Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

  and incidents are either products of the author’s

  imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2017 by Stephan Pastis

  Timmy Failure font copyright © 2012 by Stephan Pastis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted,

  or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means,

  graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and

  recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

  First electronic edition 2017

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending

  This book was typeset in Nimrod.

  The illustrations were done in pen and ink.

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  A six-toed cat stole my pants.

  On an island called Key West in Florida.

  It happened when we were touring the

  house of a famous author.

  Who I know nothing about.

  Other than that he is dead.

  So when my mother made me dress up for

  the tour, I knew it wasn’t to impress him.

  I also didn’t know that the interior of

  the dead guy’s house would have no air-

  conditioning. Causing me to sweat so profusely

  as to be medically unsafe.

  Which is probably what killed the author.

  But I am the detective Timmy Failure.

  And I am harder to kill than an author.

  So when the heat of the house becomes

  overwhelming, I leave my mother with the

  tour group and walk back outside.

  Where I do what any sane person would do.

  And remove my pants.

  But my cool pants-less respite is cut short

  by the sound of my mother’s voice calling to

  me from the upstairs windows of the house.

  “Timmy? Where are you? Timmy?”

  So I grudgingly return inside and stand

  amidst the tour group.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she

  whispers, pulling me to the back of the group.

  “Saving my life,” I answer. “So I don’t end

  up like the dead guy.”

  I point toward the author’s picture on the

  wall.

  “Timmy, you are standing in a public

  place in your underwear.”

  “It’s my Mr. Froggie underwear. So people

  will think it’s a fancy bathing suit. And

  besides, why do I have to dress up anyway?

  Everyone else here is in shorts.”

  Before she can say anything else, we are

  interrupted by the old man who is our tour

  guide.

  “Folks, next we’re gonna go see the room

  where Mr. Hemingway wrote.”

  “I don’t know who that is,” I reply as I

  shuffle past him in my underwear.

  “Ernest Hemingway. You’re standing in

  his house,” he says, then pauses. “You’re

  standing in your underwear in his house. Son,

  could you please put on some pants?”

  “I am so sorry,” says my overly apologetic

  mother as she rushes me out of the upstairs

  bedroom we are in and onto the wraparound

  verandah.

  “Timmy, where did you leave them?”

  “Who knows? Maybe next to the foun-

  tain outside. The one the cats were drinking

  out of.”

  “You stay here,” she tells me. “Don’t

  move.”

  So I stand outside on the verandah beneath

  a large ceiling fan and stare at the pudgy tour-

  ists below.

  And that’s when I see him.

  The cat with six toes.

  “Polydactyl,” says the tour guide, peer-

  ing out of the double doors that lead onto the

  verandah. “That means he has more than the

  usual number of toes. Like the kind of cat that

  Papa owned.”

  “They’re like giant mittens,” I reply. “And

  who the heck is Papa?”

  “Ernest ‘Papa’ Hemingway,” he says. “Or

  ‘the dead guy,’ as you call him.”

  And as he says it, I hear my mother’s foot-

  steps rushing back toward us on the verandah.

  “Your pants are not on the fountain, Timmy.

  They’re not anywhere.”

  “Of course they’re not,” I reply. “Because

  they’ve been stolen.”

  “Stolen?” she says. “Who would steal

  pants?”

  “Him,” I say.

  “The cat,” she says.

  “Yes,” I answer. “With giant mittens for

  paws. Could walk off with half the furniture in

  this house if he wanted to.”

  “Timmy, that little cat does not steal

  pants.”

  “He’s never stolen my pants,” the tour

  guide interjects. “And I’ve been here fifteen

  years.”

  The tour guide smiles at my mother. She

  does not smile back. He slinks back inside

  the bedroom and rejoins the departing tour

  group.

  “Timmy, I want you to focus. Where did

  you see them last?”

  “I told you already. By the fountain.”

  “Yeah, well, as I told you already, they’re

  not there.”

  “So talk to Mr. Mittens over there,” I

  answer, pointing again at the cat. “It’s a genetic

  mutation. We learned about it in science. God

  or Charlie Darwinian or somebody gave that

  little cat a thumb so he can grab things. And

  unfortunately for us, he has chosen to use that

  skill for evil ends. Namely, the theft of my

  pants.”

