Canine Cop–An Animal Island Story: Animal Island, #1

By Mark Bossingham

K9 Rocky and partner Angie Ozawa take on their first big case. It's January 1955, "Mr. Sandman" by the Chordettes is No. 1 on the Mainland, and dogs, cats, and rats all talk up a tropical storm on Animal Island.

 

Can Rocky and Angie, Honolulu Police Department's first Japanese American female cop, take on evil Pinky Chang and his henchman and bust a drug ring organized by "Ready" Reilly, a Navy officer gone bad?

Soon Carmen, queen of the city's felines and owner of a string of cat houses, union organizer and rat, Vlad the Red, and Gabby, a poodle and NIS agent from San Diego, join in and the fur flies!

 

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"You can just about forget that the characters are animals in some cases. The dialogue, references, writing transports you back to old-time Honolulu. Believable and interesting characters drive this short and make it an enjoyable read."

 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Bossingham
• Release date: Feb 23, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224481033

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The warm rain washing ashore from Honolulu Bay did little to cool tempers on Hotel Street. Many cops volunteered to pull these Saturday night shifts on the strip, hoping for an adrenaline rush, a habit acquired on God-forsaken beaches in the Pacific, European hedge rows, and recently, frozen hills in Korea. They usually got their wish: Shootings, stabbings and fisticuffs were commonplace.

Right on cue, a herd of angry cats, hard on the heels of two soldiers, tumbled out of a dive and spilled onto the sidewalk. The cats seemed to have taken exception to something the men had said.

I sighed and gave my partner a look. Tall for a Japanese American, Angie Ozawa was as cool under pressure as a Hawaiian breeze. She shook her head in resignation. I didn’t want to break up a fight with a gang of non-compliant animals and drunken soldiers; she didn’t want to get her uniform dirty. But that was the job. Angie and I waded in as the fur began to fly.

We calmed the cats without any loss of blood or body parts. They marched away, a Conga line of beer-soaked fur, crooning a squeaky version of Mr. Sandman by the Chordettes. It was January 1955 in the Islands and the tune had been No. 1 on the hit parade on the Mainland for three weeks.

I was three years old and too young for Korea and the Big One. Angie was a woman, and you know how that goes. She was the first female officer on the Honolulu Police Department.

We didn’t avoid action, but we didn’t chase it either. We wanted to do our jobs, clock out at the end of watch and go home. Cops like us were the locals and the Mainland vets were the cowboys.

Across the street, a couple of hookers in silks and pearls were sheltering from the rain under an awning in front of Pinky Chang’s mahjong parlor. They were watching us watching Eddie Song, a pickpocket and all-around scumbag, as he slithered by in a baggy, threadbare suit. He’d gotten out of lockup, and he gave me a look like I’d put him there. Made sense: I had.

The click of a switchblade perked up my ears. A sailor and a Marine were squaring off in the middle of the street, blocking traffic. Horns honked and drivers shouted. I needed this like I needed a jar of stale dog biscuits. Hey, Swabbie, I growled. Drop the shiv!

The sailor looked like he’d already taken a header into the gutter. His whites were filthy; his left eye was swollen shut. It didn’t seem to have slowed the big lug down. He held up a giant mitt to put his altercation with the Marine on hold and waved the knife at me.

Take a hike, mutt, he