Fool of the Catch
a short story feat. ‘Thom Pope’
In Hotel Marmot, I stay while on a detour in Fox and Cat Hollow, Delaware. Word must’ve got around that I’m below the Mason-Dixon, probably spread from Haydn; a well-intended gesture of promotion, more like a prank of labor; or perhaps the trafficker up north collected the right information and sent it along to D.C. in an unassuming box truck. This is their territory I’m treading on. In dangerous proximity to the national capital, perilously teetering on the north line, less than a mile from Queen Mary’s land. Never the matter of my paranoiac meanderings, there’s a job to do and I don’t have the details. I was supposed to meet a man in this beatific old building, but as the day went on and no one showed up to ask for my services, I felt condemned to loaf about. After paying for a room on the second floor facing away from the road, and smoking a pack of cigarettes out the window, I slept off my worries and was this morning, a man about town; in reverie towards the persistence of the working people who mend the street, grind down fillings, officiate the law, and sell their wares. Not exactly their wares, and I wonder why they put up with it. At least those who do it for the money, who have to do it for the money.
In recent memory, there’s been a great rest, an understanding that the compensation for your efforts falls short. So, people didn’t return to work. Yet, here they are three years later, breaking their backs for a doubled bonded mortgage payment, counting down to zero. Busy bees farming honey until they lose their sting. Falling back into old habits, under the thumb, while they were right about change. Nowadays, with the way the globe turns, many people believe change occurs through force. Violent clashes to the top of the hill where the aggressors hope to see their choice through the fog. While we in this country elect those aggressors to the hill, and watch as they’re bought with their innards spilling to the floor. You had it right when you hit them where it hurt! For every cent you make, the boss you’ll never see makes a thousand dollars, and if everyone under their thumbs takes a long rest, those fat cats will fade from relevance. Don’t kill them! Don’t eat them! Just stop! Rest until they can’t!
This is what I think about, and even now, there’s no sign of my employer, the average citizen in search of something. I sit in the dining room, twiddling with a half-full glass of water, and think it might be best to retire to my room, where I may indulge in the ghosts from my tincture. I do as much. Then change into my new clothes, courtesy of the Dogfish Haberdashery. Brown Chelsea boots, brown slacks, a pink dress shirt, and a beige sports jacket. With my white Panama hat over my eyes, I lie down and take in the calm before the storm. For under the influence, I will soon feel like I may never sleep again.
Then, just as I feel the functions of my body, my brain hides from me, the phone rings. It’s the front desk, alerting me to an odd hunchback who demands I see him, and that I should come down immediately because his appearance is scaring the guests. Two centuries after we came to love Quasimodo and people still fear what’s misunderstood.
The man I see is not what I came to expect. He stands not with a hunch, but bent forward ninety degrees and held in place with the support of a wooden cane. His dress is of the turn of the century, the twentieth century; a black cloak conceals his frame, and a long black cap pokes the air above his head. While his face is rotund, his nose is obtuse, there’s a slight discoloration on its bridge, and overall, it comes to a point like a stick, and as these attributes would be enough for the average person to fixate, I take particular notice of the cufflink in the shape of a cricket he has latched to his lapel. When I take a step towards him, he turns his nose up and I can see in his yellowish eyes; he knows who I am, rendering the front desks introduction unnecessary, though they do as much to move the man out of direct view.
After timid greetings, we take a seat in the dining room where I implore him to inform me of why he wishes to employ my services.
Through his rigid tone of voice, he explains, “Detective, I have tremendous concern for the safety of my colleague, Marion Catlett. I nor anyone in his family has seen him for a week, and when taking his occupation into consideration, it only makes sense that something horrific transpired.”
“First of all, what is your name?” I respond.
He takes pause and after a breath, he says, “Walter Judels.”
“Mr. Judels, what is it that Mr. Catlett does for a living?” I ask.
“Research and development for Collo-ceuticals, in D.C. You know them?”
“They make migraine medication, OTC, yes?”
“More than that, detective. Collo-ceuticals have their fingers in quite a few pots across this nation. Go to any pharmacy and not only will you find a drug with their name on it, you’ll find ten knockoffs using their chemicals. Not to mention, they use identical chemicals in hair products, shampoos, shaving cream, makeup. It’s even in food!”
I throw a hand up and say, “I understand. Tell me about Marion.”
“He lives here in Fox and Cat Hollow, commutes to…”
I interrupt. “No, please, tell me about Marion’s appearance. His appearance.” My hand stays where I threw it as I stare at the cricket cufflink.
“Why do you need to know that?”
I lower my hand in offense and ask him square in the eyes, “Is he not missing?!”
Judels drops his eyes in embarrassment and says, “Of course… my mistake… I wasn’t thinking… it’s just…”
“You get blindsided by the exploits of his employer.”
“Something like that.”
“If you would describe him, please.”
“He’s, uh, six foot. Dresses well… or neat.”
“One or the other.”
“Neat, better describes the way he dresses. He has blonde hair. Eats well.”
“Plump around the jaw?”
“In his cheeks.”
“Ah.”
He’s well groomed. In good shape.”
“He takes care of himself?”
“I don’t know what else to say.”
