than to me. “Vera'd have a fit.”

I follow her over to the Pup Parlor trash bin, asking, “So, do you think you'll have any time to cruise around today?”

“Maybe.” Her trash-bin lid won't stay propped open, so I hold it up while she hefts the sack. And she's in the middle of swinging it into the bin when all of a sudden she stops and moves some papers aside. Then she gasps. It's a weird gasp, too. With a little squeak to it.

So I look inside the trash bin to see what she's so wideeyed
and gaspy about, and in a heartbeat
my
eyes are popping and
I
let out a little squeak, too.

And in my gut I just know.

We've found Snowball.

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