Chapter Text
“Oh and of course, how could I forget! This one time I was downtown, I was sitting at a café, and I saw a man with… Oh, his footwear was certainly not up to code, to put it nicely!” Mort wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to this. It felt so surreal to hear his own voice coming out of a radio.
“I’m telling y’all, his spats were hideously bright yellow, it was… it was a spat-acular failure to dress yourself!” Mort could feel his eye twitching slightly as he had to listen to himself. He was seated in the very same café that he himself had mentioned.
The Little Daisy was a nice little joint in downtown St. Louis that Mort had visited many times for breakfast and lunch. The black and white checkered floor always reminded Mort of a chessboard. The place wasn’t big and Mort hadn’t yet seen it fully packed. He had seen it quite crowded a few times and he’d learned to avoid the lunch rushes. There were four large tables in booths and four smaller tables, each with two chairs. The bar had stools to seat even more people, though Mort himself rarely sat up there.
The radio was playing, situated on top of the small shelf next to the young woman who was working the café for the day. The young brown cat with a bob cut seemed completely engrossed in the show. She’d turned the radio up after the re-run started and Mort just didn’t have it in him to ask her to turn it down. As much as he hated listening to his own show, at least she seemed to enjoy it. She chuckled at the jokes that had sounded good in the moment, but hearing them played back to himself now…
Mort had never liked listening to his own voice in general , especially his silly radio voice. He always spoke with a higher pitch, even if the tinny audio coming from the small wooden, boxy appliance already did a decent job at masking his identity. Indeed, Blaine Morrison was a voice without a face to all but a very select few and that was how Mort liked it. His pseudonym kept the attention off him.
Seated by one of the tables by the café’s left side, Mort was right next to the shelf where the radio was . Only two of the four booths on the opposite side of the room were occupied, though both the smaller tables on Mort’s side had guests. He sat alone by himself, while an older couple occupied the one closer to the window.
Ears perking up, Mort took a sip of his tea and looked over as the younger woman behind the bar chuckled again. She was leaning on the counter, eyes staring up at the radio as she listened . Even the older couple to his left seemed to chuckle here and there.
It was embarrassing in a way, but also encouraging.
Since he got the job two years ago , Mort hadn’t heard many people giving their thoughts on his show, besides his family. Even that was rather embarrassing, probably more so . Mort wasn’t generally one who feared criticism, although hearing his parents tell him that he should stop slurring his speech (when he really didn’t) and such, got old rather quickly. But Mort supposed being a parent meant you had to correct your child even after they moved out.
Mort’s dark gray ears gave a small flick as he remembered the one time early on when he almost accidentally swore on the air – he didn’t hear the end of that from his mother for a good while…
M ort’s parents were among the few people who knew what Mort really did. To a nyone else who asked, Mort was unemployed or he simply did odd-jobs. His parents had always been supportive of Mort playing music; he’d learned to play guitar from his uncle Jackson on the Blakely family farm as a child .
Joshua and Jolene had always tried to encourage their son to get up on stage and perform whenever possible; school assemblies, cookouts, things of that nature. They weren't exactly trying to get Mort to become a professional musician, but they tried their best to help him break out of his comfort zone. Supposedly it would be good for later life.
It hadn’t been entirely for nothing; if it hadn’t been for learning that he enjoyed performing, Mort likely wouldn’t ever have thought of taking up a radio gig. But at the same time, Mort had never quite gotten over one thing – and that was people staring at him. Of all the things in the world that could make him nervous, this was probably the most significant. He didn’t much enjoy being the center of attention. But the veil of anonymity that radio gave him was an effective workaround for it. He didn’t have anyone watching him while he did his broadcasts, nor could he see people who listened in on his broadcasts .
