Cat & Cat

By Mark Kozak

“While you’re trying to find something, maybe you should also let something find you.”

From underemployment to unemployment, Chris Telamon’s life hasn't quite worked out the way he’s planned. Not even close. With a wife, two step-kids and dog, Chris has been stranded in a world he never made for his entire adult life. Now, after being laid-off from a job he never wanted in the first place, Chris finds himself at a crossroads. Staying the course means one more ride aboard the ceaseless, soul-sucking merry-go-round of ring-around-the collar jobs and desktop drudgery. The other path, however, meanders into the backyard of his shadowy neighbor, paroled sex offender Ron Barnes, and straight into the midst of a multi-state police investigation.
One part thriller, one part confessional and hard-boiled to a steaming conclusion, Cat & Cat propels everyman Chris Telamon into a game of human chess where his every move forces him to face his future by confronting his past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Kozak
• Release date: Apr 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310861246

Mark Kozak

Mark Kozak is a writer, musician, Cleveland sports fan, pop culture addict and fringewatcher. He is incredibly happily married to the only woman in the world who would ever put up with him. He graduated with a degree in English (Creative Writing) from Ohio University, and then promptly began working a series of jobs wholly unrelated to his degree. He has two sons, Jeff & Corey, two dog-ters, Girl (deceased) & Ellie, and dog-son, Leo. He currently resides in Avon Lake, Ohio.

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A Pot of Coffee & a Fistful of Aspirin

Posted September 10, 2010

Quarter Notes Cut the Deepest

I’m taking a break today from unsolved murders, missing persons, con men, and cults to address my other, happier passion. Regular readers to this blog know what I’m talking about. Jazz music.

Tonight, the Forest City Jazz Orchestra honors one of its own at storied Severance Hall: trombonist, arranger, and educator Ross Hot Shot Hostettler. Not to name-drop, but back in the late ‘80s I actually had the honor of sharing a bandstand with Ross when he sat in with Tony Emilio’s Big Band down at the 100th Bomb Squadron restaurant. I was playing fourth trumpet (barely) with Tony, and to this day I distinctly remember a cold, wet chill sparking down my forehead when Ross appeared, shook hands with Tony, and proceeded to take out his horn.

At that same instant, I’m pretty sure every other musician on stage experienced the same mixture of elation and trepidation. Hot Shot wasn’t just a local cat who’d made it out of Cleveland. He’d played with Art Blakey, Stan Kenton, Buddy Rich, Maynard Ferguson, The Tonight Show Band, and most recently Natalie Cole. Back then, my dad and his musician cronies all had their own Hot Shot story. Everyone, it seemed, had jobbed with Ross when he was a kid, which if true made him the most booked trombonist in the history of music.

Ross played phenomenally that night. We had this hokey chart in the book, Stranger on the Shore, that featured Ollie Spillman, our alto man on clarinet. I dreaded when Tony called the number because for six minutes all I did was blow whole notes while Ollie meandered around the chord line and wiggled his eyebrows. To my shock, Hot Shot asked if he could take the lead, and before my very ears he transformed the lamest tune known to man into this sweet, soaring, swinging tour de force.

The band never sounded as good as it did that set, at least not during my six-month tenure. Afterwards, I grabbed my pay for the night, which consisted of a free drink at the bar, and found myself standing next to Hot Shot. After I ordered a bourbon and water, Ross nodded at me, said That sounds good, and asked for Maker’s Mark and water. The tanned, twenty-something bartender had no idea who he was and snidely replied that musicians got well drinks only. Sure, okay, Ross replied, not fazed in the least.

Of course, I inserted myself into the exchange and offered to pay for his Maker’s Mark. Come on, you’re Ross Hostettler… He just grinned at me and said, Booze is booze. After the first one, you can’t tell the difference anyway.

We struck up a conversation, then. He politely told me I played well. I risked some musician’s humor and asked him which note he liked best. Hot Shot liked that one. He motioned me to an empty table, and we made our introductions over cheap bourbon.

He needed no introduction, of course. I told him my name, Chris Telamon.

Are you related to Lenny Telamon? he asked.

What?! Yeah, I nodded. That’s my dad. Oh my God… You know him?

I worked with him on a job years ago…

At Mansfield Prison?

You know about that? He seemed amused.

My dad tells that story every time your name comes up. I can’t believe this…

I’ve told the story a few hundred times myself. In just a few words, we were no longer strangers. I still remember, I was eighteen. It was one of those Musicians’ Union Trust Fund jobs. They’d just send you out to play with a bunch of other cats. Strictly pick up. Your dad was there with some trumpet player…

Johnny Trumpe, I filled in the blank.

Yeah, yeah, he nodded his head. The guy nominated himself leader, and he starts calling tunes. Everything he counts out has this real fast two-step feel—

Businessman’s bounce. I added, recalling my dad’s version of the story.

