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The alley behind Luigi’s Trattoria reeks of stale grease and rotting vegetables. Inside the fluorescent-lit kitchen, steam clings to Uncle Martin’s silver hair as he scans the greasy floor tiles. Beside him, Tim O’Hara shifts nervously, the muffled clatter of plates and shouted Italian orders filling the humid air. Their search yields nothing but discarded carrot tops and crumpled napkins. Defeat settles over them like the kitchen’s oppressive heat.
“Forget it, Marty,” Tim sighs, turning toward the exit.
*“Meeeeoww?”*
Martin pivots sharply. Perched atop a dented pickle barrel, an orange tabby regards them with unnervingly intelligent yellow eyes. Martin’s telepathic voice cuts through the mental fog of feline hunger: *“Your designation?”*
*“Herbie,”* the cat replies, smug. *“Saw a fuzzy thing. Smelled like fear and cheap cologne.”*
Tim stares, baffled, as Martin relays, “Herbie knows... but demands tribute.”
“Tribute?” Tim sputters. This is weird, even for Martin. Tim can only hear meows. “It’s a cat!”
“Specifically,” Martin murmurs, nostrils flaring at Herbie’s projected image, “sautéed liver. With mushrooms. A dash of Burgundy. Sour cream.”
Vito, the waiter, shrugs, pocketing Tim’s fifteen dollars – a week’s wages – and fires up a skillet. Soon, pungent, wine-laced steam coils upward. Martin places the sizzling feast before Herbie, who devours it with purrs like a faulty engine.
*“The soft thing,”* Herbie finally transmits, licking cream from his whiskers.
He hops down, revealing a mangled rabbit’s foot beneath his tail, its cheap brass clasp bent, faux fur matted with saliva. Only a single, chewed-off button remains intact. Martin picks it up, the tiny plastic disc cold against his palm – a ruined charm, a ruined hope.