Gordon peered around the dumpster and over the half-wall that housed the two trash containers. He knelt to look around, but the cat was gone. He stood and brushed off his knees, then went to the box the cat had been sitting in. One corner was banged up and the box was split open.

He picked the carton up to toss it back into the dumpster. Some of the packing tape had been torn off, including the label. Through the split top, he saw that the carton was filled with papers that should have been tossed in the recycling bin. He pulled open the top flap and stopped. Printed at the top of the first sheet in bold black letters was City of Rehoboth Beach Official Absentee Ballot.

He pulled out the top sheet and read it. It was an absentee ballot, with the box next to his name filled in with black marker. The next thing in the box was the opened official outer envelope with the name and address of Dale James Adams printed on it. Below that was a signature he knew well; DJ Adams was his next-door neighbor, campaign manager, and best friend. And yes, DJ Adams would be away at a conference on the day of the election. 

So why was his ballot and outer envelope, along with dozens of other ballots, in a box on the ground behind the rubbish bin?

Scanning the area, Gordon saw no one else around. He raised the lid of the trash dumpster and peered in. There, atop a pile of black trash bags, was an identical carton. This one had the packing tape and official label torn, but intact. He retrieved the box and revealed another stack of completed absentee ballots, along with the signed outer envelope.

Confused, Gordon fanned through the carton finding that all of the ballots had been removed from their outer envelopes. Paging through, he recognized many residents’ names. The common thread among these discarded ballots was that all had voted for him. 

He guessed that each box held maybe a hundred ballots. In a city with fewer than 2,000 voters, two hundred ballots could certainly affect an election outcome. He picked up the cartons and headed back to the building. When he reached the back door, he stopped. He darted to the side when he heard voices just inside. Slowly, he peered through the wired safety-glass window. On the other side of the door was a man standing at a table rifling through another carton of ballots. 

Mr. Milkowski, one of three janitors in the building, sliced open an envelope, removed the ballot, and placed both in a pile. He looked at the name on the envelope and checked a box on a list. Then he picked up a blank ballot and filled in the box next to Ziggy’s name. He stuffed it into a new envelope and sealed it. Milkowski filled out the name on the outer envelope, signed it, and then placed it in a box at the end of the table. He put the original ballot and outer envelope in a box on the floor. 

Not every ballot was put in the carton on the floor; some were placed in a new envelope and placed in the box at the other end of the table. Gordon watched the janitor, who had only started working a year earlier, fill out another ballot.

Pulling out his phone, Gordon opened the camera app, made sure the flash was off, then held it up to the window and started recording a video. He recorded for about a minute, with only the lens visible in the window. Then, just as slowly, he eased the camera back. Still recording, he stepped away from the building, making sure to record the door and building, thereby establishing its location. 

He was just about to go back to the door and do what, he didn’t know, when he heard a man yell.

“Milkowski, what the hell are you doing? Anyone could come through that door and see you. Do this in private,” the deputy police chief, Carlos Dumars, shouted. 

Not wanting to get caught, Gordon quickly stepped away from the door. He heard Milkowski respond, but didn’t make out what he said. 

“Take those out to the dumpster and then finish this somewhere else. And hurry,” Deputy Chief Dumars yelled. 

Gordon scurried over and hid behind the closest car. A minute later, the back door swung open. He pressed the record button on his phone and raised it just over the car’s fender. He watched on the screen as the janitor, wearing a city jumpsuit and carrying a carton, looked around before hurrying to the dumpster. He pushed the side panel door and hurled the box in. Before reaching the back door, it swung open again, and Deputy Chief Dumars stepped out. He too looked around before shoving the janitor in. 

“Now take the rest of them to the basement to finish. And hurry. People will be arriving soon,” Dumars said. 

He shut the door behind Milkowski, walked over to a squad car, and got in. 

Gordon turned off the camera after the squad car pulled out of the parking lot. 

“Girls, girls! Wet your lips. We’re going to be on TV!” Iowna shouted.

The three other drag queens straightened their wigs and put on stage-show smiles. Again, they waved like the queen as they passed the judges’ stand.

When the car stopped, Gordon hopped out over the side. “Mr. Kranz, thank you for the ride, but I get out here. Do you see that woman there?” Gordon pointed to a woman in her early sixties with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a bun so tight she had trouble blinking. Her eyes were wide and she was staring at them. “That is Councilwoman Nixon. She’s going to finish the parade for me. You can even sit in the back with her.” Gordon opened the door.