"Yeah, yeah. Businessman’s bounce. We’re playing to this room full of killers and God knows what, and he’s calling out shit like he’s Lester Lanin at the Society Club. After three songs, your dad turns to these inmates and says, ‘Sorry. We were just warming up.’ Then he calls out

‘Watermelon Man.’ Place goes crazy. The rest of the gig, he’s calling every old R&B tune in the book and honking like Eddie Chamblee. He shook his head. Jesus, Lenny Telamon’s kid. So what’s your story?"

I filled him in on my history degree and my less-than-stellar music career before getting back to his real war stories. Do you know how I got the nickname Hot Shot? he asked.

I shook my head.

I took a gig with Al Grey, you know…? he started.

The trombone player, I nodded. Master of the plunger mute. For those of you who don’t know, a plunger mute is exactly what it sounds like. A trombone or trumpet player takes the business end of a plumber’s helper, fans it over the bell of his horn, and makes a wah-wah sound.

Al was a great guy, Ross smiled. "He booked me and two other trombones for a month of Wednesdays at Pablo’s on 57th Street. Al Grey’s Trombone Four Plus Rhythm. I was just off the bus from Buddy Rich. Back then, I wanted to be called Boss Bone or Ross the Boss. I had a pretty big head. You know, Berklee to Blakey to Buddy. I looked at Al’s gig as a chance to make my name as the next big bone player in town.

"The other cats with me, Lars Trellin and Cliff Eddington, they’d been playing with Al for a year already. These cats were monster players. I was actually more intimidated by them than Al. Al had maybe the best three young trombonists in town with him, and he knew it.

"I respected Al’s playing back then, but I was a kid, you know…? Honestly, I knew I could play rings around him. So could Lars and Cliff. But they didn’t. ‘Don’t ever try and cut him,’ they warned me my first night. ‘If he gets you in one of his duels, just lay back, play tasty, and let him get the applause.’

"Al used to love doing that. He’d call these feature numbers, you know, ‘Symphony Sid’ or ‘Gone Fishin’.’ And he’d start trading 8s and 4s with us, trying to cut us to ribbons. We could be playing the lights out, and it didn’t matter. Al would just go wah-wah with that plunger and the crowd’d be on its feet. That’s why Lars and Cliff told me just to lay back and let him have his fun.

"But I was a kid, and I just couldn’t accept that. I mean, here we were, three great young players, and we spent every night playing in this guy’s shadow. Well, on our last gig, I decided to go out with a bang. Al called ‘Centerpiece’ to close the first set and the cutting session started. Lars led off, followed by Cliff, and then I was up.

"Well, I was gonna be damned if I let him show me up again. I’d been waiting four weeks to blow the old guy away. I threw everything I had out there, stuff I’d been wood-shedding on and saving just for this one occasion: triple-tonguing, doodle-tonguing, two-octave skips, circular breathing, all of it ending on this insane dog-whistle quadruple B-flat.

"When I was done, the crowd exploded. Al started his solo, but you couldn’t even hear him under all the applause. I stood up there, soaking it all in with one ear and listening to Al with the other, curious what the hell he could possibly do to top my virtuoso display. I heard a few notes bubble under the clapping, and as the room gradually calmed down, Al’s playing grew louder.

"B-flat, B-flat, B-flat, B-flat… He was playing B-flat quarter notes on every beat, through the 1-4-5 changes, building it louder with a crescendo, you know, warbling it and bending it with his plunger.

B-freaking-flat quarter notes. He kept that up into his second chorus. B-flat, B-flat, B-flat, B-flat… By then, the crowd was on their feet, chanting his name on the off-beat, stamping their feet."

By this point in his story, my body quaked with helpless, hyperventilating laughter.

The guy cut me to a bloody pulp playing quarter notes on the tonic, Ross was laughing even harder than me. "When the tune ended and Al’s introducing the band before the break, he points to me and says

‘Ross Hostettler, the Hot Shot!’ You know how musicians are. The story got around, and the name stuck."

We erupted in another round of howls as Ross pantomimed Al playing the quarter notes. Anyone sitting around us in that bar must have thought we were drunk, insane, or both. Eventually, we returned to our bourbon, and after a thoughtful silence Ross imparted one last thought before returning to his life: Always remember, no matter how good you are, there’s always some cat out there who can still cut you…

Some twenty years after his comeuppance, Ross Hot Shot Hostettler shared his wisdom with a complete stranger, a goofy twenty-something kid barely holding the fourth trumpet chair in a second-rate big band working for well drinks. And now, twenty years after that, he’s back in his hometown again, finally getting his just deserts at Severance Hall with the Forest City Jazz Orchestra. I only hope I can catch him after the show and buy him that Maker’s Mark. By this time in my life, I finally have some stories of my own to share.

First Movement

Chapter 1

I really wasn’t paying much attention when the news story first broke in November 2008. I was still employed at the time. Make that barely employed. Some of you out there know what I mean. You spend each night dreading the following workday, sweating out the next inevitable round of lay-offs.

