Ellie of Cameron & Smoothy
I know a gig you might be interested in,” Snot barks. “Big Kat Show – Malmo, coming up. Some of the more famous felines will be wearing diamond collars. You could pull off a Kim Kardashian snatch, only for real.”
“We’ll think about it.” Diamonds are a kat’s best friend.
“I know a fence, a weasel with a pawn shop.” Snot tries to scratch an ear that he can’t reach. “He doesn’t ask a lot of questions. If you dudes get lucky. . . .”
“Yeah. We’ll let you know. This conversation never happened. Keep me posted . . . anything you hear about the Bitch.”
“I loved her,” Pug slobbers. “She was—”
“Never mind. If she shows up you’ll get second chance,” I tell him as we leave. “Keep your eyes open.”
* * *
“Let’s go get some sushi,” I tell Willie as we step outside.
“Yeah, works for me. You want to watch some car fires after? Gonna be some.”
“I don’t know. I watched one burn last night. What’s that about?”
“Somethin’ to do, I guess. A kind of protest. Not so many of us happy here in Rosengaard. The ones fell though all the safety nets, no skills, no education, families blown away to shit . . . this true for some of us. Some of us criminals already. Not much hope of glorious futures, but we make this place our own. The burnings just remind the others that we’re here, and pissed. Cops can’t do anything that’s not politically correct. The race card trumps in Sweden.”
“Umm. The Kat show might be easy money,” I tell Willie over salmon, sake, and some tako served with rice.
“We’ll check it out. See how things look. Those Kat shows usually run a couple days—the weekend. We’d have time to plan.”
“You doing to eat those Californa rolls?” he asks. Willie the Rat. He never stops eating—as for me, I watch my weight. You wanna be smooth, you gotta have a body that can back it up, and I’ve got that in spades—just sayin’.
“So.” The Яat’s cleaned both our plates and chewing on a chopstick. “What should we do next?”
I take a snort of nip as I get up.“Let’s go” I tell him. “We need details. A computer maybe.”
“You should have a cell phone, Smoothy. “You could look it up.”
“I don’t do cell phones. You get phone calls all the time, and cops can track those things—find out exactly where you are in real time.”
“Yeah. I don’t have one myself—the fees. I barely get enough to eat.” He snatches a discarded copy of an Aftonbladet newspaper somebody left on a three legged chair. “Might be an advertisement for the Kat thing here.” We pause for him to shuffle though the pages.
“Oy, look it’s you!” I see it without sitting down. Kat Burgler Hides in Rosengaard district—Police Baffled.
“There’s a picture of you.”
“Could be any Kat,” I tell him. “Яead what is says.”
“Ah . . . they’ve hired somebody, an investigator—female.”
“Well, that’s Sweden for you. What else does it say?”
“They are looking for a famous Scandinavian Kat burgler who pulled off some kind of international commodity crime—something to do with a hundred tons of sardines.”
“A hundred—really. Well, they do exaggerate, sometimes by underplay, or not . . . depending.”
“They go on to say he’s wanted for a dozen other crimes he perpetrated while in Germany and France. He sometimes poses as a suave, good looking, and well heeled, aristocrat with money stashed inside the bank of Kathmandu, Nepal, and—Oy! Here comes the worst part . . . name is Smoothy. Gives your weight and color—Black.”
“The racist bastards.”