The Visit

 “An impression.  That’s all I want you to make.  Just an impression.  I figgure the
bad cop routine can do the rest.”
 “Roger, I’ll simply be who I am.”
 “Dats what I’hm afraid of.”
 “You just take your care and make sure that I can get out.” My English was
degrading terribly with my relationship with this police officer.
 “Got it.  Wid yer trench coat an’ hat, and some bandages on your face ‘n hands.”
 I looked at my bandaged hands.  It was an excellent idea.  My only concern was
the duration of the stay.  It was barely twenty-two hundred, and at least four hours before
my normal prowl time.  I was groggy from sleeping most of the day, and still nursing a
bullet track from a week ago, when I was approached with this most unusual alliance.  He
had even gone so far to suggest he purchase a cellular telephone for me.  I draw the line at
some point, and that, most certainly was it.
 Not that, mind you, he was taking advantage of me, in fact, far from it.  He had
run a whopping four license plates for me, and each and every one of them could not be
traced.  I even did some background checking on my comrade-in-arms.
 He was born Roger Denglo Aadams, he owned a condominium on the north side,
and had been a cop for fifteen years, making detective within six years, and then lieutenant
not far later.  Internal affairs had dogged him for years with this and that charge, only one,
excessive brutality had stuck.  Curiously, Internal affairs hadn’t gone far enough.  The man
whose kneecaps he had shattered had raped a four-year-old second cousin of his.  Seemed
reasonable to me.  Affairs did not know some of the things I did, some of the things he
confided in me: An affair with a rookie which helped generate the gap between he and his
now ex-wife, a nasty heroin habit, a remote piece of property which he was creating a
fallout shelter.  A most interesting fellow.
 Interesting more were my feelings.
 I had never expect the cat facade to last this long.  It was about eight months.
Eight months of breaking bones, terrorizing people, and two deaths.  I surmised that I
would somehow get killed, or become critically injured.  I had no idea that many of the
city would embrace this vigilante persona.  I had no idea I would begin to gently make a
friend in a tired old police officer who was tired of  hoodlums getting away with murder
and who knows what else.
 This brings me to the subject of our drive.  His name was one Mark Downey.  At
our first encounter Mark had finished raping a little girl after sodomizing her mother while
the child observed.  Mark had been holding them both hostage, and I was quietly listening
in on the police scanner.  I’d entered the house from the back window, quickly neutralized
him with a series of pressure points, and tucked him up into a vehicle hidden away while
the police broke in.
 I took my time and had named each bone of his as I broke it, and unlike my
opponent in Chicago, he was not politely paralyzed, no, he was bound spread-eagle with a
racquetball in his mouth.  When he fainted from shock, I would awaken him, and proceed
again, carefully allowing him time to rest so as not to stress his heart.  I didn’t wish to kill
him.  Finally I told him firmly that when he woke up he would politely confess, and of
course, he did.  I also told him I would be in to check up on him if he didn’t behave
himself.
 I’m told that he thanked the police officer for his time when he took the confession
down.  I’m also told he found Jesus.  It turns out that he was a member of a street gang,
and had reported this to the police, and now one of his fellow gang-mates had made an
attempt on his life.  I hardly think that his raping would have anything to do with such a
matter.  I was right when I caught up with one of them and convinced him that it was in
his best interest that he tell me why Mark was such a target.
 It seems Mark had himself a photographic memory.
 He remembered just about everything he saw and everyone he ever met, every
dope deal every heist, every murder he’d ever been told about, and there had been more
than a few.  I thought I’d touch base with him, and well, see if I could possibly convince
him to confess all that he knew.  He knew that Roger was going to bring someone to our
interview and well he had no idea whom.
 Roger led me up the stairwell.  I disliked elevators, claiming claustrophobia.  He
smiled.  I think he took comfort in finding something that frightened me.  We walked into
a prisoner’s secure room, he first and me lurching behind.  He was in bed, and sitting up.
He gasped as I walked in, and turned to speak to me.
 “Sweet Jesus.  Malcolm, is that you?  Christ forgive me, Lieutenant, how could
you have possibly known my worst sin.”
 Roger shrugged.
 “I’d like you hear your side of it, just for the record.” he spoke.
 “Then perhaps you’d better merandize me and get yourself a cup of coffie.
Malcolm, can you speak?  Oh god, please forgive me.”  He grabbed the telephone and
dialed the rectory between sobs he spoke, “Father, please, can you come?” He began to
sob harder.  Roger turned to me, his right eyebrow lifted, and removed a tape recorder
and set it upon the table. Surprise of surprises to me who walked through the door.
 His name was Peter Jacobs, and he bore the title of ‘Father’ in the hierarchy of the
Roman Catholic church.  I always thought of him as a crusading pain in the butt, even
though about thirty or so years ago he baptized and christened me personally.  I stood at
the foot of the bed towering over Mark.  He embraced the Lieutenant and then turned to
me.
 “And who is this?” He asked.
 “This is my half-brother, Malcolm.  The one I told you about.”
 “I see.  Welcome, Malcolm.” He offered his hand.  I shook my head no, and
lurched backward, away from him.
 “Malcolm, without him, I don’t know where I’d be.” Mark said.
 I said nothing, allowing silence to permeate into the room.
 “It’s all right, Mark.  The lord will forgive your sins.” Father Jacobs said turning
toward him.
 “I’ve also made up my mind, Lieutenant, I’ll tell you everything I know, every last
detail I can recall.  Perhaps you’d better make the a pot of  coffie.”
 “Why don’tca start here.” Roger pointed toward me.  I shuffled back into a corner
and sat in a chair.  Father Jacobs eyed the tape recorder as Roger went through his rights.
 “I know I’m refusing council, and I know the lord has forgiven me, but now,
society needs to do the same.” Mark began to speak slowly with a trembling tongue.