  Mr. Mittens meows.

  “Cats do not wear pants,” my mother

  answers in that unique motherly tone that is

  half whisper and half scream.

  “Correct,” I answer. “Which is why he

  probably sold them on the kitty black market.”

  She opens her mouth to once again lecture

  me but is stopped short by a man’s voice.

  This one from beneath the verandah.

  “Are you guys gonna come down here or

  just stay up there talking all day?”

  So my mother peers over the railing.

  “Tell that nosy tour guide to mind his own

  business,” I say to her.

  My mother looks back at me, and suddenly,

  the anger is drained from her face, replaced by

  something else.

  It is as though she has seen the error of

  her ways, perhaps owing to a glimpse of Mr.

  Mittens absconding with my pants.

  “It’s not the tour guide,” she says.

  “Is it a cat wearing pants?” I answer.

  She shakes her head and reaches out her

  hand to take mine, pulling me toward the

 
railing.

  Where I peer down at the man. Who I don’t

  recognize.

  “Papa,” she says.

  I stare back inside at the picture of the

  white-bearded man on the wall, and then back

  toward the younger man beneath the verandah.

  And they look nothing alike.

  “Not the writer,” she says, reading my

  thoughts.

  Pausing briefly to squeeze my hand.

  “It’s your father.”

  Many years ago, a zillion desperate people—all

  seeking a better life—escaped from a country

  called Cuba to a place called Key West, Florida.

  Many years later, one desperate boy—also

  seeking a better life—escaped from Key West,

  Florida, to Cuba.

  “Timmy, get back here so I can put lotion

  on you,” says my mother.

  “I’m almost to Cuba,” I answer.

  “You’re two feet from the shore,” she says.

  “In Florida.”

  “Google says that Cuba is only ninety

  miles away. I can swim that in an hour. And if

  I don’t like it, I’ll swim right back.”

  “Timmy,” she says, yanking me out of the

  water by my arm and slathering sunscreen

  across my face, “I want you to come back to

  where we are on the beach, and I want you to

  play with Emilio. The poor kid’s just standing

  up there waving at you.”

  “But look at him, Mother. Wearing his

  little ducky thing. It’s embarrassing.”

  “It’s not embarrassing, Timmy. Stop mak-

  ing life difficult.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to come to stupid Key

  West in the first place.”

  “What did you want us to do? Leave you at

  home? Leave you for a week with some baby-

  sitter we barely know?”

  “Yes,” I answer.

  “No,” she snaps back. “Dave and I would

  have just worried about you. That would have

  ruined our entire honeymoon.”

  Honeymoon.

  A word that the Merriam-Webster diction-

  ary defines suchly:

  Which reminds me.

  The first thing I’m going to do when I get

  off this remote island is write to Mr. Merriam

  or Mr. Webster or Mr. Merriam-Webster

  and tell them all to update their stupid

  dictionary.

  Because:

  1) This trip is a far cry from pleasant; and

  2) My mother is not married.

  Well, she would say she is married. But

  there is no proof.

  Because somebody named me fainted dur-

  ing the ceremony.

  And so I witnessed none of the

  unpleasantness.

  Which brings me to the whole Emilio

  thing.

  Emilio is the nephew of my mother’s so-

  called “husband,” Doorman Dave.

  Doorman Dave was once our doorman.

  But then my mother decided to marry him.

  So now Doorman Dave is So-Called Husband

  Dave.

  And Emilio is here because—well, I’ll just

  let my mother explain that one:

  “We thought it’d be nice for you to have a

  playmate.”

  A playmate.

  As though I’m a toddler sipping milk

  through a swirly straw while stacking my

  alphabet blocks.

  And my mother’s comment is made dou-

  bly offensive by the fact that I already have a

  companion.

  My former business partner, Total.

  Who is a polar bear.

  And a fast swimmer.

  And is by now already in Cuba.

  “I am the founder, president, and CEO of

  Failure, Inc., the best detective agency in the

  state, probably the nation, perhaps the world,”

  I tell Emilio. “Write that part down.”

  Emilio writes it down.

  “How many detective agencies are there in

  the world?” he asks.

  “What does that matter?” I answer.