Karl got excited and got into the back seat. Gordon stepped over, took Councilwoman Nixon by the hand, and led her to the car. 

“Thank you very much, Ms. Nixon. I really appreciate you finishing the parade for me.”

Gordon thought about shoving her in, but Heidi stepped over, put her hands under Rosemarie’s armpits, and lifted her into the back seat. Rosemarie screamed and Gordon slammed the door shut. “Thanks, Heidi.” He smiled and then waved at Rosemarie, who was scowling at the drag queen. Gordon could only hope the TV cameras recorded it.

Gordon stepped back to the curb and watched the Dodge 600 pull away, letting the Sea Witch balloon move in front of the bleachers. The balloon stopped and was turned to face the judges and cameras. Somehow, the vets made it look like the witch bowed. Gordon laughed as the six-foot nose nearly brushed up against the camera. The Sea Witch turned back to the street and followed the convertible. 

Gordon sat in an open seat in the viewing area as the marching band stopped in front of the bleachers. The band started playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” again. He wondered if they only knew the two songs. They played several bars and then proceeded on down the avenue. 

Next up was the pirate ship float. It slowed and stopped as it approached the viewing area. The pirates rattled their swords and growled. Gordon laughed as one of the two cannons pelted the TV reporters and cameramen with sweets and mini–candy bars. Another cannon turned and aimed at a group of teenagers who were chanting for a T-shirt. The cannon boomed and six balloons dribbled out, floating away. 

Everyone laughed, except the teens, who jeered and brandished clenched fists as they continued to plead for a T-shirt blast. 

Gordon watched and groaned with the rest of the crowd when another blast of balloons dribbled from the cannon. The teens booed and taunted the pirates. The float lurched forward. The skeleton at the ship’s wheel, wearing a tattered captain’s hat, looked over and seemed to glare directly at Gordon. Then he smiled and called out, “Man the cannons!” Four pirates jumped over to the cannons. The pirates hurriedly loaded the cannons and pumped them. They stood behind them with raised swords. The crowd cheered in anticipation.

One cannon swerved to the left. Gordon giggled as the pirate with stringy black hair and wearing a black eyepatch with white skull and crossbones and a pirate hat aimed the barrel at him. He laughed, knowing balloons would dribble from it. He looked directly into the black belly of the cannon as the pirate pumped the cannon and saluted the ship’s captain. Then the pirate jumped off the float just as the captain called, “FIRE!”

A moment later, the cannon facing the teens boomed. Gordon caught a glimpse of candy and T-shirts being shot into the crowd beside him. Then he heard a louder boom from the second cannon, the one facing him. 

The pain was instantaneous. The projectile hit him square in the chest and knocked the wind out of him. He crashed backward, cracking his head on the sidewalk. For a second, he was unable to see, breathe, or move. The pain in his chest felt like he’d been stabbed with a sword. He blinked and, as if in slow motion, the pirate with the skull and crossbones eye patch was suddenly kneeling beside him. He replaced the projectile that knocked Gordon off his chair with a much lighter item. Working fast, the pirate leaned in close and spoke into his ear as he shoved something into Gordon’s pocket. “This is your last warning.” 

It took all of Gordon’s strength, but he forced himself to focus on the man. The man’s unpatched eye looked venomous, dark, and angry. He wore a dozen circular earrings, only one of which was actually pierced. The eye patch was made of cheap plastic; the end of the elastic strap was knotted and pushed through one side, covering one end of the crossbones. Before Gordon could move, the pirate grinned and sprinted away. His eyes closed.

Saint Anthony rushed Gordon as he stepped out from City Hall. The mayor grinned as the kitten meowed and rubbed against his ankles. He thought about how big his smile was and wondered if an orange tabby was overtaking the place in his heart saved for the watch. He remembered his dad saying how his grandfather’s smile had changed the first time he held him as an infant. He leaned down and ran his hand along the kitten’s flank. 

He placed a can on the ground and went to the shrubs. He grinned as he grabbed a scratchy object. Gordon pulled out six feet of silvery garland tinsel, with the sales tag still intact.

“Saint Anthony, have you become a thief?” He rapped the garland around his palm and reached down. He came away with strawberry lip balm, a large black binder clip, and a necklace. The necklace was a strand of pearls, but he wasn’t certain whether it was costume jewelry or not. The pearls weren’t bright white or glossy.