I guess that’s why my memory is a little sketchy when it comes to the beginning of all this. Those last few weeks of gainful employment, I was facing the end of life as I knew it. No paycheck, no benefits, with a wife, two step-kids, a step-dog, two car payments, and a whole host of credit card companies depending on my weekly take-home bacon.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a tad. My family wasn’t going to starve if I wound up downsized. At least not right away. My wife, Marie, worked as a retail manager, and we could scrape by with her pay and whatever unemployment compensation the state deemed fair. But you get the picture. I had things on my mind. Big things, life-changing things. So cut me some slack. The details may be hazy, but I do know one thing for sure. My first introduction to the name Ronald Barnes didn’t strike me as anything but mildly curious. One of those little anecdotal slice-of-life moments you quickly file away in the dustbin of the hippocampus.

Filling in the blanks now, I’m positive I was sitting up in bed reading when this story started. Oddly enough, I even recall the library book: Jack the Ripper: Anatomy of a Murderer. Twenty-odd years earlier, I’d received my B.S. in History from Ohio University’s Honors Tutorial College, graduating with an oh-so-lucrative concentration in Medieval Studies. From that day forward, I’ve managed to work a series of soul-sucking jobs wholly unrelated to my worthless degree. So, basically, I tend to live my intellectual life through the books I read. History, science, true crime. But we’ll get to all that in due time.

Let’s return to that pivotal night. I was reading in bed, and when I read, I tend to shut out everything and everyone around me. Marie sat next to me on our bed, and I was barely paying her any attention. Now, before you go passing judgment, let me set the scene a little more vividly. She wasn’t doing anything important at the time, just absent-mindedly surfing through our 100-plus satellite TV channels.

Primetime programming had ceased for the night. It was after 11:00 PM on a Friday or Saturday night. I’m sure of this because Sunday through Thursday I’m already asleep by the time the news comes on.

The phone rang. Marie’s cell phone. No one but telemarketers call us on our home phone anymore. From the corner of my eye, I watched my wife check the caller-ID window before answering. Hey…

By the casual, conspiratorial tone in her voice, I knew the caller instantly. My sister-in-law, Traci. She’s married to Charles, my younger brother. She also attended high school three years behind Marie way back when. Traci’s a story in herself. A story for another time, though.

Really? Marie exclaimed, her hands waving about to catch my attention. What?! You’re kidding me… Okay. Seconds later, Marie started punching buttons on the TV remote, quickly landing on a local 11 PM newscast.

—sexual predators in your neighborhood— the well-coiffed anchorman droned in the periphery of my hearing.

Is this it? Action News 21? Marie asked over the phone. Yeah…Okay… Hold on… I’ll call you back.

Engrossed in a blow-by-blow recounting of the Ripper’s famous Double Event, I didn’t even look up at the TV until Marie nudged my elbow. "Are you even watching this?!" she asked.

What?

"You haven’t been paying attention at all? "

Something about sex offenders, right? I offered, desperately scrolling back though the fading wisps of my short-term memory.

Yes. Marie nodded, somewhat placated. Thankfully, through auditory osmosis of some sort, I’d managed to absorb at least the gist of the news report. That’s what Traci called about. As my wife spoke, she extracted our laptop from under the bed, powered it on, and waited for our wireless internet to engage. "She looked up the website they’re talking about on the news. According to them, we have thirteen sex offenders living right here in Stratford Lake. And one of them lives on our street! "

Really? I found the revelation a tad salacious, but hardly surprising.

Aren’t they supposed to notify people in the neighborhood when a sexual predator moves in? Marie asked me, her eyes fixed on the laptop’s browser as it connected to www.loraincountysheriff.com. On the homepage, she clicked a link labeled Sex Offenders Registry. Almost instantly, an alphabetical listing of local sex offenders popped up, complete with current mug-shot photos, classification, date of birth, and current address. Isn’t that Megan’s Law?

I think it depends on what kind of sex offender it is, I answered, trying to quell the agitation I already sensed in Marie’s voice. You know, like what they were convicted of…

Traci says this guy’s listed as a Sexual Predator, Marie declared, unwilling to be so easily mollified.

The guy on our street? I asked, still more incredulous than concerned.

Look, Marie pointed triumphantly to the laptop screen. It hadn’t even taken her half a minute to find our friendly neighborhood boogeyman:

Barnes, Ronald

Classification: Sexual Predator

DRC# P82140

DOB: 8/22/67

Address: 397 Elmwood Drive, Stratford Lake, OH

The photograph showed a balding, bearded white man with thin lips and bored eyes. I tried to recall if I’d ever seen him about the neighborhood or at the supermarket. I quickly determined that even if I had seen him, I wouldn’t have been paying attention.

Where’s 397 Elmwood? Marie snapped, obviously roiling over the fact we’d been living down the street from a Sexual Predator for God only knows how long.

