Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 9

"Having a good time, Old Spice?"

I opened my eyes slowly. I'd been moved from the library and was resting on a hospital bed. Someone was leaning over me. As his face came into focus, I realized I was being attended to by an enormous talking cat. Cordon Bleu hovered over his shoulder, biting her lip.

"Did I pass out?" I asked.

"I'm afraid you did, Old Spice," the cat said.

I propped myself up on my elbows. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

He rested a paw on my shoulder. "Not until just a few minutes ago, when you passed out in my library. I'm Jay Z. Catsby."

My jaw dropped. The wealthy socialite Jay Z. Catsby was an orange domestic shorthair with dark brown fur around his eyes. His white-tipped ears stood at attention. His mouth seemed stuck in a permanent frown.

"Shouldn't we call an ambulance? He needs a doctor," Cordon said.

Catsby shook his head. "There's no time."

I glanced around the room, which was stocked to the rafters with drums of ketchup, mustard, and other condiments. I wasn't in a hospital—and I wasn't on a bed at all. I was on a kitchen table. A woman passed by with a freshly made chopped salad. As she exited through a swinging double door, a cartoonish-looking gentleman entered the room. I recognized him from the subway as the famous plastic surgeon, Dr. Zeckleburg. His face was beginning to droop at the edges, as if he was melting. Perhaps he was.

"I've brought a doctor down to take a look at you," Catsby said.

"Does he know anything about internal medicine?" I asked. "Someone cut my one of my kidneys out. I believe the wound is causing me some trouble."

"Have I messed around inside a man's abdomen before?" Dr. Zeckleburg asked in a thick Eastern European accent. "Not professionally, no. But there's a first time for everything."

Jesus. I was about to be operated on my Hans Gruber.

"Can't we just go to a hospital?" I asked.

"Hospitals aren't very intimate, Old Spice," Catsby said, patting me on the back. His touch sent shivers of pain through my body, and I screamed on the operating table.

"Why do you keep calling me Old Spice?"

"Because you smell awful," he explained.

Dr. Zeckleburg produced apill from his pocket. "Lucky for you I always carry roofies," he said, slipping it in my mouth...