“No, no. I get the picture.”
“She also happens to have the same birthday as me.”
A little light flickers to life inside Madame Nashira's eyes. “And you're wondering…?”
“Well, according to you the position of the moon and the stars and the planets and all that determines—”
“Ah-ah, they influence—”
“Okay, influence who we are.”
“So…?”
“So how can two people who have the same birthday be so completely different?”
She shrugs. “I'd need your birth certificate to answer that.”
“Why? I'm telling you—we were born on the same day.”
“How many hours apart? Where was the moon? Where am I gonna put your horizon? How do you expect me to position the ascendant?” I just sit there blinking, so she swoops in a little closer. “Why are you so resistant to this? Just bring me the darn thing. I'll do your chart, okay?”
“Okay.”
Just then the door jingles, and one of the guys who was hanging out in front of the Red Coach steps inside. He says, “Hiiii,” and it hits me how amazing it is that you can tell from one little word that someone's ripped out of their mind.
“Yeah?” Gina says, ready to shoo him out.
He slurs, “You got time to read my palm?”
“You got ten bucks?” Gina shoots back.
He wrestles some crumpled bills out of his front jeans pocket, puts together ten bucks, and wags them in the air.
Gina looks at me and rolls her eyes a little, then gives me the time-to-scram nod. So I whisper, “How late you gonna be open?”
“Who knows?” she says through her teeth. “If I'm not here, just bring it to the Heavenly.”
So I leave the House of Astrology and race over to the Highrise because by now I'm pretty late getting home. But when I get inside the apartment, Grams doesn't say, I've been so worried, or Where have you been'? or What took you so long? She just asks, “So, where'd you go?”
Now, it's not that the question is so different, but the way she's asking it sure is. Instead of wringing her hands or buzzing around me, she's just seated at the table, flipping through a magazine, sipping from a glass of juice.
Then I notice the binoculars. “You were spying on me?”
“Hmm,” she says, and takes an endless drink. “I wouldn't call it spying. I was just watching for you.”
“Because?”
She puts down the glass. “Because I was worried that that horrible Heather might have caused you trouble.”
“Clear out here? If you were really watching for that, you'd need binoculars that reached all the way to school!”
“As it turns out, I didn't need binoculars at all. I saw you and Marissa strolling along, right across the street.”
“So? She wanted to check out Slammin' Dave's—so what?”
“My, my. No need to be so defensive. I'm just saying, I could see you. And I watched you try to go into Maynard's, then cross the street. Marissa went one way, you went the other, and forty minutes later you're finally home.” She looks right at me. “So? Where'd you go?”
I sat down across from her, laced my fingers together, and leaned in. “To Madame Nashira's House of Astrology.”
Her face fell. Then she sighed and said, “I was really hoping you were going to say the mall. But I knew you would have gone with Marissa, so I was afraid it was somewhere … else.”
“Aw c'mon, Grams. Gina's nice.” And before she could argue, I added, “And I want her to do my birth chart.”
“But why? You don't believe in—”
“Because I want her to explain how Heather and I can be so different if we were born on the exact same day.”
“You don't need her to tell you that. It's simple—you have different genetics!”
I crossed my arms. “Well, okay. There's my mother—”
“Who called, by the way, and is really happy that Dorito's back.”
I rolled my eyes. “I'll bet she is.”
Grams frowned at me. “She said she'll try to reach you again later, and when she does, you've got to promise me you won't hang up on her.”
“Whatever. The point is that if she's the X in my genetic equation, and neither of you will fill in the Y, I can't exactly solve the problem.” I leaned in and slapped the table. “You're not giving me enough to work with!”
She put up a hand.
“So tell me who my father is.”
“You know I can't do that.”
“Then at least give me my birth certificate so Gina can do my birth chart—which, by the way, she's been offering to do for free since September.”
Grams stared at me for a solid minute.
I stared right back.
Finally she pushed away from the table and said, “Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Yes. I see no reason why you can't see your own birth certificate.” She headed into her bedroom, saying, “If your mother has a problem with that, well, tough.”
I couldn't believe my ears. I also couldn't believe she had my birth certificate in the apartment. Believe me, I know every square inch of the place, including the closet. So I was dying to spy on her and see where she had it hidden, because if she had my birth certificate stashed in her bedroom all this time, what else did she have hidden in there?
But I made myself just sit and wait, and about a minute later she was back with a little white piece of paper.
“That's it?” I asked when she handed it over. It seemed really… plain. I was expecting a scroll. With special seals and fancy writing and maybe even a little ribbon. But this was just a kinda rumpled piece of white paper—probably only one-third the size of a regular sheet of paper—with typed-in boxes and a couple of signatures.
“That's it,” Grams said, then pointed to an embossed seal. “It's the original, too. Not the copy your mother changed.”
I read it over and over again. I guess I was hoping to find out something about myself, but there wasn't much I didn't already know. The Father of Child box said “Unreported,” which I guess about summed it up. And at least they hadn't been keeping me from a twin brother or sister or anything—Box 3A stated I was a “single” birth. And there in Box 4B was the time of birth: 0959. On a 24-hour clock, that meant I was born at 9:59 A.M.