Mort’s blue eyes left the young lady with the bob-cut and focused back on his tea, trying to tune out his own voice for a moment. There was a small part of Mort that still wondered why people even listened to him. Even after two years, after several newspaper articles had been written about his radio show, after seeing the numbers his show did, Mort still found it surreal that he had that kind of reach. He supposed people found his silly jokes fun. They probably thought he had interesting commentary or insight to provide. Or maybe they just liked his radio voice…
As Blaine ‘n Simple came to an end, Mort tuned out his silly little outro as he finished his tea. It had been a pleasant lunch overall, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry. He didn’t have much to do for most of the day outside the hours he spent broadcasting in the morning. Leaning back in his seat some, he idly glanced out the window. The street wasn’t very crowded, though Mort did spot a few people walking this way and that. Lunch rush was over, so he didn’t expect many people to be out and about at this time.
Blue eyes idly wandered back and forth, before Mort gave a start. A black car was parked on the other side of the road in the shadow cast by the buildings there. It was a nice-looking car, sleek, black, clean… but the car itself wasn’t what had startled Mort.
Sitting in the car was a silhouette, barely visible in the dark interior of the car, but a pair of bright eyes that almost seemed to glow were staring right at Mort. He couldn’t quite see the owner of the eyes, but the stare was one that made his skin crawl. The stare was really bordering on a glare-
“Would you like anything else?” Mort gave another start and whipped his head around so fast that it almost hurt his neck. He looked up at the brown cat with the bob-cut who stood beside his table. She fixed him with a curious look. “You alright, mister?”
“I- uh… I’m fine, yes. I think I’ll just pay and be on my way, Miss,” Mort said politely. His heart rate was faster than normal, but he slowly calmed down as he forced himself to smile at the young waitress before him. She was clad in a casual yellow dress, still very much wearing summer colors. The radio was playing some jazzy tunes, the re-airing of his show having apparently come to an end, thankfully.
When Mort turned back to look out the window, he found that the car was gone. Despite the sinking feeling he’d gotten from the stranger’s stares, Mort tried to convince himself that it was fine. Some stranger looking at him wasn’t anything to worry about – he just didn’t like being looked at. Yeah, that was it. He took a quick breath and rose to his feet, pushing his chair in, before making his way up to the corner counter nearby.
He briefly exchanged pleasantries with the waitress as he paid, leaving her with a decently sizable tip. Mort was calming down and he smiled at her. Though startling, he thought he was just being overly paranoid. Yeah, there was no reason to fret over someone staring at him like that. And who knew, maybe he was just imagining things. They could’ve just been looking at the café in general, right?
Crossing the room, Mort grabbed his jacket from the coat tree and stepped outside. It was a lovely, warm September day and even as Mort put his blue jacket over his white dress shirt, he thought that perhaps he should’ve just left it at home. But alas, the utility of having pockets…
He set off down the street by himself, hands in his jacket pockets. He kept his keys in his right one, his fingers holding onto them to give himself something to do as he walked. The young Siamese cat hummed to himself quietly. He had the entire day to himself, he could go just about anywhere in town and do whatever he wanted.
Mort’s job was admittedly rather luxurious that way. Aside from his morning broadcasts, he had no other obligations for the day, whereas most other people were working 9-5 jobs. With summer coming to an end, there wasn’t too much going on outside. Mort had attended and enjoyed what Forest Park had to offer in June and July especially, but for today, he figured he may as well just head on home. He didn’t have any plans until later tonight.
The young radio host’s living arrangements were certainly… unique. Not many people had a dedicated home office and even fewer lived in their actual workplace. Mort’s home was located on the third floor of a four story building in downtown St. Louis. From the outside it was a very unassuming building, safe for the nearby radio tower that transmitted Mort’s voice to the masses. Mort wasn’t the only person using the building, but he was the only one who lived there full-time.
The first and second floor were dedicated to office spaces as far as Mort knew. He didn’t go there much outside of passing when he climbed the steps to his own place, but he knew for a fact that they weren't used as domiciles. The third floor, however, that was where he resided.
