Word Document

Scoops and the Pink Pussy Cat

- by Allen L Burnet

© 2006

    I should start by explaining my name. I could just say it, but that would take far too long. If I say my name, it becomes a conversation where people ask questions and I answer. So I don’t just tell folks my name, I don’t have that kind of time. Instead, I say, Mama only had one great hope for me… She wanted me to be a lawyer, so she named me after the most famous lawyer she knew. My name is Henry Drummond, Henry Drummond Klein. What Mother didn’t know was that Henry Drummond was just the fictional version of Clarence Darrow, who, of course, was the real lawyer. There is an equal chance that Mom just had a thing for Spencer Tracy, but I’ll never know; Mama’s gone now.
    People tell me, Just say your name is Henry and be done with it. But it’s not that easy. Mama made it a point to call me Henry Drummond, never just Henry, never Henry Klein – and she insisted everyone else call me Henry Drummond as well. I once talked my little sister into calling me Hank. The first time my mother overheard that exchange she threatened to change my sister’s name to Perry Mason, Perry Mason Klein – and that was the end of that.
    So, my name is Henry Drummond, and I am not a lawyer. I actually own my own business, its called Scoops. It’s like a lawn service, only I don’t service the lawn, I scoop what’s on top of the lawn – dog shit. People are appalled that I put it so blunt, but the fact is, they’re going to be appalled anyway. I could couch it in some clever way, like: I’m in canine waste retrieval, but after their minds do the math, people are still appalled. So I serve it up straight: I scoop up dog shit. I was surprised to learn what rich folks will pay to avoid cleaning up a pile of crap – from Toy Poodles to Great Danes – this shit pays the bills.
    That would be the end of my story, if it weren’t for Corky: Henry Drummond putters around rich people’s back yards and scoops up dog duty – The End. But that wouldn’t explain why I hung, white knuckled, off the ledge of a third story window…
    The crash-rattle of a twenty-foot aluminum extension ladder echoed from every corner of The Jepson’s expansive shit-free grounds. I looked down at the ladder, lying vertically-useless in the rose bed below me. Not my ladder, but The Widow Hilary Jepson’s ladder, which I had quietly removed from her gardening shed to make the climb up to the only open window on her house. I was looking down, wondering if I could live through the three-story fall, when Mr. Tatters (the Widow Jepson’s Springer Spaniel that I cleaned up after) poked his head through the screen that I had just pried open. He eagerly sniffed at my gloved fingers, from my work glove’s odor, no doubt, Mr. Tatters thought he had made a new friend.
    I’m not blaming Corky. Infatuation built a fifty-foot wooden horse; I could take a twenty-five-foot fall into a thicket of roses. The first time I saw Corky she was walking across the parking lot of the Pink Pussy Cat. She went inside. It’s rare when you encounter a beautiful woman with the immediate potential to see her naked. I followed her in.
    A stage zigzagged through the club like a high-fashion runway. I stood at a distance and watched for a while until Corky started her walk. The music was fast, but Corky moved slowly along the catwalk from bill to bill – a tiny bit of her attention, and your money was gone. I found a seat that put me eye level and arms reach from her silver pumps. I draped a single over the brass bar that drew the line between us. She paused as she reached my paper and did an indifferent pirouette. On her next pass, I tried a five; she knelt before me at a rousing angle and offered me her eyes for a moment. I brought out a ten – she leaned over me and my vision was lost in a lavender breast nuzzle. I drifted there, her warmth against my cheekbones; as she pulled back, my money was gone. Somewhere between the first trip to the ATM and her fuchsia g-string, I told her that I owned my own company, and she should come back to my place. She did, and she stayed.
    Corky was like a drug, and although I hadn’t known it before then, my drug of choice was a hundred and three pound brunette that lived every day like an MTV video. I managed a few weeks without clearly defining the day to day operations of Scoops. She seemed to think I owned an ice-cream parlor. But, inevitably she gave me that same appalled look that I always get when people realize it isn’t ice-cream in that scoop. That could have been Corky’s exit and the thought of her leaving me made my chest spasm. So, I went with an inspiration. Corky had a few tattoos and the one on her left wrist appeared to be the kind meant to cover another tattoo – a prison tattoo.
    “Hold on Punkin, Scoops is just a cover,” and with those simple words, it started.
    “What? A dog-shit-cover? For what?”
    I felt smooth, like I could pull this thing off, “Come on, Cork, you don’t think I make this kind of scratch shoveling shit?” Truth was, I’d gone through more than four grand of my saving in the three weeks Corky had lived with me – not counting the six hundred I blew the night I’d met her.
    “Are you telling me you’re a criminal, Henry? That’s gonna make this better?”
    “Please – It’s Henry Drummond,” I said, in my mothers voice.
    “No! I don’t want to get into that again. I don’t even know who Henry Drummond, Clarence Darrow or Spencer Tracy are, but I bet none of them clean up dog shit for a living – and I doubt they’re criminals.”
    She pushed by me and started taking her lingerie out of my sock drawer – all that lovely lingerie. I had to nail this thing down now, “I hate to see you go now – right before this big score, but, heck, I’ll still see you and the other girls down at the Pussy Cat, huh?”
    She just stood there holding a pair of panties, her fingers delicately curled around my favorite spot. “Is this for real Henry Drummond? Are you telling me you started a dog shit company so you could rob houses?”
    “Mansions Punkin,” I said, “houses are for petty thieves,” and I walked out of the room.
    Which brings me back to the windowsill, and the twenty-five feet of space between me and the rose bushes. I really only had two choices, pull myself up or fall. Pulling myself up, while suspended prone against a flat surface, proved damn near impossible without a stunt double. In the effort, I was beginning to loose my grip, so, I did the only other thing I could; I rocked all my weight on to my left arm, and with a burst of desperation I grabbed hold of Mr. Tatters thick leather collar.
    Hell hath no fury like a terrified Springer Spaniel. Mr. Tatters let out a yelp and locked all fours against the window frame. The panicked pooch only raised me a foot or so, but added to the pull of my left arm, it was enough to get my right elbow over the ledge. I secured both of my arms over the windowsill and pulled myself up-and-in with a breaststroke. Mr. Tatters was nowhere in sight. He had however left a fine sample of his daily duty. I had given him quite a scare.
   