We’re at 368… I thought aloud, trying my best to calm her down. So he has to be on the other side of the street. Up towards Elm Woods and the Richie Rich houses.

The Richie Rich houses, as Marie and the kids dubbed them, were recently built McMansions now occupying a large swath of what had once been a thick forest of elm trees. With the construction of these upscale homes several years earlier, Stratford Lake converted the remaining wooded area into a neighborhood park, rechristening it Elm Woods. Our house, as opposed to the Richie Rich houses, belonged to the original section of Elmwood Drive, a row of mid-twentieth-century summer cottages converted into small, year-round homes sometime during the late ‘70s.

Marie first moved into the house with the kids in 1998, four years before we met. Her marriage to her psycho-deadbeat-deserter ex-husband had just recently dissolved, and Marie suddenly found her life reduced to a series of grim statistics: single mother, high school diploma but little work experience, with moody three-year-old daughter, virtually newborn son, and rambunctious dog in tow. Luckily, her family had a little money saved and scraped together $60,000 outright for the cozy fixer-upper at 368 Elmwood.

From what little Marie has told me about the period from ‘98 to our meeting, she lived from SSI check to SSI check for at least two years, constantly dodging bill collectors while staving off a non-stop stream of shut-off notices from the various utility companies. By the time we met in 2002, though, she’d begun working at a nursing home, and her life had achieved a kind of chaotic equilibrium.

From the night I first spoke to my future wife, I knew I’d found my one and only love. I guess that’s why I immediately made it my mission to give Marie and the kids a more stable life. We hadn’t even been dating a month when I drew up a budget for her, organized all her past-due bills, and then steadily began clearing up matters with her various creditors.

When we got married exactly one-year-to-the-day later, my commitment to Marie’s security became a virtual obsession. We’d been toying with the idea of moving into a real house since our wedding day in 2003, but procrastination and indecision always held us back. Considering the whole sub-prime mortgage mess that had just blown up several months earlier, I guess being a do-nothing dreamer occasionally has its upside.

Go out and find his house, Marie commanded. By the tone in her voice, I knew she wasn’t joking.

I have my pajamas on, I pointed out.

Just throw your jeans on over your bottoms and put on a coat.

Come on, hon… I protested.

"I’m not going to go to sleep until I know what house he lives in."

We don’t even know any details about his case. He could be—

Chris! I am not kidding around here, Marie cut me off. Just do it. Now.

Do what? Darla, my thirteen-year-old stepdaughter, called out from the living room. Nicknamed Button by my father-in-law when she was a baby, Darla had quickly outgrown her infantile cuteness to become a formidable, opinionated, and relentlessly petulant tween. These days, we still called her Button when she was safely out of earshot. Only Button now referred to her propensity to push people’s buttons.

Now look what you did, I grumbled at Marie.

Do what?! Darla repeated when she didn’t get an immediate answer. Up until a moment ago, she’d been captivated by an episode of her favorite TV program, Hoarders . While most kids her age watched Nickelodeon and the Disney Channel, Darla continually loaded our DVR with educational programming exploring the shadow side of the human condition: hoarders, addicts, street gangs, serial killers. Mom! she hollered. What is Chris doing?

Yeah, Jason, my ten-year-old stepson, finally pulled his attention away from his Game Boy. What’s going on?

Nothing, Marie shouted back, flashing me her now what? look as I suited up for some late-night snooping.

I’m just going outside to check on something… quick, I added. It’s nothing.

"It’s not nothing! Darla hollered back over the television. Aunt Traci just called about something on the news. Then mom looked up something on her computer, and now you’re going outside. So it’s not nothing."

How the hell…? Marie hissed under her breath.

I tell you, I laughed. They’re mutants with super hearing.

I heard that! Darla yelled. Now what’s going on?

It’s not anything you need to worry about, I started. You know, Marie cut me off, that’s not really true.

See??!! Darla insisted. By now, she and Jason were standing in the bedroom doorway with our canine child, Lady, all ears and curiosity. Where Darla stood tall and angular, her auburn hair flipped down over the tops of her eternally exasperated eyes, Jason slouched into his short, somewhat round frame, his dark hair cow-licked and naturally spiky. From what I’d observed in old family photos, Darla had developed into a female version of Gary, her psycho-deadbeat father: same piercing blue eyes, same freckled complexion. Jason, on the other hand, favored Marie’s softer Mediterranean features.

So why did Aunt Traci call? Darla demanded to know. As she interrogated us, she simultaneously texted someone on the cell phone we’d grudgingly given her with the start of middle school in September. What was on the news?

Listen, I tried using my calmest Ward Cleaver voice to defuse the situation. It’s really not anything to worry about.

You’re not telling me because Baby Jason is here, right? In her quest for the truth, Darla had quickly decided to live up to her nickname and start pushing buttons. She turned to her younger brother. Jason, go to your room.

Darla! Marie snapped. Knock it off!