It had also been a small office space when Mort first acquired the place, but he had since had it converted into a living space; he’d brought furniture in and made it more homey. It still wasn’t perfect, but Mort was happy with it – it only needed a kitchen to make it a proper home.
The building in question was only a relatively short walk from the some of the more well-known places in town. The location it had certainly also had its price; Mort had had to take out quite a loan to afford not only his new living space and redecorating it, but also maintaining all the radio equipment there. Though he made a sizable pay every month from his job, a lot of it went to paying off his debt. But he still managed to make do and live in relative comfort.
Ascending the steps up to his unorthodox home, Mort felt good about himself. It was hard not to. His work was one that afforded him more freedom than he could spend in a day, and in addition to that, he loved his work.
That wasn’t to say he did nothing when he wasn’t working. As he entered his makeshift apartment, Mort’s eyes fell on his desk that rested against the same wall as the front door. The open notebook on the desk had several phrases and keywords written on it, all ideas for topics for Blaine ‘n Simple.
Strange, he didn’t remember leaving his notebook open…
The living space was small, but Mort didn’t mind at all. If anything, he was glad he didn’t have so much space that the room felt empty – he didn’t like big empty indoor spaces. He had room for the desk and the chair standing by it; he had a couch, which had served as his bed before he and his father had managed to lug Mort’s current bed up the stairs. The bed was by the wall right of the front door, a nightstand by its side and a bookshelf and dresser close by. Opposite his bed was the door to the bathroom and on the wall by the bed was a window and there was also one on the wall opposite to the front door, which also led out to where the fire escape was.
Blaine ‘n Simple was a variety show, meaning that he didn’t have a set topic. At first, Mort (as Blaine) had initially covered various news stories and injected his own commentary into each, but when he found that people wanted to hear his thoughts on all sorts of things, Mort had turned Blaine ‘n Simple into a show with less of a formula and no real limits on what he could discuss.
Well, as long as it was all legal, of course.
Moving to close the notebook, after hanging his jacket on his own coat tree and removing his shoes, Mort let out a soft sigh. It wasn’t like he was short on topics to talk about, of course. Mort had found that he could talk about almost anything with no major complaints, and that was yet another fact he was grateful for.
Life was good and Mort was enjoying life. He certainly considered himself very lucky to do what he did for a living – a one in a million kind of guy.
When Mort eventually returned home, it was nearly 8 PM. Though his job afforded him many luxuries, staying up late wasn’t one of them. His broadcasts were in the morning, so he had to get up and prepare an hour or so in advance, but ideally more. He had to make sure his equipment was working and ready to go. Mort hadn’t missed any days of broadcasting since he started, with the exception of the days when he had simply prerecorded broadcasts. He only did that for holidays or other occasions when he’d be out and about. He also sometimes re-aired older broadcasts for the same reason.
But not tomorrow.
Dinner with his parents had been as pleasant as could be. While he greatly enjoyed his independence and freedom, Mort had to admit, the one thing he missed about living at home was home-cooking. But being away from his mother’s cooking just meant that when he did get to enjoy it, it only felt all the more special.
Mort had spent a few weeks of his summer at the Blakely family farm, as he did every year, and one of the best parts of being there was the Southern style cooking. His mother’s side of the family had lived all their lives in that small one-horse town and Mort was pleased to have spent almost half his life there. When he was ten, they’d moved away from the farm to St. Louis, but every summer, he’d returned to spend at least a few weeks there. And luckily it wouldn’t be too long before Mort and his parents would make the trip back to Tennessee again.
Of course, as he got older, the visits had gotten shorter, especially the past two years when he had to do his broadcasts – the demand for entertainment was especially high in summer and Mort sometimes did multiple broadcasts in a day. Just this summer, he’d almost lost his voice from how much he was on the air!