    Earlier that week, my guess on Corky’s tattoo had proven right. She had done a little time, and like a lot of bored inmates, she had inked her left wrist. Corky was a dancer not an artist – her wrist looked like hell. When she was released, she had had the marking turned into a ring of flowers. But the old prison needlework still showed through a bit. I hoped that playing to her wild side would keep her with me. That had proven right too. She put her lingerie back in my dresser and followed me out of the bedroom.
    “Why would you tell me this Henry Drummond?”
    I moved to the kitchen to get a beer, thinking it might improve my new felonious image. “I know I can trust you.” I was trying to measure how far to take it.
    “When is this Big Score?” She shot me some air quotes.
    “You don’t want to get messed up in this, Baby.” I was starting to feel the part.
    “Oh, I’m in Henry Drummond, I am in.” Now it was her turn to walk out of the room, but first, she shimmied her skirt to the floor, and with her toes, she lifted the dainty garment to my lips and draped it over the neck of my beer bottle, then she turned for the bedroom. Man, I had to work on my exits.
    Corky wanted in, all the way in. She wanted to be part of The Big Score. Which once again brings me back to The Widow Hilary Jepson’s Estate and Mr. Tatter’s turd. Remaining true to my profession, I scooped up the mess and tossed it out the window – I would clean it up on my next appointment.
   