No, Darla shook her head and turned back to Jason. Jason, you need to go to your room so we adults can talk.

Screw you, Darla! Jason finally exploded. Basically affable and a tad apathetic, he could be quickly wound up when his older sister started pushing his buttons. What’s Mom looking at on her computer? he asked me directly.

I looked at Marie. This was definitely her call, not mine.

Marie took a deep breath. Aunt Traci just wanted me to know that there was someone living close by us that’s—that might be—dangerous.

What do you mean? Darla asked. Like a psycho or something? We have a psycho living by us? Jason’s eyes bugged out with a mixture of fear and exhilaration.

No one said he was a psycho, I gritted my teeth. I’ll be back in a minute. I stepped by the kids and into the hallway. As Darla and Jason crowded into our bedroom firing questions at Marie, Lady chose to follow me instead, dogging my heels.

Patting her head, I grabbed her leash off the peg by the back door and slipped the hook through her collar. If nothing else, this little late-night jaunt gave me an opportunity to empty her bladder for the night. Since turning twelve, Lady had begun wetting her doggie bed sporadically. Night walks right before bedtime helped curb the incontinence.

Moments later, with jeans and a winter coat over my pajamas, I found myself strolling down the snow-swept sidewalk, Lady panting and prancing at my side. Trying to appear nonchalant, my eyes pierced the cold, white glare of streetlamps and porch lights. 397 Elmwood? Has to be up the street…

You were watching 21 Action News, too, huh? a male voice chuckled from the shadows behind me.

I stopped and turned around. A clean-cut, blond-haired man about ten years younger than me approached with crunching footfalls and a slightly mischievous grin. Lady fixed her nose towards him and gazed intently.

You saw that sex predator report, right? he continued when I didn’t immediately reply. He regarded Lady with a smile, then turned back to me. I looked him up online, too. He pointed to the next driveway before us, and then slowly traced his finger through the dark, bitter air until it rested on the front door. That’s where he lives. Right there, 397.

397 Elmwood was a small, drab, converted summer cottage, almost identical to my own home. I’m sure I’d seen the house thousands of times over the last eight years, never paying it or its occupant any mind. Behind the translucence of drawn front curtains, the living room glowed with the flicker of a television screen.

With my eyes focused on the house, I wondered if Ronald Barnes had seen the report on 21 Action News. I half expected to see his thin lips and bored eyes quickly peer out Boo Radley–style through a slit in the drapes. But everything inside and outside the house remained as still as fallen snow.

"I’m Mike Kolar t, my newest acquaintance offered me his cold, bare palm. With a T."

We shook hands quickly, firmly, almost as if we were trying to confirm that we were both good, decent, hard-working men. Nothing like Ronald Barnes, the Sexual Predator residing at 397 Elmwood Drive.

Chris… Telamon… I added my last name in an effort to further establish my trustworthiness.

I live up the street, Mike nodded past 397 Elmwood in the direction of the Richie Rich houses. 415.

368. I nodded backwards to my small house, relieved that darkness blanketed the street. With ankle-deep slush rutting my driveway, clusters of dog crap spotting our snow-covered lawn, and a section of gutter dangling from the roof, my failings as a homeowner were acutely visible during daylight hours. Now, however, my home sat obscured in the November night, a nondescript, featureless lump.

You got kids? Mike asked.

Two… a boy and a girl.

How old?

Ten and thirteen. You? I asked more out of politeness than curiosity.

My little girl’s five, Mike offered. My wife’s scared shitless after that news report. She’s convinced this guy’s a dangerous child molester.

Same here, I commiserated. My wife freaked out when she saw he lived right down the street. She’s a little over-protective where the kids are concerned. They’re hers from her first marriage, I added for some reason. I guess I wanted to appear as open, honest, and as trustworthy as possible. Not like Ronald Barnes, living among us for God knows how long, cloaked in secrecy and anonymity. Do you know anything about him at all? I spoke after an awkward silence. I mean, beyond what the website says?

He shook his head. My wife’s digging up shit online right now, though.

So’s mine.

That site says he’s a Sexual Predator.

Yeah, I nodded. But that’s all it says. It doesn’t say anything about what he did.

Does it really matter? Mike asked.

No. I looked him straight in the eye. Not at all.

I mean why the fuck weren’t we notified or anything? Mike’s words formed into hot clouds of steam. They’re supposed to notify people in the neighborhood, right? I mean isn’t that, like, Megan’s Law or something?

I thought so, I agreed.

"Fucking cops didn’t let us know shit. There’s gotta be, like, some way we can sue them or something. I mean they’re required by law. Something could have happened. That fucking pedo could be stalking our kids right now, and no one even has the courtesy to tell us he’s here. You know what I’m saying?"

Yeah, I nodded.

Well, fuck this shit! I’m putting up flyers on all the telephone poles in this whole fucking neighborhood tomorrow. People have a right to know what’s going on in their own fucking street. Don’t they?

