Caught by the Cat-Man

by Lewayne L. White

Pine ran to the roof edge, leapt, and sailed across the alley. He landed, cat-like, on the neighboring roof, stood, dusted his gloved hands, then crossed the rooftop and stepped up onto the next building. He whistled quietly as he moseyed along, then paused at a flock of pigeons in a coop.

“Evening, boys,” he said as he tapped the chicken wire. “Shame you’re stuck in a cage.”

The birds cooed and fluttered, disturbed from their rest.

Pine flapped his arms as if taking off, then sauntered on with the casual air of a millionaire coasting down a sidewalk, and not a cat-burglar crossing roofs six stories up. After a successful night of thievery, his loot pack was full, and he was headed home.

Pine didn’t need a lot, didn’t spend a lot, so even if he let Howie Nails lowball him some, he’d still be sitting pretty for the rest of the year. Maybe he’d even spend some of the winter someplace warmer.

At the last building on the block, Pine slipped over the roof edge, dropped onto the fire escape, and weaved his way down the iron stairs to the sidewalk below. He crossed the street, dodging a few cars, then turned up the sidewalk, and strolled along as if he were just out enjoying the night air. He even paused occasionally to window-shop, as if he didn’t have a care in the world or a fortune in stolen goods in his pack.

A few blocks from his own apartment, Pine passed the window of the local “nostalgia” shop. The place was full of all the things that people didn’t get as children, that they gladly paid ridiculous prices to own as a adults. About half a block from the store, Pine paused, realized the window display had changed since he’d gone out earlier, and dashed back to look.

Standing in the center of the window, still in the package, was the complete Cat-Man “Dark Night Crusader” costume he had asked for, begged for, for his birthday and Christmas for two full years.

And had never got.

He marveled at the mint condition Cat-Claw throwing darts, the Cat-Spray squirt gun with rotating color-change cartridges, the utility belt with fifteen pouches full of additional Cat-Gear. Pine shifted to one side, and his reflection joined him, lining up perfectly with the peaked Cat-Ear mask so that he appeared to be wearing the costume of the greatest crime-fighter of all time.

He had to have it. Now.

Pine circled the store, found the back entrance, and lock-picked his way in. Once inside, he found the alarm panel, clipped a device of his own design into the system and neutralized the alarm. He sauntered through the store as if he owned the place, walked up to the display window, grabbed the packaged costume, and stood face to face with the local beat cop, who had apparently been admiring the costume himself.

“Son, I bet Cat-Man would be awful disappointed in you,” said the cop through the glass, as he pulled his pistol with one hand and activated his radio with the other.

Pine raised his hands, and replied, “I imagine so, officer.”

He thought of the full pack he carried, of the full bank account he had, and mentally kicked himself for not just buying the damn thing tomorrow morning. He repeated: “I imagine so.”