Catopolis

The rap music stopped just as I shot inside.

The hollering continued.

The alarms still blared.

I heard the sharp click of heels come into the bathroom, knowing this would be one of the security guards; the cleaning men wore te

Branzino alla griglia, Chilean sea bass grilled perfectly with oil and garlic and served warm with beans, might be mine when I deposit this musical manuscript at the boss’s feet.

All I need do is shimmy through this duct.

Shimmy.

Shimmy.

Merda.

I was stuck.

I sucked in my breath and pushed, let out my breath and wriggled.

Tony’s Fall still held by the ribbon between my teeth, dangled sideways in front of me.

Stuck.

Stuck.

“I see him! It’s a cat!”

“Cat burglar more like.” I knew this came from the other guard, though I could see neither of them.

“He’s wedged in there pretty good and tight. He’s a pudgy one, this cat. Don’t know if I can get him out.”

Merda. Merda. Merda.

He dug his hands into my side and squeezed, tugging and tugging and finally pulling me out, and then held me in front of him, where my claws couldn’t reach, too tight for me to wriggle free. The other guard plucked

Tony’s Fall from my jaws and retreated with it.

Merda. Merda. Merda.

One too many plates of petto di polla alla senape. In my younger years-before I’d found that Italian restaurant-I was lean and would have been able to fit through that duct with no effort.

Merda. Merda. Merda.

“Wonder why a cat would want some stupid old music,” my captor mused as he carried me from the bathroom and through the hall, where his fellow was replacing

Tony’s precious Fall and attempting to smooth it out and brush away the broken glass. I didn’t see the cleaning crew, and thankfully someone had shut off that hurtful alarm.

I fought with the guard all the way to the bottom of the stairs, but it had taken most of my energy just to reach the museum and snare my prize. He tossed me in the janitor’s closet and shut the door, told me through the crack that he’d call the Humane Society for me first thing in the morning.

No vent in here. No chance of escape. Even if there was a vent, I doubt I could have fit through it. Too many raviolis. Too many plates of spaghetti and rigatoni. It was blackest-black, the air dead still, and not even my keen eyes could pick through it. I could smell all the astringent cleaning supplies, and my paws brushed against the ropy tendrils of a mop. My nose touched a tool furry with rust.

I wasn’t paying attention to the passing of time. My mind whirred with a mix of hopeful and horrid possibilities.

Maybe I could slip by the guards in the morning, when they opened the door to present me to the Humane Society. Maybe I could dart out between their legs and out the back and return to the safety of Little Italy.

Then I could hear the boss play

Tony’s Spring and Summer and Winter again, and promise to go after Tony’s Fall once more. Just a few less tortellini helpings, and I’d be able to fit through that duct.

The godawful crap-rap music started up again, Forty-Cent wailing about a woman who dumped him. I closed my eyes and shook my head and tried my best to imagine the boss’s talons and tail tip tickling the ivories.

The music came louder, and I paced, bumping into this and that. Suddenly the door opened, and one of the wainscot dusters flipped on the light switch and stared at me, the dim light of the hall haloing a head of bushy hair. I took only a heartbeat to register his kind face and thin lips, and then I was through his legs.

“I need to find some turpen… cat!” He said something else, but I couldn’t hear it over the cacophony of rap, which was loudest in the main hall, where the other three were now working.

The cleaning men didn’t notice me this time, so intent on bobbing their heads in time with the crap-rap and polishing the cases and the floor.

I shot up the stairs.

A great part of me thought I should instead look for an exit… right this very moment. Forget

Tony’s Fall, as I’d already taken a fall for trying to nab it. Get out and tell Luigi it couldn’t be had, not this time and not at this museum. There was too much security. I wouldn’t tell him about the too-narrow ducts, which were no doubt in violation of some building code. I should turn around and hover at the back door, wait for the cleaning men to finish and open it and head toward their van.

I’d pad back to Little Italy.

But I was, above all else, loyal to the boss. No one tells the Don they’ll do something and then doesn’t do it. And I’d told him I’d go after

Tony’s Fall.

And so that’s just what I was doing.

I don’t know where my energy came from, maybe birthed from mind-numbing panic. I didn’t want to be caught again; in my heart I knew a trip to the Humane Society wouldn’t be humane, not for an aging overweight cat like me. It’d be the needle.

Thoughts of the needle spurred my paws faster.

A moment more and I was at the top of the stairs and slipping to the side of the closest Red Priest display case. The security man who’d nabbed me earlier was there, along with another short fellow in a similar uniform. They were picking up the shards of glass. The short one stopped and talked into a little radio he pulled from his pocket. I didn’t pay attention to the conversation; my heart was hammering so loudly I could barely hear Forty-Cent shouting the lyrics from the boombox below.

The glass shards they collected glimmered in the pale lighting of the hall.

So much glass.

A pity I was responsible for the mess. I glanced around. Only the two guards; it wasn’t a terribly large museum, and so probably this pair constituted the entire night force. There would be many more people working here come morning. Through a trio of narrow windows on the east wall I saw that it was late, the sky black and moonless and filled with a scattering of stars.

I waited.

And after several minutes I slunk around behind the display case. The guards were moving; one of them picking up a bucket filled with the broken glass. They’d made no attempt to secure

Tony’s Fall, but I was certain that would be taken care of before the doors opened in the morning.

“Damn music.” This came from the one who’d caught me. “Wish they would play something else. Boz Scaggs, Elton John.”

“Country,” the short one said. “I like Gretchen Wilson, and that blond from Sugarland, and a little Faith Hill thrown in for good measure. Now that’s music.”

Did none of them have any taste? What the boss played was music. Real music. He produced notes so sweet and Italian that they didn’t need someone singing along to dilute them.

“Got someone from Consolidated Glass coming in a few hours.” Again, my once-captor spoke. “We’ve gotta get this case fixed and hooked to the alarm system before breakfast. Gotta get the cleaners up here one more time for another pass with the sweeper.”

“Martina McBride has got pipes, I tell you. Heard her once at the county fair grounds. Dolly, she’s okay, too.”

“Nah, Bruce Springsteen.”

The security guards continued their discussion of modern music as they finished their tidy of the room. Each took a different hall away from the gallery, and I took the shortest path back to the broken display case. With no alarm to worry about, I leaped onto the top counter, my leg muscles still fueled by fear of the Humane Society’s needle. I had to roll the sheet music up again, and this time I secured it with two ribbons. Then I was down the stairs again, and quick to hide behind a suit of plate mail.

I tried to catch my breath-a difficult thing to do considering my chest felt tight and on fire, my mind remembering the security’s guard hands squeezing my well-padded ribs. Someone was ru