Yeah, I kept nodding like a bobble-head. That sounds like a good idea.

I know some people in this town, too… you know… councilmen, lawyers, judges. My buddy from high school’s on the Chamber of Commerce. I’m gonna make some calls. This fucker is going to regret the day he ever moved in here. Mark my words.

Sounds good. I paused before we entered another awkward silence. Listen, I spoke first. I’ve got to get back inside. I’m freezing my ass off out here.

You and me both. He extended his palm, and we shook hands again, even more firmly this time. Take care.

Back inside, Marie stood in our kitchen pouring herself a mug of herbal tea.

Where are the kids? I asked, closing the back door behind Lady’s wagging tail.

I got them into their rooms. So keep your voice down.

I nodded.

She raised her eyebrows while I unhooked Lady’s collar and pegged her leash. So, what took you so long?

I was talking to one of the neighbors. I walked into our bedroom, taking off my coat and the jeans covering my pajama-bottoms. He and his wife saw the report on the news, too. He was walking around like me, checking out the house.

So which house is it?

Two houses up, across the street. It’s an older house, a converted cottage like ours.

Did you see anything?

No. I shook my head. The house is dark. Except the TV’s on. Did you find out anything else online?

Yeah, Marie responded with a triumphant grin. I Googled him, and came up with a few articles from the ‘90s. He worked as a drug and alcohol counselor at a clinic for troubled teens.

Really?

He was arrested for gross sexual imposition and sexual battery against a number of minors. He came under suspicion when a girl at his clinic disappeared. After a long investigation, he ended up being charged with over thirty counts of statutory rape.

Over thirty counts? Wow!

For all the kids he messed with, Marie went on.

And the missing girl?

She was never found. The cops never found any evidence he was involved. I mean, he has to be guilty, right? Abusing all those kids at his job? And she’s one of the kids at his clinic? Don’t you think?

Yeah, makes sense. Wow, I repeated. Thirty counts of statutory rape. Jesus. I can’t believe we never heard of this guy before.

It happened before we ever met, Marie offered as a kind of explanation. In Bremerton, Ohio…?

That’s in Ashland County. South of us. By Mohican State Park. Ashland College, I added.

He was released earlier this year. I can’t find out anything about when he moved onto our street.

The guy I met just now, Mike, I started. He knows some people here in town. He said he’s going to find out more about all this. He thinks we may even be able to sue the city for not informing us. And get this, I added with a vengeful chuckle. He’s going to put up flyers on all the telephone poles tomorrow.

Can he do that?

I guess we’ll see. I climbed back into bed and slid under the covers. My icy feet grazed Marie’s calves, and her legs bolted away from me.

Get your cold feet off me! she snapped. Jesus, Chris.

Come on! I just went out there and braved the cold for you…

And if you touch me again with your cold feet, I’ll make you regret it, she half-laughed.

That just doesn’t seem fair…

Life’s unfair when you have cold feet.

Do you want to talk to Darla and Jason tomorrow? I changed the subject, my mind going back to Ron Barnes and the threat he might pose. Or do you want me to?

We should both do it, Marie posited. What do you want to say to them?

I have no idea, she admitted. I thought maybe you would. That’s something I’ll definitely have to sleep on.

Good night. Marie kissed me. Love you. I replied.

Love you, too.

Chapter 2

In a work of fiction, the previous scene would blend skillfully into this, the next chapter, creating a subtly constructed, seemingly seamless narrative. Unfortunately, real life has a way of imposing entropy upon structure.

I’d love to say that Marie and I awoke the next morning full of righteous fire. I could lie and say we sat the kids down and educated them, using the proximity of Ron Barnes as an important object lesson regarding the banality of human evil and the reality of stranger danger. However, to be honest, I have no idea what we did the next day.

Considering Marie and I are somewhat competent parents, I’m sure we must have addressed the subject with Darla and Jason. But I don’t remember any specifics. As I said, all this was happening when more pressing issues weighed on my mind.

At the time, I was employed by Bright Flight, a local company selling plastic housewares, cheap electronics, and keychain gizmos manufactured by skilled sweatshop craftsmen in China. My job, as International Production and Purchasing Manager, involved getting said tchotchkes into the USA and thirty other world markets with as little time and expense as possible.

Sometime shortly after my first introduction to Ron Barnes, my dreaded day of reckoning arrived. A Friday afternoon in early December, right after the weekly management meeting. At Bright Flight, we were all managers. Promotions without raises—the brainchild of Janine Moore, Boss of Bosses, Chief Deck-Chair Arranger on the Exxon Valdez .

During that day’s particular management meeting, Janine had spent over an hour outlining the recent round of layoffs set for later the same afternoon. A Who’s Who of remaining warehouse and production personnel. The final auto de fe before the Secret Santa Gift Exchange.