“You had a very busy weekend, young man.” He stuffed the string of pearls into one pocket and the lip balm and binder clip into another. 

He bent down once more, just as Councilwoman Rosemarie Nixon stepped around the side of the building. She was wrapped up in an oversized parka with a faux fur hood. She looked as if just returning from the Iditarod. She stopped short and her face wrinkled up as if she smelled something foul. 

“Mr. Bauer, I hope you aren’t planning on decorating the shrubs for Christmas. The last thing this building needs are dollar-store decorations.”

“And a good morning to you, Councilwoman. No, not decorating. I was picking up stray items.” 

Suddenly, the scraping of a metal can on concrete drew the councilwoman’s attention. She screamed, jumped back, and tripped over the curb. The sixtysomething woman landed on her butt with a loud “umph.” 

Startled, Saint Anthony bolted to the safety of the shrubs. Gordon dropped the garland and ran to the councilwoman. 

“Are you okay?” He reached out to help the woman. 

“A raccoon! It attacked me.”

“It wasn’t a raccoon, Rose.” Gordon tried to help, but she pushed his hands away. “It was a kitten.”

“That was no kitten; it was huge! It’s a rabid beast and it nearly bit me!” Her voice was shrill and fever-pitched. She struggled to stand and kept glancing around. 

“I can promise you that was not a rabid beast. It’s Saint Anthony, a stray kitten who calls City Hall home.”

“You knew about this? Why haven’t you done something?” the councilwoman demanded as she brushed her hands off on her coat.

“It’s just a kitten. He’s harmless.”

“Well, now, isn’t that just like you. Everything’s rosy. If you can’t take care of removing a dangerous beast from City Hall, how can you possibly take care of an entire city? I plead with you, Mr. Bauer, step down before this city is overrun with vermin.”

“Rosemarie, I agree there is vermin in this city, but that kitten isn’t it. I can and will rid this city of the vermin.” Gordon took a deep breath and released it. “Good day, Councilwoman.”

The woman’s heels clicked and clapped as she hurried up the stairs to City Hall. He rolled his eyes, then he noticed one shinier thing under the shrub. Reaching in, he retrieved a campaign-style Sea Witch lapel button. He regarded the pin and noticed the date. Where could Saint Anthony have found a three-year-old button? 

He put the button in the pocket with the pearls, looked once more for the cat, then headed inside. 

“Mayor Bauer, may I have a word?” City Solicitor Carol Donagon marched like a general into Gordon’s office. 

It was a week after Black Friday and the day was dark. The rain had returned with hurricane-like force. The skies were ominous and so was the mayor’s mood. Gordon couldn’t help but worry about Saint Anthony; the can of food he left the night before went untouched. 

He spun in his seat, steeling himself as Donagon stopped and crossed her arms. She made the room feel even darker. 

“Ms. Donagon?” Gordon frowned.

 The woman was dressed in a starched white blouse with a high collar and a knee-length wool skirt. She glanced at the bullet hole in his desk and showed no emotion. “Mr. Bauer, it has come to my attention that you have the accounting department auditing every city contract and expense.”

“That’s correct.” Gordon stood.

Carol’s lips were scrunched up and the bridge of her nose was pinched. The room rattled as a clap of thunder rumbled overhead. Gordon flinched, remembering the sound of bullets flying into his office. 

“Why have accounting review them when my office is right down the hall?”

“Because, Ms. Donagon, I trusted you once and it nearly cost me my reputation.” Gordon returned to his seat. “Good day, Ms. Donagon.”

“Mayor Bauer, that was simply a misunderstanding. As city solicitor, it is my job to protect this city in any way I can. And reviewing contracts is one of my responsibilities. I’ve read all those contracts and can give you any information you need.”

Gordon turned and squinted at the woman as if not recognizing her. He stood, braced his hands on his desk, and leaned toward her. She never moved a muscle; she didn’t even blink. “I wouldn’t trust you to shut my door as you leave, let alone advise me on city issues.”

“Now, Gordon…” The solicitor relaxed, dropping her arms to smooth her perfectly ironed skirt. “If we are going to work together for the good of the city, we will have to leave campaign antics behind us. The city expects us to make progress. You said it yourself in the debate.”