Mort had barely stepped into his apartment before he knew something was very wrong. Why was it so cold? He hadn’t left the window open, had he? Mort locked the door behind him and crossed the room to the window by the fire escape, which was indeed slightly open. He frowned and shut it fully. Maybe the lock just needed fixing…
A knock on Mort’s door made the young Siamese cat start slightly, but it was nothing to the way he jumped when he turned around. He practically crashed against his window, back pressed firmly up against it as he realized there was a stranger in his home.
“Ah, you sure ain’t much to look at. Should’ve guessed with that pipsqueak voice of yours.” The stranger was a tall black cat, his back hunched slightly. The fur on his head was slicked back and the way he squinted at Mort was so awfully familiar and unsettling. He wore a black three piece suit with a white dress shirt and a deep orange flower pin was attached to his jacket.
Mort opened his mouth in horror as if to answer, but not a single sound left the young Siamese’s lips. His tiny heart was racing, even as the hunched stranger stayed in place and didn’t move an inch. He had his back facing the front door – the only other way to safety. Could Mort fling the window open and make it down the fire escape faster than him?
“I mean… I’m a big fan of listening to you rambling about nothing for hours at a time,” the stranger sneered sarcastically and finally stepped closer. Each step made Mort flinch, though his feet felt like they were nailed to the floor.
“… Who are you?” he managed to squeak, voice even higher than his Blaine Morrison voice. The stranger’s oddly pointed face broke into a smile, but not a friendly, inviting one. Oh no, this kind of smile made Mort’s skin crawl. The scarred face of his didn’t help. The closer he got, the more apparent the scar became, like a bolt of lightning against black storm clouds.
“Don’t matter none. What does matter is that you and I are going for a little ride together,” the weasel-faced stranger said in that same tone. Mort instinctively tried to back up as he approached, but he already had his back pressed firmly against the window behind him. “Don’t think about running. I’m not here to hurt you… unfortunately. Need to bring you along in one piece, but you get to choose whether you’re conscious for it or not…”
When a large, black-furred hand grabbed Mort by the shoulder, the panicking Siamese cat immediately tried to hit the stranger in the face. He missed, however. The hand on Mort’s shoulder tugged him away from the window and shoved him forward. He stumbled, but immediately straightened up when he felt something hard press against his back.
“Yeah that’s right, keep walking,” the weasel-faced stranger growled behind him, pressing the tip of his gun against Mort’s spine till it hurt. “Don’t worry, it won’t be far… With any luck you’ll be back to doing your dumb little show in the morning – if you play along.”
The walk from his apartment to the first floor had never felt so long – not even while carrying furniture up the stairs. Mort was afraid his heart would explode from how hard and fast it was beating in his chest. He knew exactly what the stranger was pressing against his back and he was convinced that this stranger wasn’t afraid to use it.
What choice did he have other than compliance? Mort felt his heart sinking as he got into an awfully familiar black car. It had been parked in the alley between his building and the neighboring one. The stranger seated in the driver’s seat, Mort sat in the back, very much fearing for his life.
“W-… Where are you taking me exactly?” Mort managed to ask, though he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know. The stranger didn’t say a word for the duration of the ride – he barely even acknowledged Mort’s presence. They weren’t driving that fast… what if he flung the door open and jumped out?
Mort barely even got a chance to think about it before the car stopped. It had been a surprisingly short car ride. Peering out of the window on his side, Mort looked out at the Maribel Hotel up ahead, a familiar building to him. He’d passed by it many times, but he’d never actually entered it – never had a reason to. It was so close to his home, Mort wondered why the weasel-faced cat had even bothered with the car. Probably so he wouldn’t squeal or try to make a run for it…
But more importantly, why would an armed kidnapper bring him to a hotel like this…?
When said kidnapper got out of the car, Mort for the briefest time considered attempting to flee, but he also knew he wouldn’t make it far. The nearest place he could even run to for cover was the hotel itself, but if he was being brought there by the weasel-faced stranger, odds were he wouldn’t find much help in there.