 “My real dad, I hardly knew him, he left when I was four.  Mamma said he was a
cokehead, and he drunk a lot, and beat on her and, I guess me.  She had the strength to
leave him, and brought me up a Baptist.  I never really liked church, I liked the streets.  I
smoked my first cigarette at age eight, my first joint a year later.  Before long, I had a
smack habit.  I got out of Juvenile hall with a hatred for my mom ‘cause she didn’t bail me
out, and a new dad and brother.  Malcolm.” He looked at me.
 “The old man, he tried, and tried.  Always decent, but me, I was a hardass.
Malcolm was seventeen, and had just gotten a black belt in something he called Aikido,
which meant he was a badass.  He didn’t see himself a badass, it was just something he
learned.  I saw him, what the counselors say, as a target for rage.
 The Bloods were the new gang in town, and they wanted street people, good ones,
and I was one of the best.  They learned that I never capped anybody and so, that was my
entry fee.  They said a family member was what was needed.  It showed movement from
one family the next.  While he slept, I smacked Malcolm so hard, I broke a piece of his
face, and knocked him out.  I shot a bag of speed and a bag of smack, drug him
downtown, propped him up with the rest of a bunch of bums and poured gasoline on him.
He lit up like a roman candle.
 My new family, pulled out a bag of marshmallows, and we ate them, laughing, as
we walked away.  Please Malcolm, please,” the tears ran from his face, “please forgive
me.” his speech sobbed to incomprehesible gasps.  The Father held him.  I closed my eyes
and breathed deeply, in an attempt to quell my rage.  The Farther turned toward me.
 “Do you forgive him, Malcolm?”
 I gestured toward my throat, and gurgled something which could not be
interpreted.
 “You have no tongue, yet you can speak.  Do you forgive him?”  While I was sure
that Malcolm probably would, I would most defiantly not.  I would not give an answer so
I sat.  “You will, in your own time, Malcolm, as god has.” He began to go through
absolution.  How easy, I thought, it would be to simply immobilize them, and then.  No,
they must find their own ways, and if hiding in their beliefs they sat, then so be it.  This is
one instance in which I elected not to intervene.  For whatever reason.  My faith in the
Catholic beliefs had been shattered long, long ago.
 Mark rambled for the next four hours, six audio cassettes worth.  I did nothing but
listen.  I learned a great deal, and did not reply to any commentary put to me.
 “Lieutenant, I have a favor to ask.” Mark said.
 “We’ll see.” Roger replied.
 “Come now, Lieutenant, certainly nothing is to great for the information you’ve
just obtained.” Father Jacobs said.  I stifled a yawn.
 “There was some kind of demon-woman, the one who captured me and tormented
me.  I think the papers have called her, ‘The Cat’.  Do you know who I’m talking about.”
 “I’ve heard rumors, but to be honest, the police department cannot condone such
vigilantes.” Roger gave the official litany.  My ears were perked.
 “Do you have any way of contacting this person?” Mark asked.
 “I’m afraid not.  The best you might possibly do is an ad in the classifieds.” Roger
suggested.
 “Father, how about you?  I’m sure you’ve seen all sorts of parishioners, anything?”
 “No.  Like the Lieutenant, I do not condone violence.  While the bible sayeth an
eye for an eye, the lord shall forgive for all our sins, I believe this.  Why do you seek this,
this creature.” Father Jacobs replied.
 “Because Father, this creature allowed me to find you.  You were the one who
helped me to see Christ, and I was let to you from her.  I would like to thank her.” Mark
said.
 The priest shook his head.
 “Lieutenant, thank you for coming.  If you’ll excuse me, I’d like some time with
my brother and the priest.”
 I stood, and went into the bathroom.  Without difficulty I circumvented the alarm,
jimmied the window, slipped outside and scampered onto the roof.  Roger returned about
an hour later.
 “That was easy, although you threw them for a loop.”
 “I’m sure.” I replied.
 “We sure learned a lot.  It seems ya done somthin to make this kid change.”
 “I suppose so.”
 “Okay, whereya wanna go.”
 “The rest area will do.  No.  Wait.  Run me to that convenience store we passed on
the way in.”
 He did as he was instructed, I purchased a roll of paper towels and a large bottle of
baby oil.  I asked to used the restroom, removed the bandages, used the baby oil to
remove my makeup and put the bandages back on.
 “Now take me to the lower south side.”
 “At least I don’t hafta worry ‘bout you takin’ care of yerself.” He said.  We drove
in silence for a time, and then I had him stop at a soup kitchen.
 “I’ll call you when we may next meet.  It may be several days.”
 “Sure.  Take care...” he began to say something else, and then nothing.  He stared
at me for a moment.  His eyes were looking into mine.  I broke the lock, momentarily.  He
spoke softly, “Don’t lose faith.  Ya do good work.”
 “My faith was lost many years ago.” I turned, and walked into the soup kitchen.
 “’ello miss.  How can I help you.” A man walked up to me.
 “I’m looking for Lurch.” I replied.
 “Down for the night.” He said.
 “How’s the reconstructive surgery coming?”
 “Pretty good.  He doesn’t scream nearly as much at night.  I guess he even told a
counselor how he got lit.”
 “Not bad for eight years of therapy.” I replied.
 “Where’d you meet him?  Support group?” He looked at me, gesturing toward the
bandages.
 “Actually, no, I worked here in high school one summer when he was first found.”
I replied.  “This,” I pointed to my face, “is recent.  Anyhow, tell him Jessie stopped to say
hello.”
 “Sure thing, Jessie.” He smiled and led me out, flipping the ‘closed’ sign on.
 I walked home, all twelve miles, and began to think about my life, and how the cat
had effected me.