“It’s Mr. Mayor or Mayor Bauer,” Gordon barked, stood, and crossed his arms. “And you might as well take a vacation, Ms. Donagon, because there is nothing you and I will be working on together. If you hadn’t accidentally dropped that thumb drive while discarding the ballots I entrusted to you, I wouldn’t be here.

“And then there’s the RBCB contract. That contract is anything but good for this city, and I will break it without your help. So now, why is the city solicitor, who blatantly lies, concerned with someone else reviewing perfectly acceptable contracts that she has approved?” Gordon lifted his head and looked down at her. “I intend on finding out. So until that time, Ms. Donagon, enjoy your free time.”

“But, Mr. Mayor—” the solicitor began, but Gordon cut her off. 

“But nothing, Donagon. You said yourself that those contracts are ironclad, so what would it matter if our incompetent accounting department takes a look?” Gordon sat. “Good day, Ms. Donagon.” 

“I could let it slip to your little reporter friend how you’re wasting taxpayer money to have someone else do my job.”

 Gordon chuckled, clicked his mouse a few times, typed something, and then clicked again. He looked up at her, half smiling. “I just emailed you Lindsey Cho’s contact information. Please be my guest. I’m sure she would love to speak with you.”

Gordon returned to his computer. “Shut the door on your way out. And Ms. Donagon, knock before you enter my office from now on.”

The solicitor slammed her arms across her chest again and her face became taut and pinched. She inhaled through her nose. “I’ll review the contracts; I have more experience than accounting. I’m sure we can work out any issues you’re not happy with. I’d be happy to see what changes we can make mid-contract. Gordon, for the sake of the city, you and I need to work together. You can trust that I have the city’s interests first and foremost.”

“That’s very kind of you, Carol. Please shut the door on your way out.” Gordon looked up and forced a smile.

“You have no idea what you are doing. If I were you, Mr. Mayor, I’d heed my advice. I know what I am doing.” The solicitor snorted, turned on her heels, and marched out, slamming the door as she left. Gordon glanced over and sighed; the room felt brighter. 

Gordon didn’t see Carol for the rest of the month. Like most other city officials, her position as solicitor was only part-time, though she tended to be in the office more than most. And, at the advice of his attorney, he held off firing Donagon while Jeri Castro’s firm worked to terminate the RBCB contract and evict them from the offices in the Convention Center. 

The response from RBCB came from ex-deputy chief Carlos Dumars, not Ziggy, and stated that they would take the city to court. That made Gordon smile, because it would put Carol Donagon in a very precarious position.

He also had the IT person break all links to the RBCB website and build their own rental site. The accounting person spent several weeks reviewing the contracts and creating spreadsheets showing the city’s expenditures. Except for the RBCB contract and the trash contract, all the others seemed to be without issue. 

All in all, Gordon felt like he was cleaning up the city.

“I call the city council meeting to order.” Rosemarie Nixon, Rehoboth’s senior city council member, rose from her seat behind the long conference room table. The overhead fluorescent lights turned her skin an odd shade of ill. She lifted the heavy wooden gavel, but it fell from her hand and clattered across her table.

“Rosemarie, it’s just you and me here. We don’t have to be so formal,” the only other councilperson said.

“Mr. Lacomb, we have a serious situation here. This rogue mayor has decimated our government. He has fired the city manager, too many police officers, and the solicitor. Now he’s trying to have the chief of police imprisoned. He forced both Councilwoman Le Chou and Councilman Walker to resign.”

“Ryan retired; he wasn’t fired. And you know Rachael was up to no good,” Lacomb said.

“Bauer has embarrassed himself and this city countless times. I make a motion to censure this renegade mayor.” Rosemarie smacked the gavel and winced at the sound.

The oak doors to the city council meeting room opened. For a moment, a shaft of light from behind formed a halo behind the man entering. 

“Renegade, Councilwoman? You think I’m a renegade because the police planted drugs in my car?” Mayor Gordon Bauer strode into the council’s meeting room. “Or was it when the city manager shot a cannon at me? Or when the city solicitor was extorting money from local businesses and blaming me? Or when the ex-cop threatened to take me out?” Gordon stopped abruptly at the head table, Ms. Nixon stepping back.

“None of that has been proven.” The councilwoman scowled at him.

“Rosemarie, both Chief Lotts and Carlos Dumars are in jail without bail. Carol Donagon has been charged with racketeering and Mark Alonso has left the country.”

