“Hollowed him out like a gourd,” the old cat muses. “What a way to go.”

She lounges, straw sun hat tilted and floppy with its blood-red puresilk ribbon, atop the yacht’s bow. A bottle of watered-down beer feints from her thin fingers, greying digits pecked with gold and silver rings. Upswept sunglasses tilt at her snout’s twitching whiskers. Out this far, the Punta del Muso is a mirage, the Casino a diamond on the shimmering horizon. Reflections off marble force you to squint, sunlight refracting into starburst from above the placid waves.

You’re guests of hers. In the care of Duchesse XLI, Impératrice d’Punta del Muso, Reine d’Lincoln Park, de Rue Principale, Duchesse de Quinzième Étage, Comtesse de Place de la Flush. Another Duchesse, an identical, older copy of a familiar face. Just as irritable, too.

It’s mid-afternoon, siesta.

The yacht clutch where you lounge is paltry, intimate, only three strong—their names hand-painted on their sides: Numbers Game, Courte Oreilles, Small Potatoes. Each individual aquacraft is fitted with enough berths to fit two guests with their singular attendants in tow, comfortably, with cargo space for up to four more if chattel. The vessels are circled like wagons, anchored in an imperfect isosceles, tied bow-to-stern, the flotilla’s focal point fluctuating with every rough wave or errant sea breeze above a few knots, their arrivals few and far between.

Ø lounges nearby, aboard the Numbers Game. Within spitting distance. She’s on her back, baking atop the scalding deck in a newly tailored real-cotton bottle-green two-piece, swim shorts flared and high-waisted, rolled upwards, halter bikini top straining against mannish shoulders, outfit commissioned from Corrine Bernard, Baronne de la Rue Maury, her sunglasses imported, pre-sized and shipped from Sant-Fortunade. Arrived this morning. The mare is placid as the vessel itself, snout jutting upwards like a ship’s rudder against the warm air. Above her the sky holds only a scattershot of white tufts, momentary confetti of shade.

Her bandaged arm, slathered with stinging salt water and numbing bene-gel, cooks beneath the cloudless blue.

“Fervidora found the corpse outside the Twenty-Seventh Marshal. They cut out his tongue, too. Mangled him,” the cat continues before raising her bottle in tchin-tchin, “and what’s the lady got to say about it, mademoiselle Comtesse?”

“Horrible,” the ass bemoans. She’s opposite the mare, climbing back aboard the Courte Oreilles by way of knitted jute rope, her refreshing dip completed. It’s the first word she’s said all day, seen-and-not-heard, before disappearing once more to the ship’s port side, out of view, to retrieve yet another few bottled beers. She’ll huff, hauling them from the opposite web of jute ropes, dredging the cases of beer from the sea where they’ve been submerged to cool. They’re pulpy, poorly filtered, thankfully chilled. Like the New Kankakee brews, sold for a pittance and covered in dusty residues, inferior substitutes for either enjoyment or water.

But here, among the flotillas of the hoi oligoi, where cultural superiority is based on ancien tradition, it’s all you’ll get. A poor man’s respite. For generations of criminals that were once nomadic, a nostalgic beverage of honor.

The label in your hand is faded, without a name, Fontvieille brewed and purposefully inconspicuous.

“Think he deserved that?” you croak, reflexively looking away from the ass’s sopping, drip-dripping display. Upwards, where an immigration intake station rotates in low-orbit, the pearl catches light, visible to your naked eyes. Busy as always.

“Sure,” Ø decrees. “You deserve it, too. Next time don’t be so quick to trust. Maybe you won’t get someone killed.”

“She’s right, rookie mistake. See it all the time, and you hate to see it happen,” the cat chastises in turn.

She chuffs from her wrinkled lips. The cigarette’s been pulled from powder-blue packaging, stuck onto the long Bakelite cigarette holder, almost an opium pipe at first glance. Her once-youthful pelt is greying. Fraying at split ends, skin sagging beneath, discolored and sunbleached. A whooping cough escapes her maw, jolting her upwards from her decadent declining position while she hacks.

She washes away the pain with Fervidora’s triumphant return, cradling a newly gifted bottle of beer, cracking it open with her hand, using her rings as leverage. It sweats, already heated under the sunlight.