Bullet successfully dodged, I mused, returning to my desk. As I pressed CONTROL-ALT-DELETE to unlock my computer, I noticed a sliver of dried skin hanging down from the corner of my right thumbnail. Crap. Gnawing at my right thumb, I toggled over to my email with my left hand. Thirteen new emails in 70 minutes. I hate this effing job!

My inbox overflowed with the standard export crises du jour: missing documents, rolled ocean bookings, emergency orders. One leapt right out at me, though, and I grimaced at the subject line.

URGENT: PO 11065-00 Coryea

From: Stanley Yin

Dear Chris,

20’ container stuffed full. Not all goods fit. 2 pallets to

LCL or hold to next shipment? Please advise.

Regards, Stanley

Damn it! It was never good news when Stanley, my contact at our Hong Kong freight consolidator, contacted me on a Friday afternoon, early Saturday AM his time.

Still biting my thumb, I went into my order files and took out the jacket labeled Coryea, PO# 11065-00. I glanced down at the estimated volume on the Pro Forma: 920 cubic feet. The goods would fit inside a

20-foot container provided they floor-loaded the boxes by hand and didn’t try stuffing them inside the container on pallets.

I looked back at Stanley’s email. The phrase 2 pallets jumped out at me. Our consolidator had obviously tried loading the goods into the container on pallets.

Damn it! Why didn’t they floor-load the shipment? I told them specifically to— I glanced down through the previous emails in the chain, looking for confirmation that I had instructed Stanley to floor-load the shipment and not palletize the goods.

Drawing blood now along my thumbnail, I read down to the first email from four weeks ago. I didn’t see my instructions. Damn it! I scoured the email chain again… and again… and again. Effing Stanley. The guy’s been doing this for eight years. Coryea orders every month. He knows they want their stuff to ship together in one container. He knows his crew needs to fit everything in the effing container. Effing Stanley! Just because I don’t specifically tell him to floor-load this one order, he goes ahead and puts it on pallets. He’s just effing with me. He knows we’ll have to pay the charges to palletize and then pay again to take the stuff off pallets. And if I don’t fix this RIGHT NOW, that effing container will go to port as a partial shipment, and then I have a real effing nightmare on my hands!

Damn it! I licked my thumb, concentrating on the coppery savor of my own blood. Prickles ran over my scalp and down my arms. My heart pumped sharp shards of ice through my arteries. Yes, I know, in the grand scheme of the cosmos, the Coryea container snafu wasn’t a huge deal. Just a tiny mistake. Problem is, I HATE MISTAKES. Especially when I make them. DAMN IT! Why the hell didn’t you remember to tell him no pallets, Chris? Let the self-flagellation begin. Idiot! You’re supposed to be so effing smart, Chris. Big fancy college degree. History? Really? How’s that working out for you, imbecile? F you, effing Chris Telamon!

Hey, Chris, Terry Owens interrupted my psychic self-immolation. Terry, a.k.a. Terry the ‘Tard, was Bright Flight’s Domestic Purchasing Manager. He ordered boxes and shrink-wrap to repackage our goods in the on-site warehouse for US distribution. He also made sure the employee restrooms were well-stocked with paper towels, toilet paper, and sanitary napkins. How many cubic meters is 920 cubic feet?

I glanced across the row of cubicles. Terry faced me, calculator poised.

Multiply by .028317, I snapped. Watch your tone, Chris. You’ve already been counseled for your ‘rage problem.’ Did he just say 920 cubic feet? Did you say 920 cubic feet?

Yeah, Terry nodded as he punched the calculator buttons.

920 cubic feet? I looked back at the Pro Forma for Coryea PO# 11065-00. Volume estimate: 920 cubic feet.

Terry…? I seethed. The prickles on my scalp flared into electro-convulsive sizzles. My throat tightened. Keep a lid on it, Chris. You can’t afford another sit-down with the Boss of Bosses. Are you looking at my Coryea order?

Yeah, Terry kept nodding as he continued tapping his calculator.

Why are you looking at my order? I separated each syllable in every word. Why the fuck is Terry the ‘Tard looking at my order?!

I was copied on the email… from the consolidator guy.

You… were… what? Here comes Defcon One.

I got copied on it, he repeated. What do we do if the stuff doesn’t all fit in the container?

We— I stopped abruptly. I… Take… Care… Of… It. I punctuated each word like Clifford Brown tonguing a staccato phrase. The goods will fit in the container. The volume in my voice increased. They just pallet-loaded the container instead of floor-loading it. All I need to do is email back and tell them to— I clipped my explanation short. Why am I even telling you this? You have no idea what the hell is going on! Go order some Hostess Ding-Dongs for the vending machine, you bottom-feeding hack! Just delete the email. I’m handling this. Okay?

Okay, Terry smiled, but didn’t stop calculating.

Still cursing myself, I hit REPLY on Stanley’s email and began pounding out instructions to unload the container and repack without pallets. The office filled with the manic sound of my furious, two-fingered keystrokes. Suddenly, the long tone on my phone sounded.

F! What!