Nixon shook her head and frowned. “Mr. Bauer, you’ve been mayor for three months and you’ve obliterated city government.”

“I’ve been in office for seven months and those people were using their offices for personal gain. They were stealing from the city and its businesses.” He took a step back, then cocked his head. “Is that why you’re on the city council?”

“What are you suggesting?” Rosemarie stomped her foot.

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m wondering about your reasoning for being on city council.” Gordon studied her pinched face. 

“I’ll have you know that my actions are beyond reproach, sir!” She gripped the gavel like a weapon. “I cannot say the same for you.”

That made Gordon chuckle. He kept an eye on the gavel. “Councilwoman Nixon, compare our records. You’ll see quite a difference in who has done more for this city.” 

Rosemarie folded her arms and scowled at him.

“One more thing, Rosemarie, you can’t vote on anything. You need a quorum.”

“Both Mr. Lacomb and I are present. We can vote on anything we need to.”

“Please, read the city charter, Councilwoman; it takes three for a quorum. So lose the gavel.” 

Gordon spun on his heels, but stopped when he noticed Jay Lacomb smiling. “Councilman, you’re in a tough situation with only two council seats filled. I’m working on that. If you’ve read the charter, you know I can complete the quorum if needed.”

Gordon strode out of the room without looking back. He could feel Rosemarie’s eyes burning a hole in his back. As soon as the doors shut behind him, he chuckled. 

For April, it was still cool, but the bright sun shining through the tall windows felt good. When he reached his office, his assistant was waiting for him, papers in hand.

“I know that look, Sibyl. Something is not right.” Gordon made a face. 

“Mr. Mayor, the citywide Art Festival is in two weeks.”

“I know.”

“It usually requires a lot of overtime for the police force.”

“And we don’t have a big police force now, do we?” Gordon agreed.

“We’re down four; the lieutenant has one foot in the grave and we have one rookie.”

“Lieutenant Williams isn’t moving very fast to hire more cops. I’ll fix that.” Gordon stepped around her and was about to sit behind his desk, but stopped and looked at Sibyl. “I can tell by your posture there’s more.”

“Rehoboth Art League is in a ‘disagreement’ with Sussex Waste Management.”

“What? Why?”

“Sussex Waste has declined the special pickups for the Art Festival.”

“Why?” Gordon sat and leaned on his desk. He studied Sibyl, who rarely handed him a problem without having a solution. 

“We haven’t renewed the contract yet.”

“But they’re not due until June. It’s April. What’s the trouble?”

Sibyl rolled her eyes. “Mr. Mayor, Mayor Jackson always signed the contracts early. SWM probably knows you’ve sent the contract out for bids.”

“They’re going to play hardball.”

“Exactly.”

“So what does Camp Rehoboth need?”

“It’s a big event, pulling in thousands. The bins will need to be emptied daily.”

“Fine, get me someone on the phone.” Gordon flipped on his computer and smiled; Saint Anthony’s Facebook page popped up. 

“One more thing. A man from John Madison Fireworks wants to talk to you about this year’s fireworks contract.”

“We’ve already hired a company. The same company as last year.”

“I know, I told him that, but he insists on speaking to you.”

“Is he here now?” Gordon asked. 

“No, you were out when he came by.”

“Give me his number. I’ll call him later.”

Gordon returned his attention to the monitor and clicked on the notifications. Mrs. Ennis from Olive Street posted that Saint Anthony had appeared on her lawn, stretching out for an afternoon nap. Mrs. Rodriguez posted that Saint Anthony stole a beach towel from her backyard and described it. Skater guessed again at the amount of money found last fall; he almost matched the money clip description, but was farther from the cash.

He was glad he didn’t need to respond and signed off. 

First things first, Gordon thought. He scrolled through his email while waiting for Sibyl to transfer a call from the trash company. When the call came in, he straightened up, smiled, and gave his name and position. The man, who sounded like a teen, had no idea what Gordon was talking about. Gordon asked if the young man knew where Rehoboth Beach was. He didn’t, explaining that he just answered questions.

“Well, perfect. I have a question. Why has your company declined to pick up trash during the Art Fest?”

“Are we supposed to?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m sure we will. Don’t worry.”

“Son, can you check with the person who does the scheduling and confirm that you are scheduled for a daily pickup from both downtown and the boardwalk?”

“I will.”

Gordon waited, but the only sound was the guy breathing. “Hello?”

