A ripped pair of black nylons lay discarded in the trash basket. The unsnapped garter had torn holes at the tops of each leg when Dolly had pulled them off. One leg was hanging over the rim, and there was a hole at the heel with a run that snaked up from it and back into the basket, unseen. Puss sniffed the empty nylon, then indulgently rubbed her whiskers over the footless hose. Dolly’s scent was intoxicating, the scent of musk and sex that permeated every article of clothing that lay strewn about the room.

Placing her paw on the tattered hose, she bit into the material and chewed until the shredded foot detached and hung loosely from her mouth. She stood there momentarily in a fugue, the aroma of Dolly filling all her senses. Her eyes were half closed and her mouth half open, breathing in the aroma, unaware of her surroundings until a noise outside the window roused her.

She dropped the hose and pawed at the tattered thing until she had ripped a few more holes into it. Then, she extended a claw, pulled the material to her face, and slid her head into the bitten hole. The crudely chewed holes awkwardly covered her face, and she wiggled it until she had on what looked like a mask. The sheer black nylon covered her nose and mouth, the holes exposing only her eyes and ears. She made a final bite for her mouth and pulled her whiskers through the material with a sharpened claw. She had one long white whisker in the middle of the black ones on either side of her face, giving the appearance of a perpetual smile. But the mask did more than cover a face that had seen its fair share of fights; it matched her black coat, which appeared old and scraggly, like herself, but was soft to the touch.

She taught herself this trick when she first met Dolly. Random nights watching behind the curtain as men came and went, leaving Dolly sometimes battered and bruised and her nylons always worse for the wear. The abuse that came with the sex gave rise to a feeling in the young feline that she needed to protect her. And she would play with the nylon until one night, she could squeeze her face into it, cut holes with her teeth, and feel a sense of power. She learned to wear her scent, which gave her the freedom to become her heroine.

Puss jumped upon the window sill and ran out onto the fire escape. She ran down the metal steps that led one floor down to the ground level and entered the kitchen, where the door was never closed. She darted under the cutting tables and ran into the bar where she could access the backstage behind the curtains, safely separating herself from the crowd. Navigating the props and tangled wires, she found where the curtains met off to the left side and poked her nose through. She stared at Dolly and purred as she sang the sultriest song she had ever heard. She sat like that, with only her nose and whiskers exposed, listening, entranced. She loved Dolly; she was her everything. She would do anything for her.

Puss watched the performance from behind the curtain, as she did every night. The speakeasy was a run-down joint that catered to men of questionable character looking for an eyeful and women of the night looking for a fella to spend a dime on them—a common livelihood for the bowery champs of 1940s Biloxi.

But all Puss knew were the ins and outs behind the curtain that Dolly stood in front of. She lived behind the scenes, where exposed electrical wiring lay in wait for the errant foot to send a charge through. She saw the occasional mouse, even caught a few, and the more frequent cockroaches of both man and beast variety run around, looking for an easy mark. They were the men who regularly groped the women waiting to take the stage and the women who let them because they needed the money.

She waited until Dolly gave her last performance, then ran back through the bar the way she had come. Once back inside their darkened room, she sat by the corner of the cot, waiting for Dolly to return.

#

Dolly Black was her given name, but she was born with a birthmark on her right breast in the shape of a heart. She naturally took Dolly BlackHeart as her stage name, and the men loved her. The heart wasn’t perfectly shaped, so she would embellish it with eyeliner and highlight it in red if the mood hit her. The heart looked stunning on her alabaster skin under the hot lights when she did her burlesque routine, singing the songs that always gave men a little rise. Dolly would strut out, corset tightly cinched, and her heels giving the impression she was nearly five foot five. The curves were hers, and she maintained them with indulgences in brandy and ice cream. The corset squeezed her waist, and skin spilled over in all the right places. Standing in the spotlight, her hair looked like hay fire, all reds and oranges streaked into her heavily dyed blonde curls. It accentuated the green eyeshadow with oversized false eyelashes she batted at the men who sat close enough to the stage to almost touch her.

Dolly made eye contact with a lone man sitting at a table in the first row, with a cigar between his fingers, a bottle of whiskey, and a glass within reach. She could see his eyes leering at her through the smoke as it curled up from his cigar. And she could smell the heady aroma of the whiskey as she scooped down, bowing her goods to the audience at the end of her set. He motioned to the waitress, handed her a bill in exchange for a paper she had written something on, rose, and left the smoky room for some night air. Before he left, he gave Dolly a slight wink that told her she should expect company later.

After her set, several men bought her whiskeys; she had a policy never to turn down a free drink, so one turned into five or seven before she left the club for the night.

The lights were always dimmed, so she would frequently stumble into things as she went backstage to collect her personals. A half-empty pack of cigarettes and lipstick down to its nub lay on the common dresser the women used. As she reached to pick them up, she bumped into a chair and looked up in time to see herself in the mirror above the dresser. What she saw startled her, a harsh reflection of herself, looking twenty years older than her years. She dropped her gaze, not wanting to see. She tried to avoid that mirror in the back room of the greasy joint she made a living at when she remembered to.

This was the place her life had led her to. She lived one floor from where she performed and flopped each night after her act was over. Most nights in her room, after too many whiskeys, she spent an hour or so with men from the club she couldn’t remember the names of in the morning. Tonight was no different.

Dolly climbed the stairs, fumbled with the skeleton key in the lock to her room, and shuffled inside. It was hot; she had no fan, so the tiny window was open most nights, but only until morning when the stench from the trash bins below wafted the rancid smell of rotten meat straight up to her room. The club was next door to a butcher shop, and the trash was usually open all day for the meat cutters to throw their bones and gristle into. The pungent smell would linger until it was taken away early in the morning. But tonight, a gentle breeze blew in, and she walked up to the window, put her chin in her hands, and placed her elbows over it, staring down onto the grimy back alleyway, feeling the air on her face.