    The ladder was clearly the difficult part of this operation, but from that point forward, my plan was simple. Corky was waiting outside for me to let her in, but first I had to find a study or a den. I would hide the last of my saving in a desk, then I’d let Corky in, pretend to steal my own money, and we would be gone. The Widow Jepson wouldn’t be back until after nine, and we’d be home in bed by then. Simple – but my hands were shaking like Mr. Tatters trying to force out a dry turd.
    I stashed my bankroll in an old German stein I found displayed on an antique lectern in the third floor hallway. Then, I hurried down two flights of stairs to let Corky in the side door. This turned out to be harder than it sounded; the place was huge and I had never been inside – I was starting to panic. I found three doors leading to the outside before I found the entrance Corky was waiting at.
    “Kiss me,” her eyes were gleaming; this girl was born for danger.
    I had been playing the tough guy for Corky all week leading up to The Big Score and I really liked it. The sex was getting more intense and my savings account was in free-fall. But, now that we were inside, every pulse burned at my face and filled my ears with a surging rush. I took Corky’s hand and guided her back toward the stairs.
    “Jumpin’ Jezzus, this is a nice house,” she pulled her hand free and started looking around the living room.
    “No time, Corky… must get to money,” I grabbed her hand again and towed her up the first flight of stairs. We start across a large dining area – I had to go back and get her twice; she wanted to get into everything.
    “This is so cool.” I could feel her excitement – a warm flutter in my chest.
    We started up the second staircase, and sitting at the top was Mr. Tatters. He looked down at us. I hesitated and then continued; Tatters had always been friendly. As we reached halfway, he padded down the hallway into the darkness, but I could still sense him watching us from the end of the hall.
    We reached the antique lectern – there it was – The Big Score. I gripped the old German stein by its handle and thumbed open the lid. Feeling a little calmer now, I added some showmanship; with a flourish, I emptied the stein onto the old desk. Nothing came out. I patted the bottom. Nothing came out. I swore.
    “Are we taking that old beer mug? Is that what we came for?” Corky questioned my choice, “I think the front door knocker is worth more than that thing.”
    I just stood there looking down the barrel of the stein. I had just dropped 180 one hundred dollar bills in that stein - that very stein - less than ten minutes ago. I could clearly see the bottom of the mug, but I tipped it again, trying to empty it out anyway.
    “You never struck me as a beer drinker Henry Drummond,” a voice came out of the darkness from down the hall. An old voice. The Widow Hilary Jepson’s voice.
    A swell of fear and relief hit me simultaneously. I was caught, likely going to jail – fear; but I knew where my cash was, my future with Corky – relief. “This isn’t what it looks like Mrs. Jepson.” I assured her right away.
    “Oh, good! Because it looks like you’re robbing me.” I could scarcely make out her slight silhouette as the ground lights bounced though the bedroom windows.
    “No. No, I am not robbing…”
    Corky interrupted me, “The fuck we’re not. Tie her up Henry. Don’t worry Granny, we’ll be outta here before Lawrence Welk starts.”
    “I see you’ve found yourself a real nice girl there, Henry.”
    I pleaded, “Ladies, if you would…”
    Corky stepped on my line again, “I said, tie her the-fuck-up, Henry.”
    “You put up with that mouth, Henry?” Mrs. Jepson took a step closer to us, up the hall.
    I stomped my foot, “That’s it. Both of you stop talking! The name is Henry Drummond. Not Henry!”
    “Oh, shit, this again. The hell with it, I’ll tie her up,” Corky started down the hall toward The Widow Jepson.
    There was a flash of light, then what sounded like two-by-fours clapping loud in my face. I was blind for an instant and my ears were ringing. The smell of fireworks filled the hall. Then I saw Corky’s knee collapsing at a nauseating angle. I felt her warm blood splatter my pants; as a drawstring of darkness pulled closed around my vision, I hit the floor.
    I was only out for moment. Reality came back with a stark wailing. I thought it was police sirens, but it was Corky. She was screaming, holding her knee at some inverted degree. I looked at it, trying to make sense of the angle. The black curtain threatened again and I threw-up on the carpet.
    The thought of Corky, so gracefully lifting her skirt from the floor to my lips with that beautiful leg – shattered – that wonderful leg that pulled so enthusiastically against the small of my back – shattered. I threw-up again.
    “My, Henry – you had a big lunch,” The Widow closed the distance between us.
    She called me Henry, but I didn’t correct her. It was the first time since I was a boy – when my little sister had called me Hank – that I had let it pass. I heard my mama’s voice demanding that I make in right, but I didn’t say a word.
    “I like her better like this, Henry, that bullet knocked some of the vinegar out of her.”
    Corky had gone silent. Her eyes were shiny and dilated; she was just lying there, staring at the German stein that had landed in pieces beside her.
    “Honest, I wasn’t going to rob you Mrs. Jepson – really. I brought my own money to steal. I was just trying to keep my girlfriend from leaving me.”
    “I guess that explains this roll of bills.” She pulled my bankroll from her bathrobe pocket. “This might be enough to replace my Grandfather’s stein you broke there – maybe a little extra to get that blood out of my carpet.”
    “That seems fair,” I looked a Corky shivering there as she bled.
    “I’ll even throw in a couple of sheets at this price, wrap her leg, and get her to a hospital.”
    Hilary helped me get Corky to my car. As we lay her in the back seat, I had to ask, “Mrs. Jepson, if you knew I’d put that money in the stein, why did you have to shoot my girlfriend?”
    She tilted her head and looked at me for a long while, then she twisted her mouth a bit, as if trying to find a simple way to put it to me, “Some things can’t be fixed with words, Henry; sometimes you have to bleed to get better.” I had no I idea what she was talking about.
    After Corky got out of the hospital, she moved out of town; it turned out, she had pretty good insurance working at the Pussy Cat. I got back to work scooping; I even kept The Widow Jepson and Mr. Tatters as clients – she recommended me to a few of her neighbors too. I started building up my savings again, and after some time I had put away better than five thousand. I drew up a business plan to invest the money back into Scoops. I was going to start by hiring a couple of guys.

    Tonight I stand at my dresser and run my hand over Corky’s feather-soft lingerie. I hold up a breezy white silk top with tiny red polka-dots; I let it brush against my face – it still smells of lavender. Silk and lavender. I carefully return the treasure to my sock drawer. Silk and lavender. I grab my jacket and check my wallet for my ATM card. Tonight is a night for the Pink Pussy Cat. But this time I’ll say, Just call me Hank.