“Yes?”

“Are you checking?”

“Oh, you want me to do that now?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind. I’ll hold.”

“Oh, okay. Hold on. Where did you say you lived?”

“I’m the mayor of Rehoboth Beach, Delaware. This is a special pickup for three days. Friday through Sunday, April…” Gordon looked at his planner. “April twenty-second through April twenty-fourth.”

“Okay, let me check.”

This time, a crackly instrumental version of “Moon River” soured Gordon’s mood. He waited a minute, then put the phone on speaker and read emails. Three or four minutes later, the young man returned. “Sorry, sir, we do not have you scheduled for special pickup.”

“Well, can you direct me to the person who can schedule that?” Gordon was finding it hard to keep his phone-smile in place. 

“I can do that for you. When do you need it?”

“April twenty-second through April twenty-fourth. Daily, early morning, both the downtown and the boardwalk.”

The guy repeated the dates and then asked Gordon for the address. 

“The city of Rehoboth. All downtown and boardwalk receptacles.”

“Oh, right, you said that. And your name is?”

“Mayor Bauer.” Gordon left his first name out for simplicity.

“Right. Mayor Bauer.”

“Bauer. B-A-U-E-R,” he spelled. 

“Oh, right. Got it.”

“And what is your name, please?”

“I’m Mason.” 

“Thank you, Mason. Please send an email confirmation and the invoice for this should be billed directly to Rehoboth Art League.”

“Okay. What is your address?”

“Don’t you have access to that on your screen? You do have our account open, don’t you?”

“Oh, I can pull that up. What’s your account number?”

“Mason, how many city of Rehoboth accounts could there be?” Gordon stated.

“I’m not sure.”

“Can I speak to the supervisor on duty?”

“Oh, she’s not able to talk right now. She’s in a meeting.”

“Fine, take this number down and please have her call me immediately.” Gordon recited Sybil’s phone number very slowly. 

Mayor Gordon Bauer whistled as he walked slowly up Rehoboth Avenue. It was a beautiful morning, sunny and warm. A soft breeze washed down the avenue from the beach. In one hand, he held a cup of French roast coffee from the Coffee Bean, in the other, a small bag that swung like a pendulum. 

“Good morning!” the mayor sang as he passed an elderly couple. 

“Good morning, Mayor G. Lovely day!” The couple nodded in return.

His tune, which had become unrecognizable several blocks back, stopped when he reached City Hall. Just outside the front door was a floppy man in ill-fitting, grimy coveralls, twirling a hefty ring full of keys around his fat finger. He twirled the lanyard clockwise, letting it wrap around his finger, then reversed the motion until it was fully extended and began rewrapping in the opposite direction. 

Gordon was about to say good morning, but just then the man spun and kicked his gargantuan boot. The small cat sprang away, barely missing being kicked. She leaped behind a shrub alongside City Hall.

“Hey! You!” Gordon sprang like a cat, getting in front of the man. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

“Damn stray had a rat in its mouth.” The paunchy man with terrible posture pointed to the spot where Saint Anthony had disappeared. 

Gordon shook his head and pointed. “That rat looks an awful lot like a bandanna.” He leaned down and retrieved the gray printed cotton cloth. “Can I help you with something?”

“I’m here for da mayor.” The big man’s diction was terrible.

“I’m Mayor Bauer.”

The man grinned and tilted his head. “Yeah? Mayor, I’ve been trying to reach ya. We wast supposed to disgust something.” 

Gordon squinted; the man was difficult to understand. 

“I called you several times. I filed da application to do da fireworks for the fort.”

“The fort?”

“Yeah, the fort o’ July.”

“Oh, right. I thought I left you a message. We already hired a company.”

“Well, you see, Mayor…” The man pocketed his keys, the dirty lanyard dangling along his leg. He pulled a well-used envelope out of the bib pocket and was just about to hand it to the mayor when a striped blur launched from the shrubs. 

“CRIPES!” the man yelled. The striped tabby missed the dangling lanyard, but not the man’s pants. He swiped his beefy hand fast and she sailed across the top step and back into the shrubs. 

“Hey, buddy! Watch it!” The mayor jumped in front of the man. 

“Mongrel cat!”

“That mongrel happens to be a friend of mine.”