“Alright, get out. We’re going in,” the stranger growled at Mort. His dark-furred hand gripped Mort’s shoulder tightly and guided him forward, claws digging into his shoulder. As they approached the hotel, Mort’s blue eyes glanced up at the big, shiny sign out front, its vertical letters spelling out the hotel’s name. Passing under the red awning in front of the door felt strangely ominous to Mort, like stepping into the gaping maw of a giant beast.
Stepping into a beautiful, large lobby, Mort wasn’t too surprised by what he found, given that the Maribel Hotel was known for being quite a fancy hotel. It was most certainly bigger and better than any hotel Mort had ever stayed in. The lobby alone was beautiful, the tiled floor depicting the black stalk leading up to a beautiful, orange flower design right in front of the front desk. Above said front desk, Mort noticed more flower motifs as part of the décor on the walls. Likewise, a large, ornate chandelier hung right above the flower design on the tiled floor. It almost gave the impression that the flower itself was the light source, the way the light reflected off the smooth, shiny surface.
The front desk had a rounded design that perfectly fit in with the rounded tiles at the very front. Mort wasn’t guided to the front desk, however. The stranger guided him off to the left where they soon stepped onto carpeted floor. Their appearance attracted a few looks and Mort tried his best to silently ask for help, though he soon realized that people’s attention wasn’t on him, but rather his kidnapper.
As Mort was practically shoved into an elevator, a million thoughts raced through his mind. Was the stranger going to push him off the roof? Or was he being taken to the bowels of the hotel, the basement where no one would be able to hear his screams?
Every muscle in Mort’s body was tensed, his ears twitching almost constantly as the elevator took them up. He could feel the stranger’s grip on his shoulder tighten to the point where it hurt. The elevator ride seemed to take an eternity. Mort couldn’t see the elevator operator after stepping inside, his back towards him, but the fact that they weren’t alone at least told him that he wasn’t going to die in an elevator. Not much of a comfort, all things considered.
As soon as the elevator stopped, Mort was pushed out, nearly stumbling. Had this been different circumstances, Mort would’ve taken time to appreciate his surroundings, the clean, carpeted floor, the walls with ornate framed paintings on them, many featuring orange flowers, not dissimilar to the one worn by his captor.
The elevator operator bid them a good night, but Mort wanted to just shout at him to get some help. How fast could the stranger pull out that gun of his?
Mort didn’t get much time to even consider this as he was guided along and just moments later stopped in front of a door. Mort’s kidnapper knocked on the door, even going so far as to pull out his gun, using the butt of it to do the knocking. Just the sight of the metallic weapon made Mort flinch. Mort had barely gotten a chance to read the name tag on the door before they got an answer.
“Come in.” A deep voice sounded from the other side of the door and the stranger opened it before shoving Mort inside. “Ah, Mr. Clyde, I see you-”
“Have fun, pipsqueak,” was the last thing he heard before the door was slammed shut behind him, nearly catching his dark gray tail as it did. Thankfully, Mort avoided having his tail broken in a door this time.
The room he’d been shoved into was dimly lit, mostly illuminated by light coming from outside. Mort looked towards the desk situated opposite to the door he’d just entering through. Behind the desk a heavyset, older cat was seated, his fur bright golden like wheat.
He sat in a large, studded leather chair, framed by the large window where light from the city outside could shine in through the blinds. He had a surprisingly friendly-looking face, brighter patches of fur around his eyes making him look strangely excitable. He was wearing a black vest with that deep orange flower pin on the left side of his chest over a dark blue dress shirt along with a bright golden neck tie. His bright green eyes were fixated upon Mort.
“Well, that just leaves you and me then,” the older cat said with a smile, seemingly not at all perturbed by being left alone. Quite frankly, Mort couldn’t say he was sorry to see his assailant go. “Please, have a seat.”