I read every box three times, and finally I said, “Thanks, Grams.”
Now, I guess it came out kind of choked up, because Grams asked, “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “Sure.”
She reached over and held my hand, saying, “I will encourage her to talk to you about your father, okay?”
I nodded some more. “I just don't get what the big deal is.”
She sighed. “I think it's your mother who isn't ready to discuss it, not you.”
“So why don't you tell me?”
“Because it's not my place, and you know it.”
“Neither is having to raise me, and you know that.”
She sighed again. “Well, I hope the certificate is enough for now.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Grams.”
“So,” she said, standing up. “How's the homework situation?”
“Moderate.”
“Do you have time to help me with dinner?”
What I really wanted to do was zip over to the House of Astrology with my birth certificate. But instead I said, “Sure.”
So I helped fix dinner, and after we ate, I did the dishes and started on my homework. But really, my mind wasn't on factorials or lowest common denominators. I wanted to get over to Gina's to deliver my birth certificate. I wanted her to get going on my chart. Any explanation was better than the one I had—even if it came from a crazy star “scientist.”
I kept peeking at my birth certificate, too. There wasn't anything else it could tell me, but it did make me feel somehow more connected. Maybe I didn't actually know any more about myself, but it felt like the answers were somehow closer.
It also made me feel like, okay—I wasn't found in a Dumpster. I wasn't adopted. I really was who I thought I was.
Which is something most kids never question, but with a mother like mine you learn to wonder.
So I was racking my brains for an excuse to get away from homework and over to the Heavenly—or the House of Astrology if Gina wasn't home—when the phone rang.
Grams answered it, but ten seconds later she was holding it out to me. “It's Holly. She needs help with her homework.”
I took the phone and said “Hey” into it.
Holly whispered, “Sorry I kinda lied to her, but is there any way you can come over?”
“Uh…”
“He's here again. And he was nosing through our trash!”
“Who?” I whispered.
“El Gato!”
I looked over my shoulder. Grams was back in the living room, but still, I kept my voice down. “Your trash is empty, isn't it?”
“Pretty much, but he was pawing around in what is in it.”
“I'll be right over.”
I hung up, stuck my birth certificate in my pocket, and went into the living room. “Grams, I need to go over to Holly's for a minute. She's… she's got questions that I can't answer over the phone.”
She looked up from her book. “Do you want me to check the hallway?”
“Nah. I'll be careful.”
“Call if it gets late.” She tapped her wristwatch. “No excuses.”
I laughed and held up my wrist. “If the bat swings past the ball, I'll call.”
She laughed, too. And with that I slipped out of the apartment and down the hall, wondering why El Gato was on the prowl.
Holly was waiting for me at the Pup Parlor door. “Come on!” she said. “He's still there.”
“Meg and Vera aren't home?” I asked as we charged upstairs.
“No! They're at some Groomers Club meeting in Santa Luisa.”
Except for a light in the hallway, the apartment was totally dark. Holly led me into the kitchen, where we had a clear view of the alleyway. Slammin' Dave's back door was propped open, Tornado Tony's van was parked off to the side, and El Gato was back against the wall, lighting a cigarette.
Or at least trying. The cigarette didn't seem to want to light. And he kept checking the back door. “He's acting kinda amped, don't you think?” I whispered as he tossed down another match.
“He is so weird,” Holly whispered back. “Why doesn't he just take off the mask?”
He threw down another match, and I said, “He's sure not acting like a smoker.” Then I had an idea. “Maybe smoking's a diversion?”
“A diversion from what?”
“Got me. He's just not acting natural.”
“What's natural about wearing a cat mask and spandex shorties?”
“Good point.”
El Gato finally got the cigarette going, but he didn't puff on it. He just held it between his fingers and headed for Tony's van.
“Now what's he doing?” Holly whispered.
El Gato looked over both shoulders, then tried the driver's door. It was locked, so he shielded out the alley light with his hand and looked in the window.
“It looks like he's casing the van!” I whispered.
“What's he expecting to get out of a janitor's van?”
“Maybe the stereo?” Then I thought of something. “Hey. Do you know where Vera's camera is?” I knew she had an old manual one with a killer telephoto lens.
Holly glanced at me, then charged out of the kitchen. A few seconds later she was back. “There are two shots left.”
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Yeah.” She held the camera up, then zoomed in on him. There were no windows or doors on the side of Tony's van, so El Gato was now behind it, trying the back doors.
I whispered, “Is there enough light?” because he was sort of in the shadows.
“It's gonna have to be kind of a long exposure.” She tweaked some knobs quick, then focused again, and cl… ick, the shutter opened and closed.
She'd barely taken the shot when El Gato went around the van and out of view. Then a few seconds later Tony came out the back door of Slammin' Dave's. And I wanted to open the window and shout, “Hey! That El Gato creep is casing your van!” but Tony seemed to be looking for him, anyway. So I whispered to Holly, “Can we open the window a little?”