“Real stupid move,” the cat coughs once more, circling fingers at the mare. “Both of you’s, getting caught up in something like this, a job for no pay, for an employer who doesn’t exist. Laughable.”

“Still, don’t appreciate the whole thing,” Ø stabs from the corner of her snout.

“The what?”

“The kidnapping, the threat of repercussions, confiscating my ‘Gansett…”

“After, what, you try ripping off some of my guests with the help of my sister, of all cats? Sure, you two got balls trying to rip off an Impératrice’s guests in her own des-mes-ne, but complaining afterwards about the repercussions? Makes you look brain-dead, especially when you’re laid out in my care, on my yacht, on my dime,” she punctuates with a pointing digit. “If that front of yours didn’t have the cash to front your credit for all these damages, you’d be getting worked over, whacked, even, depending on my mood today.”

“Still, a bit overbearing, the surveillance—”

“Surveillance? That’s a slur to me, and I take offense to the implication,” you can’t get a word in edgewise, as usual. All evening, all day, the two girls have been at odds. Always bickering, Dutchie, no matter which copy of her is present. “I live where you vacation, and more importantly, your vacations allow me to live. So what do I care if you’re a little surveilled? We don’t even talk about it—it’s the law here, our culture—ubiquitisté. You know what I did? I installed the bugs in my own suite. I check them, upgrade them, keep that file of mine up there tightly packed, up-to-date, putting my own body on the line.”

“Who cares?” Ø slurs. She rises, wincing with pain. You feel her wound stretch, pelt and muscle pulled apart from scabbing, tearing under duress, bleeding anew beneath her thick fur. Her final point is pontificated with an empty beer bottle’s toss into the ocean. Several float at the surface, semi-natural buoys bobbing between the three yachts’ keels. “Would you really black-bag yourself? Or does someone else, someone higher up, make that decision?”

The Impératrice laughs and a wry smile drags across her cracked face. Bottle’s rim at her whiskers, she shrugs. But she knows the answer—that you’ll never know when her streak of luck will be cut short—that’s just life on Fontvieille.

Ø dives. It’s a clumsy display, disturbing the calm surface with a thwack. Saltwater stings her eyes, yet they remain open, scanning the opaque depths, tracing the Numbers Game’s underbelly, every barnacle like a blemish coyly hidden. She massages her stabbed arm, breaking coagulation further, the saltwater naturally disinfecting as she groans on her lonesome, her painful yelps unheard underwater, away from your party’s chastising glances.

She’s alone down there, or the closest she’ll be to alone, knees at her chest, holding her breath, snout bubbling with exhale.

“You know, Dutchie said we wouldn’t be tracked,” you pry. You rub your arm. Ø’s coagulation breaks further, and your phantom pain grows, making you squirm.

“Yeah, that Dutchie. Not me, that’s for sure,” the old cat smirks.

Ø resurfaces. Salt water shoots from her nostrils. You feel her arm sting. It’s a throbbing pain, unlike the slaps you both exchanged. But, somehow, less painful. You want another drink.

“She lied, don’t you get it? Like Charlie, she tried to pin us.”

“Yeah, and that’s the score. The whole point. A little mis-in-for-ma-tion. I tell the Thirteenth floor manager that we only track people below him. Then I tell the Twelfth the same thing. Eleventh, you know, until you get to Dutchie’s. She sucked it down like everyone else, no questioning, thinking she got some special kickback. Makes my job that much easier. When someone thinks they’re not watched, you see what mistakes they make, which ones they prefer to make.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The Impératrice is pleased with herself. Always one step ahead. Never beaten, evidently.

“Well, whatever it was, your scans were strange. Dutchie could never think to look for something like that, anomalies—she’d screw up a cup of café. It was Fervidora who brought it to my attention. Or she told someone, who told someone, you know, I found out about it.” the ass nods, beer at her lips. “Two signatures. Two scans. One heartbeat—not the same, but a nervous system that, you know, rhymes.”

Her gloating is purposeful. Familiar, the cigarette stench wafting beneath clear skies. Like when Dutchie would yell for her Charlie, pining for another drink, asking without asking.