A noise came behind her, and she felt something tickle her calf. She looked down and saw Puss staring up at her.

“Puss, where were you hiding? I didn’t see you when I came in.” She scooped the cat up in her arms and let her nuzzle into her hair and neck. She walked over to the tiny cot, put her down, then went to the pedestal sink and washed the layers of makeup from her face.

When she returned to the cot, she noticed the mask, and Puss stood up and meowed at her. ”Aww, Puss, you look like a little pirate. A pirate with a little black dress made of fur. Are you going to save me from the riff-raff again tonight?” She laughed as she removed the corset, shimmied out of her black lace bra, and let the curves unfold into her natural figure. Then, she fell onto the bed and rolled on her side, summoning the cat to join her.

“I love you, Puss. You’re the only true love of my life, you know.” Puss sidled up to her, nuzzling into her ample chest and breathing in her scent. Dolly knew the cat didn’t know what all the words she said meant, but she had a pretty good idea Puss could feel them, the way she buried herself in her arms.

They lay like that, and both fell soundly asleep in each other’s arms until they were unceremoniously awakened by a banging at the door.

“It’s Harold. Harold from downstairs at the club. I thought you wanted to have a little fun,” he nervously whispered.

She rolled over, grabbed a slip, and put it on. Shit. She thought, two dollars is two dollars, then said, “OK, let me freshen up; I’ll be right there.”

#

Puss sat up, jumped onto the window sill, and hopped onto the fire escape. She wouldn’t leave but didn’t like staying when they came. As soon as she got comfortable, she heard the noises they always made, then the door opened and closed. A moment later, she heard Dolly fall back onto the cot alone, her cue to return inside.

But as they began to snuggle into each other again, a louder knock came at the door. Both raised their heads, and Dolly wondered if Harold had returned for another quickie.

“Hey, it’s Jacko; let me in,” a gruff voice from beyond the door’s safety grunted, ending the guesswork.

Jacko. One of the brutes that worked for Sal, the owner.

“Meow,” Puss protested as Dolly rose to the noise.

“Shh, it’s ok, Puss, I just gotta see what he wants, now scat, baby.” And she nudged her onto the floor.

Annoyed, Puss scampered behind the curtain that hid the toilet.

“Let me in; I ain’t got all night,” said Jacko, sounding more agitated.

“Does Sal know you’re here?” she timidly asked.

“What does that matter? Open the fucking door now!”

“I’m coming, hold on.” Dolly opened the door as Jacko pushed his way in. ”Hey, hon…” was all she got out of her mouth before she felt the backside of his hand across her face. She fell onto the cot, and he was immediately on top of her.

“Shut up, bitch. I don’t appreciate you screwing other men on my dime. Sal gets a cut of all your action and goes through me first. You got it? I don’t know who that clown was, but you didn’t pay up. But now you will.” Jacko held his fist up as though he was ready to punch her, but she turned her head and tried to roll out of his grasp. He caught her flush on her left temple with his fist, and she was out cold. He rummaged around the shabby room for the money and found three dollars tucked into her bra. He removed the bills and pocketed them, then removed his pants. He rolled her back over and began to climb on top of her when he heard a noise behind his back.

#

I will not let him hurt my Dolly, Puss thought. She silently slunk out from behind the curtain and stood on the window sill, stalking her prey, waiting and poised to do damage.

She puffed out her tail and hissed at him, drawing his attention.

Jacko started to turn his head, but Puss was on his back in one leaping bound, claws fully extended through the flimsy material of his shirt, driving them into his back, down to their roots. In her mind, a cat no longer, she drew on the panther she believed herself to be. She stretched her neck as far as she could and sunk her teeth deep into his neck. He gave a high-pitched scream and clumsily reached back, trying to dislodge the cat. But he could not get hold of her. He staggered off the bed, trying to shake her loose, but she wouldn’t let go. She adjusted her bite, reaching further and sinking her teeth deeper into his neck. He spasmed, and the holes in his neck began gushing blood. When he fell to the floor, gurgling and grabbing at his neck, she loosened her claws and jumped away. He spasmed several more times until he lay there still, drool streaming from his mouth and his pants around his ankles. The last thing Jacko saw was Puss side-eyeing him as she licked the blood from her paw with what looked to be a smile on her face.

On her way to the bed where Dolly lay, Puss straddled his face and urinated on him.

#

Dolly awoke to Puss curled in her arm and a splitting headache. Then she remembered what happened. She looked down and saw Jacko and his blood covering himself and the floor around his head. ”Shit, Puss. Looks like we’ve got work to do.”

She sat up, looked at the blackish-blue sky through her window, and said, “Let me get to cutting, and go fetch me the plastic, baby.” It wouldn’t be the first time she dealt a hand of aces and eights to one of Sal’s strongmen. She reached for the cleaver and handsaw she kept under a loose floorboard, then bent over the body. “Won’t need this anymore,” she said as she retrieved the money he’d taken from her and the other bills and valuables he had on him. Then she went to work.

The sun would rise on another Biloxi morning. Which meant the trash would be taken soon, so she pulled the stack of newspapers from under the cot and got the small axe and knife she kept hidden within. No one ever noticed anything unusual; one foot wrapped in paper looked pretty much like another when the butcher threw out the scraps. And it was as easy as dropping them from her window to the trash below.

Puss looked up at her and nuzzled her again, the mask on her face still in place but a little askew. Dolly fixed the mask and kissed her face.

“My sweet little pirate, I love you, baby.” Puss rubbed her face against Dolly’s and purred loudly, singing the conquest of the beleaguered pirate who got her girl.

The pre-morning heat was already stifling inside the room; it would be brutal today.