“Asymmetrical face, no defining features that may separate him from a crowd?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
I lean back in my chair, aching for a cigarette, and say, “Please, Mr. Judels, as you were before, from the beginning. He lives here in Fox and Cat Hollow…”
“…and commutes to D.C. Nearly a three-hour drive. It’s ridiculous he doesn’t move closer, but the pay accommodates his travel. He’s content with his work, almost happy with it, though he’s anxious like anyone else. Then something in the past month was too much for him to handle. The fear Marion feels is no longer left to the comfort of his friends. He wears it, and most notably, he’s changed his travel plans. He leaves in the morning by car, and when his shift is over, he leaves his car in D.C. and takes a train home. By train it’s nearly four hours. It’s a complete farce, him sacrificing an hour. Yet, come the morning, he’s up earlier than ever, takes a train to D.C. and drives home. I told him I thought it was an expensive way to relax, but he never gave a reason. Before I could really think of an explanation, he was gone. His car’s not at his house. I even went to the Collo-ceuticals facility on my day off. It’s not there either.”
“What do you see as the reason for his sudden alteration of transport?”
“He’s being followed.”
“Fearful is any man who, through their entire commute, sees the same car in their rear-view mirror.”
“What if it’s the same car day after day?”
“You take the train.” I smile.
Judels takes pause and says, “Funny, detective. This is a dear friend.”
“So you’ve said. Tell me, what do you do… for a living?”
“I don’t see how that helps to know!”
“I’m curious. Indulge me.”
“Woodwork.”
“Here in Fox and Cat Hollow?”
“That’s right.”
“Much experience with putty?”
“Binding wood.”
“Painting?”
Lacquer and finish.”
“You said something in the past month became too much for Catlett. Care to enlighten me?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t say?”
“Nothing.”
“You imply it has to do with his work. Consider his occupation.”
“Well, there might be a patent in development Marion doesn’t agree with.”
“Even within the walls of a corporate dystopia, a dissenting opinion is no cause for reconnaissance. Was Marion capable of corporate espionage?”
“No, if he doesn’t like what’s being developed, he’d never give it to another pharmaceutical company. He just lets his supervisors know it shouldn’t be in development.”
“But they won’t listen,” I stand in a rush, a horrible mistake for my countenance, though I can’t help but getting swept away by my conclusions, “Whistleblower it is. A controversial drug or chemical, some substance, got the go ahead and Marion wasn’t about to take it on the chin. So, he thought he’d give it up to the court of public opinion. Though his word alone wouldn’t be enough to persuade anyone of wrongdoing by Collo-ceuticals. He had to get his hands on physical evidence, evidence easily accessible to him, but that fear he felt was constantly postponing the hit and run. The fear of repercussion, which he wore and so suspicion fell, and naturally they follow feeling he may give in to the allure of espionage. At the sight of one car accompanying him wherever he’d go, he took to riding the train, and alternating between the two. Threw them off the trail. As he came to believe.”
“Do you think you can find him?”
“God no. He’s dead. Probably in a ditch. Maybe cut into pieces and burned.”
Judels stands as tall as he can, furious at my conclusion and says, “What kind of detective are you?! That’s a miserable excuse for an answer!”
“I’m not liable for how the truth makes you feel.”
“Some truth, that is! How could you know without doing the footwork?! It’s just conjecture!”
I walk within a foot of Judels and look down into his yellowish eyes. He jerks back, uneasy and visibly shaken. I say, “You’re right. But an all-powerful corporate entity like Collo-ceuticals has every reason and every resource at their disposal to eviscerate, mutilate, and immolate Marion Catlett.”
Judels doesn’t respond, and a perceptible fear overcomes him. He knows not what to say or do, so I say it for him, “You should follow the rules and hire the right person.” I then take the back of his collar in my right hand, the tip of his nose in my left, and as I kick the cane out of his hand, I tear his nose off upwards, knocking off his hat, while pulling him upright.
“Mr. Catlett!” I announce.
There he stands at six-foot, blonde hair atop every inch of ordinary. The man with the rotund face who takes good care of himself; whose nose is rather short without an extension of putty. Full of terror from all he sees.
“How?” is all Marion’s able to utter.
I return to my seat, light a cigarette, and explain, “Firstly, people don’t go missing. People kidnap people or kill people, and even when people kidnap people, nine times out of ten, those people lose their life. Then there’s the people who make themselves go missing for all the attention it brings. This is your category.
Secondly, you referred to yourself as a colleague early on, then told me you’re a woodworker, which, considering the false nose made of putty in my hand, I suspect woodwork is a fruitful hobby of yours.
Thirdly, while I spoke of you in the past tense, you spoke of yourself in the present. Incredible the intricacies of the mind, it will forever struggle to imagine life without itself.
And finally… you’re as anxious as you said!”
Marion falls into his chair and after I go to the window to blow smoke outside, he asks, “What am I going to do?”
“Pay for a room! Stay here. You won’t make it far as a liar. Then hire me. You were going to have me run around looking for you. I’m better off getting your evidence.”
“You can’t possibly get inside the facility. You need a keycard.”
With a mouthful of smoke, I croak, “Oh please, Marion, you put so much thought into this. What’s a little more?”
He gives me a queer look and I watch as he realizes my meaning. Out of his coat pocket he retrieves his wallet and from it his keycard. Between two fingers, he thrusts the card into the air.
I snuff the cherry of my cigarette and toss the whole thing, along with the putty, out the window, then take the card from his hand.
“What is this going to cost?” Asks Marion.
“How much do you have?”