Mort didn’t move an inch. His bright blue eyes settled on the chair placed in front of the desk as if it were a bear-trap waiting for him, then he looked onto the desk itself. It was a fine, wooden desk, certainly a lot nicer than the one Mort had at home. He immediately spotted the small, golden, metallic sign that featured the same name he’d seen on the door – Asa Sweet. The desk also held what looked to be two jars of sweets, a telephone, a small holder for scissors and pens, and a large desk mat rested right in front of Mr. Sweet. Mort also spotted a picture frame that faced the man behind the desk and an envelope rested beside the frame.
“Oh, I hope Mr. Clyde didn’t ruffle you too much, son. Don’t worry, I know he’s a scary-lookin’ fella – certainly not much of a looker that one. Just have a seat, you’re in safe hands now.” And yet, somehow, that statement didn’t make Mort feel safe at all.
He glanced around the office. To his right there was a large couch with a table in front of it, and closer to the desk, Mort spotted a floor lamp and next to it, a large bookshelf holding several books. Beside it stood a filing cabinet and finally a coat tree right next to the window held a jacket and a hat, which clearly belonged to Mr. Sweet.
The room almost made Mort think of a hotel room that had been converted into an office space… a strange reversal of his own living arrangements.
“Please, kid, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Take a seat, have one of these.” The golden cat’s voice was patient, warm, almost fatherly. He picked up one of the jars holding sweets and placed it closer to the wooden chair opposite his own. Mort took a single step forward, then he stopped.
“Who are you?” he croaked feebly. His heart was still racing, though the way Mr. Sweet spoke to him was oddly calming and soothing. “You’re- You’re not a debt collector, are you? Because I’ve been paying off my debt little by little, it’s-”
“Oh, no, nothing like that, son,” Mr. Sweet said, giving a small wave of his hand. He smiled as he gestured towards the chair. “Please, just sit and I’ll explain everything.”
Mort clenched his jaw, but stepped closer. The older cat’s voice had such a comforting tone to it, and unfortunately it worked on him…
Mort crossed the room very slowly, soft footfalls against the wooden floor until they were muffled by the carpet in front of the desk. He pulled the chair out and cautiously sat down. Mort sat up straight, back pressed against the backrest of the chair, as if afraid he might get attacked if he leaned forward too much.
“Now then, please, allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Asa Sweet,” the older cat said with a smile, his booming, deep voice having quite a presence to it. He rose to his feet, extending an arm to let Mort shake his hand, and Mort did the same, almost knocking into the desk as he did. Mr. Sweet’s brighter furred hand shook Mort’s dark gray one, his grip quite firm.
Too polite for his own good, Mort said, “Uhm… A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sweet, I’m-”
“Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Blakely… Or is it Mr. Morrison?” Mort had been about to ask how he knew his name, but when Mr. Sweet name-dropped his pseudonym, Mort’s heart skipped a beat.
“I- Oh, it’s just Mr. Blakely, that’s my name,” Mort said, feeling his face tighten as he let go of Mr. Sweet’s warm hand and sat back down. His heart was starting to beat faster again. No… there was no way…
Right?
When Mr. Sweet suddenly bellowed, Mort flinched, before he realized that he was laughing – a loud, booming roar of laughter. “Oh, please…! Well, alright, I’ll play along, Mr. Blakely. I guess I don’t get to tell you how big a fan I am of Blaine ‘n Simple now, do I?”
“… Blaine ‘n Simple? You actually like that show?” Mort asked, trying his best to sound dismissive, though his dark gray ears did perk up. Mr. Sweet grinned at him and nodded.
“Oh, very much so, I’ve been dying to meet you. Not that you were too hard to track down.” Mr. Sweet’s tone was so awfully casual and calm as he reached for one of the glass containers. Mort now saw that one held cigars, one of which Mr. Sweet pulled out. He held the glass container towards the younger cat and gave him a look. The Siamese cat shook his head, before Mr. Sweet lit his own cigar.
