I love to read the old Noir detective novels. Those fedora wearing sharp tongued men of action with their quick fist and quicker wit. As my writing career grew, I always new I would someday try my hand at this genre. But of course it would need my humorous feline twist. Meet Rusty Nails, (Cat Detective) and his human crime solving partner, Murph.
Nail; noun, (rus´te nãl)
1, a tapered, pointed piece of metal, coated with rust, driven with a hammer as to join pieces of wood.
2, an alcoholic beverage made with Drambuie and Scotch.
3, an orange, tabby colored feline detective that lives in Portland Maine with his partner, Patrick ‘Murph’ Murphy
While I don’t condone giving alcohol to cats,
the occasional sniff of catnip is considered quite acceptable.
Somewhere through the haze, I heard her heels clack across the tile floor. The outer door opened and closed. Suddenly, blinding light flooded the room. I squinted at her through eyes as mucky as a Maine mud season. Arms crossed, Cookie O’Brian, our leggy redheaded secretary, scanned the room, her eyes stopping on me. “Have you been letting Rusty Nails drink again?” An orange tabby, I’m named after Murph’s medication of choice, which I suppose is better than a Fuzzy Navel.
Patrick ‘Murph’ Murphy lifted his head from his desk; a yellow sticky note with a phone number was stuck to his temple. Shielding his eyes from the light, he said, “You know I hate to drink alone.”
“Just because you want to drown your life in booze is no reason to drag your cat down with you.”
Women, always on you about something, I growled. Leaving the light on, she turned and went to her desk. I rolled over and covered my eyes with a paw, knocking an empty Styrofoam cup on the floor.
A few minutes later the office door opened and closed. “Excuse me,” a female voice said. “Is a, ah… Mr. Murphy in?”
“That’s open to debate,” Cookie snickered. “Do you have an appointment?” You would think that as our secretary, Cookie would know if the woman had an appointment, but then Murph isn’t known for his communication skills. Like me, Murph is a man of action.
“No, I don’t have an appointment…Do I need one?”
“Only if you want him to be awake.” That Cookie, she’s a riot, isn’t she?
Murph lifted his head, pulled the sticky note off, and squinted into the light. “Tell her I’ll be with her in a minute.” I sat up and looked past him. A wet snow blew against our grimy 2nd story window. Murphy rubbed his eyes and said, “Time to earn our paycheck buddy.” While I stretched and yawned, Murph ran his scarred hands through his short, sandy hair and shuffled some papers on his desk. “Send her in, Cookie, and bring some coffee?”