The man huffed a laugh. He shrugged an apology. Then he looked around cautiously before speaking again. “Misser Mayor, I was hoping we might disgust a mutual interest. Them fireworks was supposed to be done by me. Someone hired these Rushkies by axident. Now we can’t have no Rushkies undercutting American jobs and setting off rockets on American liberty day.” 

“And you are Mr….” Gordon trailed off.

The man grinned widely, showing a row of crooked teeth. “John Madison, like the president! I own John Madison Fireworks. Best damn American fireworks company on the East Coast.”

Just then, something rustled in the shrub; the two men looked. John Madison sneered, but Mayor G. smiled as two iridescent oval eyes squeezed shut. 

“There you are, Saint Anthony,” the mayor cooed.

Madison tried to coo, but it sounded like a belch. He leaned over, reaching out his hand. “Nice kitty.” 

The man jabbed his hand at Saint Anthony a few times, then knelt on one knee and jabbed again. “Nice kitty.” 

As fast as a bottle rocket, the cat sank a sharp nail into the man’s finger. John Madison rocketed backward, snapping his hand like a whip. “CRIPES!” He stuffed the envelope under his arm and pulled a dingy handkerchief from his back pocket. “That ain’t no cat, it’s a viper.” 

“Are you okay, Mr. Madison? I’ve never seen Saint Anthony do anything like that before. She’s the sweetest little thing.”

Madison sucked his wound, then wrapped the handkerchief around his finger. He suspiciously surveilled the area once more before pushing the battered envelope into the mayor’s hand. “About them fireworks. You see, Misser Mayor, I figured me and you could fix that. And that there’s my way of saying thanks.”

Gordon pulled open the envelope flap and glowered at the man. “Mr. Madison, I could and should have you arrested for attempting to bribe a city official.” He slammed the envelope into the man’s chest. “Before I introduce you to the chief of police, take your dirty money and your bloody finger and get off city property. And, by the way, the president’s name was James Madison, not John Madison.”

Red-faced and wide-eyed, Madison backed away, then he turned. He waddled fast up the street and out of sight. Gordon leaned over to see if Saint Anthony was still there when he heard the rattle of an old panel truck’s pistons clanking. Madison pulled the battered truck to the corner, but didn’t stop at the light. Blue smoke coughed out of the tailpipe as he sped down Rehoboth Avenue.

“I hope the cops stop you,” Gordon said to no one. 

The mayor took a sip of coffee. “Yak! Cold!” He picked up the bag he had dropped, then sat on the nearby bench. He pulled a small can from the bag, and as he pulled back the tab with a click and a whoosh, he heard the familiar, burble-like sound.

“There you are, sweetheart. Good work on that goon. I hope he didn’t hurt you.”

The cat rubbed against his ankle, making a gurgling noise—the same sound she made every morning before breakfast. The mayor put the can on the pavement between his feet and the cat, sleek with almost perfectly symmetrical striping, cooed before digging in. 

 After breakfast and a quick tongue bath, Saint Anthony leaped up and settled onto the mayor’s lap, stretching out like a towel. The mayor ran his hands along the silky fur as the cat purred and stretched, her claws straining into the air. “How was your weekend? There were a lot of people in town. I hope they fed you well.” 

The cat rolled over, offering up her other flank.

“Good morning, Mayor G. Hey there, Saint Anthony,” a woman in a painstakingly ironed blue uniform, aviator sunglasses, and a gun on her hip said as she approached. She bent down and rubbed the cat’s cheek, making the cat purr even louder.

“Morning, Chief. Have a good weekend?”

“Yes, sir! My sister and her kids were down for the weekend. The beach was perfect. Except the water—still too cold for me.”

“Kids don’t seem to notice.”

“Isn’t that the truth? What did Saint Anthony bring you this weekend?”

The mayor pulled the black bandanna from his pocket. 

“I’ll be surprised if anyone claims that ratty ole thing.” Stephanie frowned at the rag.

“I’ll post it anyway. The Sainters get a kick seeing the wacky stuff she finds.”

The policewoman ran her hand over the cat’s head, but kept her gaze and smile on Gordon. “Skater will definitely claim it.” Stephanie stood. “Well, got to go.” 

Gordon nodded as the police chief walked off. “Okay, Saint Anthony, time for me to get to work.” Gordon picked up the cat, gingerly placing her on the ground. The cat sat and looked up. Its tail flipped from one side to the other like a flexible metronome as he walked to the front doors and into City Hall.