“At first I thought it was trafficking, but if you’re trying to launder a body or two, it’s not like you’d hide the product. After all, who’d care? So I watched a bit. Just… Cursory, seeing what you were up to,” she sighs, placing down the half-empty glass bottle and stifling a belch. “And oh I’m glad I did.”

Muzak fills silence. From the tavernas across the waves, where visitors dot the beaches. Notes ebb with the tide, cascading out of tune, wave against wave. The cat snaps.

“So what is it?”

“What,” Ø shouts.

“You know what I mean. That thing you two got. Answerin’ each other’s sentences, feelin’ each other’s pain. Bickerin’ all the time. Really good balance, you know? Him talkin’, you shootin’. Cute little good-cop-bad-cop thing…”

“Don’t know.”

Ø clambers aboard once more, flopping onto the deck of the Numbers Game. Two empty beer bottles topple over at the errant swing of a tail. Beneath her pelt, her skin’s already pricked, transitioning from sun kissed to sun burnt.

“Your file,” the cat pries. “Mentioned some sort of gene deficiency thing. Had you spacing scientists. Whatever happened there?”

“Beats me.”

“You know, all my sisters got problems like that. With the brain,” she circles a temple, manicured paw jingling with thin silver bracelets, showing her hand, “but you can’t see nothin’ up there. Every sister I churn out to take my place, they’ve got some wackadoo nonsense. Keeps ‘em busy, sure, but too busy, getting’ into trouble, fallin’ apart at the seams physically, mentally, madone. Ø, like that sister of yours, whatever her name was, the one you pawned off to those nuns.” Ø’s scowl goes unnoticed, molars clenching, holding back at your behest. “Best stiffs credits can buy, for what? Some eggheads in white suits tell me they don’t know. Knew enough to take my credits though, the worthless jagoffs. But it seems like all that went away with your guy here. That right?”

“I said,” Ø huffs, “beats me!”

“I’m gettin’ tired of asking, you know that?”

“Just tell her, Ø,” you groan. “Yes, a lot of the physical stuff went away.”

“Like what?”

“Hair loss—”

“Hey!” Ø fires. An empty bottle flies across your vision. Once more, it’s dodged, colliding with the deck, shattering. Fervidora’s already arrived, sweeping at the destruction, kicking chunks of glass overboard, sending them back to the sand from whence they came. “She’s got my file, doesn’t she? Has enough to dredge up my sister and her problems, too. Impératrice, all due respect, start reading.”

“And the mental,” you add.

“But ever-dently, not all the mental,” the cat huffs. She turns to you. Beneath her sunhat, those familiar irises, as if plucked from Dutchie’s sockets. It’s plain questions—straight—as if you had the rapport already. “But what’s it you feel? How do you know you’re all fixed up, good-as-new?”

“If you’re gonna interrogate us, just pull a heater already,” Ø nickers.

“We don’t know. Dreams, or something. Some guy mentioned Whispering.”

“Who?”

“Your man from the Revue.”

“That guy?” she spits. “I hate that guy. But you know what? I oughta charge his medical bills to your tab if yous gonna be so unhelpful! Guy’s costin’ me a fortune, having to front all that plastic to get him fixin’, and he’s one of my best earners! Hundred-thirty-something years old, older than me, still one of my best in the whole Department!” she shouts over the waterline, Ø’s cold shoulder replying.

“Maybe Dutchie had it. And Charlie. Maybe that’s why I was such an easy mark,” you muse.

“Them? In that kinda relationship? All that’s ersatz. Fugazi. Not what you two got, and I got the file to prove it.” The Impératrice pauses, sharp fangs biting into her lips. “And I don’t want to hear nothin’ about her anymore, alright? First time she sees some wiseguy, she falls for him and plays turncoat, and you know what? She fell hard, and that was her choice. Her consequences. Don’t matter if she’s my family, my sister, me, whatever-you’s-call-it.”

It’s the last time you’ll pry. The earlier conversation, posted in the Fifteenth Floor penthouse, it was mentioned only in passing. You’d assumed she was whacked. Eating pissenlits by the roots. Equivalent fee for a flip against Fontvieille’s families.