“… Track down?” Mort asked nervously. He once again felt as though he should be running for the door.
“Oh, we’ve kept an eye on you for a little while – just kept our distance,” Mr. Sweet said nonchalantly as he leaned back in his seat. Thankfully, he blew the cigar smoke away from Mort. “No one knew where exactly Blaine Morrison lived, so we had to… get creative, son.”
Mort shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “And you think I know that…?”
Mr. Sweet shot him an amused look, grinning. “Oh, I’m positive you know, Mr. Blakely. Question is, how can I convince you to tell?”
Mort didn’t at all like the older cat’s question – even when paired with the jovial tone. The Siamese cat shifted in his seat once more, his right hand nervously gripping the arm rest. Unable to find his voice for a moment, Mort just let out a nervous little chuckle. “I- I really don’t know, Mr. Sweet. I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy… but ehm… why are you looking for Mr. Blaine Morrison exactly…?”
Upon hearing Mort’s worried tone, Mr. Sweet’s grin broadened, if that was even possible. He chuckled, before taking another hit from his cigar. “Oh, I just want to do business with him – that’s all, son. If you could get me in contact with ‘him’… or just come out and let me talk to ‘him’…”
The younger cat fell silent again, staring at Mr. Sweet. This couldn’t be normal, could it? Who conducted business like this? This was the kind of thing criminals did, having someone whisked away against their will and all…
But even so, Mr. Sweet didn’t strike Mort as the type. He seemed so… nice. So jovial and friendly. This was all wrong…
“But why not just try and reach him via letters? Kidnapping me hardly seems-”
“Kidnap? Oh no, no, son. I just wanted to talk. You’re free to go, if you’re not interested. But all I’m saying is that I could help you out with that debt of yours – little by little,” Mr. Sweet said, watching Mort carefully. He may seem jovial and friendly, but Mort could tell there was an intellect behind those green eyes, a mind that was watching, studying.
Mort’s blue-eyed gaze moved back to Mr. Sweet’s desk, then up at the older cat. His mouth felt suddenly dry. “So… if I- Let’s just say I knew how to get to Mr. Morrison… what exactly do you want from him?”
Mr. Sweet gave a soft chuckle that grew louder before he finally spoke. “Still insisting on that charade, are you? You don’t suffer from multiple personalities, do ya’, son?”
Having no clue how exactly to answer that question, Mort fell silent again. He shook his head. “No, I don’t, but-”
“Well, why don’t you stop on by this Friday? We’re having a party – I’d love to show you the ropes of this place. Maybe then you’ll be open to doing some business, Mr. Morrison.” Mr. Sweet was looking at Mort in a very expectant way, a way Mort didn’t at all like. Just that look alone was enough to make Mort feel mounting pressure on him. He swallowed nervously.
“It’s Blakely, Mr. Sweet, sir,” Mort insisted nervously. Glancing off to his left, Mort’s blue eyes searched for a point to linger, before he nearly jumped out of his seat. Stationed in the shadows beside the curtain of Mr. Sweet’s window was a black and white cat clad in a black suit. He’d been standing so completely still that Mort had failed to notice him at all up until this point.
Mr. Sweet seemed to realize what made Mort jump. He cast a short glance at the monochromatic cat, before beckoning him forward. Stepping out of the shadows, Mort got a better look at him. He was about the same height as he was, perhaps a bit taller and he wore glasses. His fur was obsidian black, only broken up by white on his muzzle, his eyebrows and his hands. Like Mr. Clyde, this stranger also wore that bright orange flower pin on his suit jacket.
Smirking at Mort, Mr. Sweet gestured towards the stranger. “Mr. Morrison, meet Mr. Heller.”
“Sir, it’s Blakel-”
“I’m sure you two will be the be the best of pals,” Mr. Sweet said loudly, talking over Mort. He looked at the Siamese cat for a moment before he roared with laughter, making Mort jump again. While Mr. Sweet laughed at some joke that apparently only he got, Mort’s blue eyes met the stranger’s deep green ones, albeit with great apprehension.