Very quietly she unlocked it and turned the crank. It made a little squeaking sound, but Tony didn't seem to notice. He was busy calling, “Hey! Hey, Cat Dude! Dave wants you inside. Where'd you go?”
El Gato's raspy voice came from down the alley. “Just havin' a smoke.” He appeared from behind the van, then flicked the cigarette down and ground it out with his foot. “Thinkin' there's got to be a better way to make a buck.”
“Amen to that.” Tony laughed. “You wrestlers are nuts.”
“Yeah, well, so are you. You work too much, you know that?”
Tony unlocked his van. “I'm not into power or glory. I just want the cash.”
El Gato snorted. “Well, if you hear of any way I can make some quick cash, let me know about it, would ya?”
“Will do.” Tony got inside his van and fired it up, then called out the window, “So you gonna quit wrestling?”
“Not until I figure out a better way of scoring some green.”
“But you've gotta have a day job, right?”
“Yeah, and it stinks.”
Tony nodded and started backing up. “Don't they all.”
When they were both gone, I said, “What a jerk! First he tries to break into Tony's van, then he acts all chummy with him. How can people be like that?”
Holly closed the window and said, “Obviously, he's a criminal. And I think criminals just don't care.” She held up the camera. “So? What do you think we should do with the picture? Give it to Tony? Give it to Dave? Give it to Officer Borsch?”
“Forget Officer Borsch. He'll just say, So the guy's hand was on the door—so what?”
“Okay, then Tony or Dave?”
“Maybe both?”
She nodded. “Maybe we should tell Dave, and he can warn Tony.”
“Sounds good.”
She let out a huge sigh. “I feel better already. I have a witness and at least some evidence as to why El Gato creeps me out.” She smiled at me. “Thanks for coming over.”
“Sure.” Then I said, “Hey, I've got to go to the Heavenly for a minute. Want to come?”
“To the Heavenly?” She looked at me like I was asking her to eat slugs. “Why?”
I pulled my birth certificate out of my pocket. “I need to deliver this to Gina.”
She saw what it was and laughed. “You're finally gonna let her do your birth chart?”
“Yup.”
She hesitated a minute, then said, “You know, I've never actually been inside the Heavenly.”
“It's no big deal, really. It's seedy, but André is cool and it's definitely worth the experience.”
She laughed. “Well, okay then.”
The worst thing about the Heavenly is the people who live there. They're like month-old produce at a farmers' market—they're shriveled and smelly, and believe me, nobody wants to take them home.
Which I guess is why they live at the Heavenly. I've heard that in the old days the hotel used to be the place to stay in Santa Martina, and the inside is pretty cool, especially the furniture. Carved feet. Pointy backs. It would actually be fancy furniture except the wood's all nicked and the upholstery's totally worn through, especially on the seats. You see those seats and you can't help wondering how many people have sat in them.
How many farts have been cut in them.
Which is maybe why the place stinks so bad.
“Pee-yew,” Holly whispered when we walked through the door. “That's one serious smell!”
“Uh-huh.” I headed for the reception counter, saying, “Don't worry. This shouldn't take long.”
André g
rinned around the cigar that was clamped between his front teeth. “Hey, Sammy. How's life?”
“Better'n it was yesterday. How about you?”
“Can't complain. And what was yesterday?”
“Don't even ask.” I pulled my birth certificate out of my pocket and said, “Gina home? I've got to give her this.” He started to reach for it, but I pulled back. “In person.”
He rolled the cigar to the corner of his mouth. “She expecting you?”
“As a matter of fact, she is.”
He dialed 4-2-3 on the desk phone, and when Gina picked up, he said, “Sammy and her friend are here with a personal delivery. You wanna come down, or you want me to send them up?”
A few seconds later we were heading for the elevator.
Now, the Heavenly's elevator is basically just a metal cage on pulleys. It's dank and musty, and you definitely want to keep your hands inside the cage. Holly looked around as we clanged and clattered up to the fourth floor. “I would hate to get trapped inside this thing! You think it's gonna make it?”
“Yeah,” I laughed. “And it's probably less scary than taking the stairs.”
“You've got to be kidding.”
The elevator lurched, then thumped to a stop. “I'll show you on the way down.”
Gina was waiting for us, leaning against her doorway, one hand on her hip, the other holding a cigarette. “Hey, girl,” she said, blowing smoke in the air. “Deliverin' the goods?”
I tried to keep my distance as I handed over my birth certificate. “Right here.”
“Whatsa matter? You're actin' like I bite.”
“No, you smoke.” Now, it came out sounding kinda mean, especially since she obviously thought she looked cool, standing there with a burning tube of toxic weeds between her fingers. So I added, “My, uh, my mom can smell it a mile away”
Gina held the cigarette back inside the room. “Oh, sorry,” she said.
“So we'd better get going.”
“Okay, then.” She looked over my birth certificate. “Give me a week.”
“A week? I was hoping—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said, waving me off. “First you think it's bogus, now you want it yesterday.”
“But—”
She smiled at me. “I'll do what I can, girlfriend.”
Sammy Keyes and the Psycho Kitty Queen Page 13
