The sensation did not last. Two days later, there were new traps. The six had multiplied to nine. There were no clasps to solder. Each was plastic and contained a smear of cat food on a trigger mechanism deep in its innards. They were held down by chains and a solid spike driven into the hard ground. So each day, another cat was gone, carried off by Fishbein’s gray-clad Gestapo. Grunstein girded his loins for round two, but then he opened his mail: a letter from Jeffrey Lopez, Esquire, from Lopez and Gonzales Law Firm -- Peter Fishbein’s attorneys. More Spanish, Grunstein hissed. What ever happened to the Jewish lawyer? Grunstein was ordered to cease and desist all acts of vandalism to the property of Fishbein Properties Corporation. If he did not there would be the risk of further legal action.
Grunstein shimmied with rage. Now Jews set lawyers on fellow Jews! Grunstein hobbled to the fridge and found a large piece of whitefish he had meant to throw away for nearly a month. He opened the Tupperware and took a sniff. He winced and nodded and placed it in a box addressed to the law firm of Lopez and Gonzales, Fleet Street, Boston, no return address, put on his coat, and limped down to the post office.
On the way, a cop was chasing down a man. They leaped between cars and across Grunstein’s path, as if he was as incorporeal as a ghost. The cop finally tackled the runner, with much cursing and threats on both sides, two buildings beyond Grunstein. Grunstein hurried on. When he reached the post office, he put his hand on the door knob but then released it as if he received a shock. He heard his first wife Ruth’s admonishing voice in his head. He quickly tossed the package in the garbage and turned around to head home. Breaking the law was for the goyim, she pointedly reminded him from the grave.
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