The speaker crackled. Muffled voices. Chris, Janine, Boss of Bosses, suddenly chirped, can you come to my office for a moment?

Great. Just flippin’ great! Can it wait a minute? I lowered my voice and tried to tamp my teakettle temper. I’m kind of in the middle of a—

It’ll just be a minute, Janine cut me off, and then disconnected.

Now what? Studies have shown that every minute spent in the presence of Janine Moore shortens the average man’s life by five minutes. But I didn’t care. I needed to get in and out of there quick. I had yet another crisis to avert.

I picked up my steno pad and double-timed it down the hall. Whatever the hell Janine needed, it wasn’t near as important as correcting the Coryea container situation. I needed to get back to Stanley before my careless oversight escalated into a major round-robin, everyone-in-the-company email gang rape. For every one hundred things we do right, it’s always that one small error that ends up defining us.

I don’t have time for this…

The walk to Janine’s office took maybe half a minute. Funny what we recall in retrospect. When I’m stressed, I whistle. I can still hear myself whistling Clifford Brown’s Joy Spring, timing each phrase to the downbeat of my right footfall. Gotta get this over with and get back to work…

Janine and Doug Barnhardt, Personnel Manager, looked at me as I entered Janine’s office. What do you need? I asked, tapping my pen against the steno pad. I had a pretty good idea already. Janine had been on my case for weeks now about filling out a self-evaluation to accompany my year-end review. Needless to say, I hadn’t found the time or the inclination yet. I’m kind of in the middle of something. Important.

It’ll wait, Janine grinned. She motioned me to close the door behind me.

In my mind, I continued humming Clifford Brown’s classic chorus. Gotta get back to that email. If they seal that container and send it to port, I am going to have a nightmare on my hands. I chose to keep standing at the threshold of the closed door. Hopefully, my body language would communicate to them that I didn’t have time for their petty, time-wasting crap.

Sit down, Chris, Doug smiled, his eyes sizing me up from head to toe. His gaze stopped at the huge bloody gouge on my right thumb.

Sure, I sat in the one vacant chair, suddenly noticing a manila folder on Janine’s desk: CHRIS TELAMON.

We need to talk to you for a minute… Janine started.

O–kay…? My eyes focused on the manila folder, reading and re-reading my name.

I know you’re aware of how bad the economy has been, and all the lay-offs we’ve been experiencing… Doug still COULDN’T take his eyes off my thumb.

Weirdo… Yes…? I finally ripped my eyes away from the folder and looked up at Janine.

We’ve had some difficult decisions to make… Janine let the words die in the air.

Difficult decisions? Door closed. Doug Barnhardt, Personnel Manager. My name emblazoned across a manila folder. Terry the ‘Tard copied on my email from Stanley… Instantly, all thoughts of Coryea PO# 11065-00 and the 20-foot container vanished. Oh my… God… You’re— A cold wet tingle streaked across my scalp. —you’re laying me off…?

Yes. Doug spoke directly to my bloody thumb. I’m afraid so.

Get your eyes off my thumb, you freak.

Budget cuts have forced us to do some restructuring. Janine picked up the ball. Donna and Terry are going to divide your responsibilities between purchasing and distributor services, and—

Donna? Something wasn’t right here. Donna’s a temp?

Yes, she is, Doug answered. Which is why we can keep her. The issues we’re facing in personnel have to do with regular employees. Benefits. So far, we’ve only had to lay off hourly workers. But next year’s budget is forcing us to eliminate salaried employees, and—

I get it, I cut him off. You need to cut management. Okay, I nodded. All my rage had suddenly melted into fear—abject, nauseous terror. I was scrambling now, in full rapid-fire recovery mode. I understand that Donna can enter orders. But you still need someone to coordinate all the overseas shipments. My voice had taken on a shrill, almost cartoonish quality. Donna can’t do that. And neither can Terry. No one here can do that. I sounded like Big Pussy Bonpensiero begging Tony Soprano for his life. So let’s work something out here. I’m certainly willing to take a demotion, unpaid time off, even a pay cut and—

That won’t work, Chris. Janine interrupted. The decision’s been made. We need to let you go.

"You need to let me go?" The word need blew through my chilled spirit like a hot wind. Sparks tingled along my receded hairline again. Bargaining morphed back into rage. "Or you want to let me go?"

This isn’t personal, Chris, Janine smirked. She couldn’t help herself.

Not personal? It sure as hell is. It’s always been personal. Since day one…

This is business. She even managed a straight face.

Okay, let’s talk business then, I challenged, my throat tightening again. "I’ll go bottom line with you. You and the rest of the… tools in this

Reviews for Cat & Cat

[conrad haller · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this. It's a great story that involves the main character Chris, who ends up crossing paths with his neighbor, and the plot twists kept me at the edge of my reading seat. It's set in northeast Ohio, so that added some intrigue for me since I know the area. I highly recommend getting this book and giving it a chance to become one of your favorites.