Chapter 2: The Heaviside Lair

He surveyed the tawdry neon sign that heralded "The Heaviside Lair", a burlesque club of ill-repute but with excellent reputation. How long had it been since he'd stepped into that place? He sighed, thinking back onto the circumstances under which he had walked out of the club for the last time two years ago. Out of habit, he instinctively reached into his suit pocket for a cigarette but came up empty. Mentally uttering a curse, he crossed the street towards the entrance, lowering his hat and trying to slip in unnoticed. It wasn't very successful.

"Oy, please take off your hat, sir." A sturdy arm grabbed his, stopping him. "This is an establishment with ladies present, one needs to show them some common gentlemanly courtesy," the speaker drawled, somewhat ironically.

Munkustrap sighed. He was hoping to do this without attracting any attention. "When were you ever focused on gentlemanly etiquette, Pounce?"

Pouncival's eyes widened, his face losing its harshness. "Munk?" he whispered hoarsely. "What—what are you doing here? I thought you quit— didn't want no more of this life… unless, you're here to join us again?" He looked hopefully at Munkustrap. "You're here to rejoin your family, Munk?"

Munkustrap allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he looked into Pouncival's open, trusting face. "I don't think so, Pounce," he grimaced inwardly as the young tom's face crumbled. "I'm here on business. To see Tug. Is he in tonight?"

"Yeah, in his usual booth." Pouncival muttered, his disappointment turning to bitterness. He relinquished his hold on Munkustrap, as if physical contact with Munkustrap would make him sick.

Munkustrap surveyed the young Tom, the comparable harshness of his face juxtaposing uneasily with the bounce and joie de vivre of the Pouncival of his memory. He felt the two lost years rise up between them and extend an already insurmountable gulf. Was this the gulf that had lay between him and Alonzo as well? Was that the cause of their silence to each other for two years? In the face of death, all things were forgiven, and he found himself wishing that they hadn't wasted two years in resentment. His paw rose to pat the younger cat on the shoulder but he faltered, opting to adjust his hat instead. "Nice seeing you, Pounce. Take care of yourself, 'kay?"

But the younger cat looked resolutely out into the street, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Munkustrap had said anything at all.

-----

The layout had changed somewhat since he had last been in the club. In the mass of toms and queens squeezed together (some bodies more entangled than others), he found it hard to tell where Tug's favorite booth was. He headed to the open bar, where a black cat was putting up an impressive show mixing drinks.

The black cat looked up at Munkustrap as the latter sidled up to the counter, nearly forgetting to catch the mixer he had tossed into the air in his surprise. "Munk?!" He stared. "Are you here—"

"No." Munkustrap replied, kindly but firmly. He knew Quaxo would not take it as harshly as Pouncival did.

An enigmatic smile spread across the tuxedo cat's face. He shrugged. "I'm not surprised. Had you said 'yes', now, that would be a shocker. But you were always so sure of what your choice was." He frowned slightly. "I'm guessing you still haven't forgiven yourself for what had happened back then?"

Despite the memories the question brought up, he found himself that unlike when Cassandra had threatened to dredge things up, he didn't feel like smashing anything. Maybe it was the way the black cat had raised the question, open and ungrudging. "When did you get so precocious?" Munkustrap shot back, answering question with question.

Quaxo smiled crookedly. "It was hard when you left, Munk. We had to change and evolve to fill the gaps you left behind." He reached for a whisky bottle. "So what then, brings you to our fine and upstanding establishment?"

Munkustrap looked at the black cat. At length, he replied, "Lonz is dead, Quaxo. Cassie called me the minute she heard about it."

If Quaxo was shocked at the news, the only sign would have been the momentary pause before he set a glass down on the bar counter. "I'm sorry to hear that. He was a fine tom." He looked worryingly at Munkustrap. "So how does that concern you, Munk? You're not part of the Jellicles anymore, you've forsworn any obligation as protector you might have had. Forgive me for my bluntness, but some cats here may not want you getting involved. Some cats still haven't forgiven you for the choices that you've made."

"Cass hired me privately to take the case. I'm only doing this as a paid investigative job. There's nothing to do with vestiges of duty to the Jellicles."

The tuxedo cat looked at Munkustrap with a look verging on pity. "Do you really think the Curious Cat will play by those rules?" He sighed. "For your sake, I hope he proves me wrong this time. If there's anyone who'll get the unmuddled truth about Lonz's death, it's you. You're going to tell him about Alonzo?" Munkustrap nodded. "You handle Tug then, I'll tell the other Jellicles."

"Thank you, Quaxo."

-----

Following the map Quaxo had hastily scribbled onto the napkin, Munkustrap navigated the labyrinthine depths of the burlesque club. Quaxo had certainly not been overly-dramatic in describing the unruly sprawl of booths, tables and chairs. In spite of himself, Munkustrap appreciated how the club had taken on his half-brother's attributes, in contrast to the organized, regular state of things when he himself had been in charge. Reaching the spot Tugger's booth was supposed to be located, Munkustrap found himself contemplating a large mass of entwined bodies. It took him awhile to locate the characteristic splotch of leopard spots and reaching in to the wriggling mass, he grabbed a paw firmly, pulling its owner to his feet. "Rise and shine, Tugs."

"Whatchoodointomee?!" The Rum Tum Tugger slurred, momentarily disoriented. Drawing himself to his full height, he rubbed his eyes lazily and focused on the silver tabby. As recognition slowly dawned on him, a range of emotions subtly flitted through his face, surprise, incredulity, anger, and then a quiet detachment. His mouth curled into a characteristic sneer which never quite reached his eyes, he lifted his cigarette and took a long drag. "Well, do my eyes deceive," he drawled, mock-dramatically. "Or could it really be as that clichéd turn of phrase says, the prodigal son returns?"