But the Impératrice’s familiar Fontvieille levity was gone. Between mouthfuls, the old cat didn’t spit mordant remarks, nor anything resembling familiar flatlander confidence. She was stoic, uncomfortably so. Said her younger sister will get some help, “and that’s that.” Like the others, she mentioned with a learned coldness. Imperfect cat clones, you assume, a familiar problem that made the mare cease her scarfing for only a moment, long enough to block the thought from her mind.

Maybe Ø felt a sting of gratefulness.

“You know, back in the day, my great, great, great, you know what I mean. The earlier carbon-copy of me. She had a guy. Good cheekbones, smile that made you feel warm. Short brown hair, all messy, you could feel it between your fingers and it’s be soft, barely greasy, except when he had all that gel in. One look at me, I’d be liquored up,” she pauses, “or, you know, that me who isn’t me, she’d get all liquored up.”

“How do you know?” you ask. Too reflexive, Ø chastises in silence.

“There’s vids of him and me. Old-school, where the colors aren’t so saturated, two-dimensional-like. Lifted an old analog player as collateral off a credit line. After the mark went bust, I got the bidule fixed up, watched some reels. Cost a fortune. But, I mean, hey, I get it. I’ve always had good taste in men.”

Somewhere on the Punta del Muso, a slot’s pulled. Loss after loss after loss. Semi-randomized chance. Maybe it’s fixed, maybe it isn’t. Based on the Impératrice’s odds, maybe it can’t be fixed at all, beholden instead to the uncaring pull of the universe. Some pulled closer, some not. Coincidence, chance, synonyms for fate. The old cat can’t help but flash a somber smile.

“Helluva guy, too. Left old me his whole Department to run for a while. Or, you know, one of the me’s.”

“For how long?” Ø pries. She’s dripping with spite and saltwater.

“When he gets back from that thing, I guess. I don’t know. Whenever he decides, whenever it happens, and it’ll all fix itself. You two should know, you just feel these things, alright?” the Impératrice spits, her passive musing replaced with vitriolic alcoholism once more. “Fervidora! What do I gotta do to get a drink? Come on already!”

At the ass’s saunter, once out of earshot, the bragging begins anew.

“She tell you she’s a comtesse now? I don’t care who that Grand Pensionary is, whoever runs that little Barataria front of yours, but between letting you two fight it out with the Waqf’s guys and liquoring you two up, she’s on the fast track. Helluva earner. Enough of a promotion for a jenny like her. Look at her, even gettin’ to see my face, know who I am. She ain’t getting anything bigger for a while, that’s for sure.

“So you,” she yells to the mare, “don’t even think about killing her. I don’t care what stupid excuse you’ve got—I’ll kill you out of principle. Don’t matter how much your guy looks at her, Fontvieille always comes first.”

“Yeah, because her family always cheats at cards!”

“Hey! They cheat fair and square. It’s her family’s nature, Fontvieille’s nature. You play, you lose. If you wanna be obtuse about it, take a hike, go for a swim, Mademoiselle Murder.”

Ø obliges. Once more she dives beneath the surface. Respite for all.

“Alright, be straight with me. I know you got that mare in your ear, and I don’t care,” the Impératrice leans. “You really don’t got anything else to tell me about that thing you two got?”

“Nothing else,” you shrug.

“And nothin’ I say will change your mind?”

“Honest, we’ve got nothing.”

“Huh,” she purrs. “that’s what the file said, too.”

“Well,” you gamble, “do you think we’d be able to see what’s inside? Maybe that could help.”

Dutchie’s stare is practiced. Copied, over hundreds of times. Lips curling downwards, whiskers twitching with a sober disappointment in your bargaining. Disgust, as her sisters would have flashed, as the first Dutchies must have. Cats from the Flush, before the Flush, arm-in-arm with forgotten, mural-muse gangsters speaking with thick flatlander accents, trying on tiaras and doling out diadems. It’s a time capsule, the face she makes, a relic with nobody to appreciate it, a negativity without conductive energy.

A spiteful mare lurks below the surface, mane flowing with the current, purposefully ignoring the similarities.

“In lieu of all that, here’s some advice,” the cat snarls, “quit overplaying your hand.”