A trip to McMurphy's

"What the h**** !"
A blistering oath split the air in McMurphy's Tavern, making every head shoot up to see Max, who had been cleaning tables, race for the bar.
"What do you think you are doing!" The second oath was colourful enough to make a seasoned marine blush. However, all of those seasoned marines and naval officers didn't pay any attention to his language but were watching the counter intently, ready to offer assistance. Max had disappeared behind it and emerged with the culprit in his strong hands. A culprit that squirmed helplessly in his grip. In the stunned silence another oath, less loud but no less colourful could be heard.

Harm was sitting with Bud in a booth in the back of McMurphy's Tavern, a bit out of the way of the general noise. Between them lay a stack of papers about a case that had been baffling him for days. Normally he wouldn't have taken work along to the pub, but he hoped that over a pint he and Bud together would come up with some new insights. Too much concentration sometimes could block inspiration – not that inspiration should be found on the bottom of a glass – but a different setting, different smells and sounds might trigger new ideas. So Harm had asked Bud if they could meet here and, sipping their beers every now and then, they had gone over the statements of the two main witnesses, and a chance word overheard from another table had indeed triggered something: doubt. The timeline in one of the stories was off. One of the witnesses was lying, or rather, not telling all of the truth.
Harm was jotting down some notes on the statement's holes, when Max's expletives made his head shoot up like everyone else's. And when he saw what – who was squirming in the proprietor's big hands, he uttered some choice words himself: What the h***!

In the silence that had followed Max's curses, Harm's muted curse was all too audible. Max immediately turned towards him. "Yours?" he said, lifting up the black and white kitten by the scruff of its neck.
Harm nodded, not bothering to explain the complicated situation that left him the foster 'father' of seven rambunctious kittens. "But how on earth … I didn't put him into my pocket, of course … he must have hitched a ride in my briefcase." He picked it up and looked inside. There he spotted the tell-tale signs of feline occupation: a few black hairs, some claw punctures in the remaining papers and a small tear – also claw induced – in the lining.
"Yes," he sighed resignedly, "that little … "
"Scoundrel," Bud supplied with a grin.
"Sneak," an officer at the next table offered.
"Scamp," another said.

"More like drunken sod," Max walked over to Harm's table and deposited the little cat squarely into Harm's hands, where it immediately tried to bury itself into his jacket. "I have to say though," Max continued, "that he has excellent taste. He eschewed the Heineken and went straight for the Guinness tap."
"That's why I named him McMurphy," Harm said. "A few weeks ago he knocked over my drink and lapped up as much as he could hold. He was as drunk as an Irish sailor on shore leave. Slept two days straight."

"McMurphy, hey?" Max grinned, looking at his pub's namesake of whom only a tail could be seen. "I think I have something even more to his taste." Max walked back to the bar, ducked under it and resurfaced with a medium sized bottle holding something yellow and a saucer. He poured a bit into the saucer. "Let's see if he likes this," he said putting it on the table in front of Harm.
"What's that? Eggnog?"
"Advocaat."
"Advocate?"
"Advocaat – a Dutch version of eggnog. Friend of mine brought it over last year."
While they were talking, a little black head with a white patch on one ear poked out of Harm's jacket. McMurphy sniffed almost like a dog and then headed straight for the saucer burying his nose in the offering.
"He likes it, alright," Max chuckled. "Did you know the Dutch word 'kater' means a hang-over as well as a tomcat?"

Harm shook his head, as much at Max's comment as at McMurphy's greed, for the kitten was already washing his whiskers.
"Okay," Max said, "how about a job offer … is he a good mouser?"

"Haven't seen mice in my apartment in ages, but what mouse is stupid enough to brave a house with eight cats?" Harm grinned.
Max smiled. "I have mice in my storage so, McMurphy, this is the offer: a warm house and a soft pillow, regular kibble during the week, a dollop of advocaat or eggnog on Saturday and another for every five mice."

Everyone in the pub waited for Harm to answer. They saw him hesitate, looking at Max and then down at McMurphy who had finished cleaning his whiskers. The little cat looked at his plate, then looked up to Max. Then, before Harm could say anything, he hiccupped, put a paw on the saucer and said "Meow!"
"Deal!" said Max, while the entire taproom roared with laughter.