Mr. Heller had an intense stare that Mort couldn’t keep eye contact with for long, averting his gaze and looking back at Mr. Sweet in a hurry. Thankfully, he’d stopped laughing.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Morrison, lighten up. I’ll send for you on Friday… shall we say around eight? I’ll have someone pick you up, it'll all be taken care of,” Mr. Sweet said, taking another couple drags of his cigar. The smoke was swirling around in the air near the older cat and Mort was at least glad to see that Mr. Heller didn’t look pleased by the smell either. “No obligations, it’d just give us a chance to talk – and you’d get to see the benefits of working for us, son.”
“But… who is this ‘us’ exactly, Mr. Sweet, sir?” Mort fidgeted slightly in his seat in an attempt to get comfortable, now acutely aware of the fact that he was under the watchful eye of two strangers.
While Mr. Sweet still had that strangely fatherly way about the way he spoke and looked at Mort, Mr. Heller was quite the opposite. It was like those green eyes were cutting through Mort, like a hot knife through butter. He felt like Mr. Heller was analyzing his slightest move at any given time too, it was… unsettling. Like the tuxedo cat was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“You'll have to turn up on Friday to find out, Mr. Morrison. I’ll get you properly introduced and you’ll see what we can offer you,” Mr. Sweet said, sounding so confident that Mort would be turning up, so much so that Mort didn’t dare contradict him. “No commitments, but I expect you’ll be ready to work with us this time on Friday.”
It was already clear to Mort that Mr. Sweet wasn’t going to take no for an answer. As the older cat stood and put out his cigar, he extended his hand towards Mort, who hesitantly shook it. “I-… Well, I suppose we’ll find out, sir…”
“We sure will, Mr. Blakely. Now then, I’ll have Mr. Heller escorting you home. Be safe. Oh, and before I forget – have this for your troubles today.” Mr. Sweet reached for the envelope on the desk and held it towards Mort.
The younger cat regarded the envelope with suspicion, before taking it. Dark gray hands somewhat shaky, Mort opened the envelope and peered inside. His eyes widened, the blue staring up at Mr. Sweet for a moment – the envelope was full of money, a bunch of ten dollar bills!
“Oh, don’t mention it – it’s the least I can give you, after having you brought out here on such short notice,” Mr. Sweet said, after waving his hand when Mort had opened his mouth to protest. While it was a large sum of money, which had quite the appeal in itself, Mort couldn’t help but worry.
He got the distinct feeling that the money wasn’t exactly obtained in the most legal manner – the same morally questionable manner as this whole situation. The casual way in which he’d been given said money, and the way he’d been brought to the hotel set off all kinds of red flags in Mort’s mind. And on top of that, being given money this way, Mort couldn’t help but feel like he was being put in a position where he owed Mr. Sweet something.
“Good boy. Now then, Mr. Heller, can you show our new friend the way out?” Mr. Sweet said as he leaned back in his chair, once Mort closed the envelope. The tuxedo cat moved around Mr. Sweet’s desk, his strides short, but fast. He didn’t say a word, just simply shot Mort a look before guiding him towards the door of Mr. Sweet’s office.
“Oh, before you do leave, son…” Mort turned to see Mr. Sweet approaching. While the older cat wasn’t too intimidating based on appearance, Mort couldn’t help but tense up.
“Yes, sir- Mr. Sweet sir?”
“You best not tell anyone about this… I’d hate to have to send Mr. Clyde to your little studio again.” Mr. Sweet’s tone was one of sympathy, as if the very idea of letting Mr. Clyde anywhere near Mort was one he couldn’t stomach. Mort couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not, but the very thought of meeting with the weasel-faced stranger again made him shudder. “You play nice and I’ll see to it that you pay off that debt soon, Mr. Morrison.”