  “Well, how do you know if you’re the great-

  est if you don’t know how many there are?”

  I reach over and draw an X in Emilio’s

  notebook.

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “A demerit. You’ll get one demerit every

  time you ask an inappropriate question.”

  Emilio writes that down, too.

  “And you will be my intern.”

  “How much does that pay?” asks Emilio.

  “It doesn’t. So technically, you will be my

  unpaid intern.”

  “But why should I do it for nothing?”

  I glare at Emilio. He writes an X in his

  notebook.

  I pace the long wooden dock we are stand-

  ing on. At the end of it is a gazebo that now

  serves as the temporary global headquarters

  of Failure, Inc.

  “Emilio—” I pause. “What is your last

  name, Emilio?”

  “Empanada.”

  “Isn’t that a food?” I inquire.

  “Yes,” he says. “They’re quite tasty.”

  “Emilio Empanada,” I continue. “You

  will not be doing this for the money. Because

  money comes and goes.”

  He writes that down.

  “You will be doing it for the glory. Because

  glory lasts forever.”

  A tear rolls down his cheek.

  “I see you’re moved to tears,” I tell him.

  “That is not an uncommon reaction.”

  “No,” he says as he rubs his eye. “I wear

  contact lenses. And I just got sand behind the

  lens.”

  I ignore the emotional Emilio Empanada

  and continue.

  “Normally, I would not hire someone as

  inexperienced and emotional as yourself. But

  being that I am stuck with you, through no

  fault of my own, I have chosen to make the

  best of it.”

  He raises his hand.

  “Yes, Emilio Empanada?”

  “I overheard you saying something to your

  mother about a polar bear. Why is that?”

  I remove a torn piece of notebook paper

  from my pocket.

  “Yes,” I answer. “His name is Total. And

  everything you need to know on that subject is

  in this document. Do not share it with anyone.”

  Emilio reviews the confidential document.

  “You have a polar bear who eats people?”

  he asks.

  “Yes,” I answer. “And given your last

  name, you’ll be especially vulnerable.”

  “I’m bigger than an empanada.”

  “Size is relative to a polar bear,” I explain.

  He doesn’t write that down.

  “Now you’ll need detective supplies,” I

  explain to him. “Like secret microphones and

  brass knuckles and fingerprint kits. And you’ll

  need a bulletproof vest.”

  He doesn’t write that down, either.

  “Why aren’t you taking notes?” I ask.

  “I’m just wondering,” he says, scratching

  his head. “Where is this polar bear? Because I

  don’t see him.”

  I point past the end of the dock toward

  the aqua sea that stretches to the horizon.

  “Somewhere out that way. He is seeking politi-

  cal
asylum in Cuba.”

  “I don’t know what that means,” says

  Emilio.

  “You don’t have to. All you need to know

  is that he is seeking a better life. And if you

  ever see a fifteen-hundred-pound furry beast

  arrive back on these shores, you are to run

  as though your life depended on it. Because it

  does.”

  Emilio stares at me, shielding his eyes

  from the sun.

  “What now?” I ask.

  “I don’t believe that you really have a

  polar bear. I think that you’re just making that

  part up.”

  I grab the notebook from his hands and

  make an X on every one of the remaining

  pages.

  “And you’ll need a new notebook,” I tell

  him.

  “I can’t work with him,” I tell my mother on

  the porch of our rented Key West home.

  “It’s only for a week,” she says.

  “He asks inappropriate questions. He has

  no respect for the detective business. And he

  fails to understand the reclusive nature of

  polar bears.”

  “You’ll just have to teach him all those

  things.”

  “Teach him? He barely understands that

  he’s an intern. An unpaid intern!”

  “Not so loud, Timmy.”

  “Why? Where is he?”

  “Inside. He’s taking a shower.”

  “And that’s another thing,” I add. “That’s

  like his third shower today.”

  “Well, it’s hot here. Maybe he sweats a

  lot.”

  “And why does he hang his pants on a

  hanger?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to wrinkle them.”

  “And while we’re at it, why does he have

  to tuck a stupid napkin into the top of his shirt

  when he eats? It’s absurd.”

  “Maybe he likes to be neat. Or maybe he

  just has nice manners.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s in the wrong business,

  then. Detectives pride themselves on getting