The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez

by Simon Hawke

  Solo gave him a quick rundown on everything he knew so far, which wasn't very much. "So what do you think?" he asked, when he was finished.

  Leventhal took a deep breath and let it out in a heavy sigh. "I think the media's purely gonna love this," he replied. "They know about this religious angle yet?"

  Solo shook his head.

  "They will soon," said Leventhal, "you can bet on that. And you can bet that if the same fruitcake who made those calls planted that bomb, he'll be contacting them and taking credit for it."

  The phone rang.

  Karen answered it. "It's Chief Moran," she said.

  "Put it on the speaker," Solo said. He waited till she switched the speakerphone on, then raised his voice and said, "Go ahead, John."

  "Well, our boy's been heard from," Moran's voice came from the speaker. "He's had himself a busy afternoon. He called the papers and all the local TV stations, taking credit for the bombing. Just in time to make the six o'clock news."

  "Ta... da..." sang Leventhal, spreading his arms out.

  "What was that?" Moran asked.

  Solo gave Leventhal a dirty look. "Never mind," he said, getting up and walking over to the speakerphone so he wouldn't have to raise his voice. "How do we know it's the killer and not some crank?"

  "The message was pretty much the same as on those tapes," Moran said, "almost word for word. They said it was a man's voice, sounded muffled. The Lord giving Man dominion over all the beasts of the field, ERA is blasphemy, the hand of God smiting the blasphemer, and all that. Other than taking credit, the caller didn't identify himself in any way. Oh, and Channel 7 somehow found out about the death threats the victim received. Needless to say, they did not reveal their source. Just thought you ought to know. Leventhal show up yet?"

  "Yes, he's here," said Solo. "You want to speak to him?"

  "Not particularly. You're really sure you want him on this thing?"

  Solo glanced at Leventhal, who merely smiled wryly and shook his head. "Yes, I'm sure."

  "Well, you're the boss," Moran said, with resignation in his voice.

  Leventhal held up his middle finger.

  "Okay, John, thanks," said Solo. "I'll talk to you later." He switched off the phone and turned back toward the table.

  "You know something, Leventhal?" he said. "You've got a bad attitude."

  Leventhal gave a sharp bark of laughter. "Yeah, that's what my mom told me. She always said I'd either wind up in jail or wearin' a badge. She wasn't sure which one was worse."

  "Well, if you fall down on this one, you'll wish you were in jail," Solo said.

  Leventhal raised his eyebrows. "You're serious? You're really putting me in charge of this? I'm not just window dressing?"

  "It's your show," said Solo.

  "I'm not gonna be trippin' over Chavez and McVickers?"

  "Nope."

  "I'm gonna have free rein?"

  "Within reason," Solo said.

  "What's that mean?"

  "It means that if you go stepping on anybody's civil rights, I don't want to hear about it," Solo replied. "It means I want a conviction. This time, nobody's getting off on any technicalities. Otherwise, there will be a payback. Got it?"

  Leventhal smiled. "Got it."

  "You'll report directly to Chief Moran," said Solo. "Otherwise, anything you need, you let me know and I'll see that you get it."

  "Well, I can think of three things right off the bat," said Leventhal. "The first one is reporting directly to Moran. I could have a real problem with that, unless you keep him off my back."

  "What is it with you and Moran, anyway?" asked Solo.

  "It's personal."

  "That's not an answer," Solo snapped. "You want me to play straight with you, then damn it, you play straight with me. He's got it in for you, and it isn't just your sense of style. So what is it between you two?"

  Leventhal moistened his lips and stared at the ceiling. Then he looked down and made a self-conscious grimace. "I slept with his daughter."

  Karen made a sound halfway between a snort and a choking noise and quickly turned away. Solo and Leventhal both glanced at her and she said, "Excuse me. Something in my throat."

  "That's it?" said Solo.

  "I guess for him, it's enough," said Leventhal wryly. "Hell, I didn't even know she was his daughter till he walked in on us."

  "Was she a minor?" Solo asked, frowning.

  "No, actually, she was pretty major," Leventhal replied. He saw the look on Solo's face and hastily added, "Sorry, bad joke." He grimaced. "Look, she was twenty-two and I was nineteen, fresh out of the academy. I met her at a concert at Red Rocks. She asked me to come home with her, said her parents were away for the weekend. Guess they decided to cut the weekend short. They walked in on us and Moran lost it. He got a little physical. I kept a lid on it, because I recognized him and it threw me for a loop, but he didn't know me. He thought I was just some punk kid. He didn't find out I was a cop until a couple of months later, when I made my first big bust and went up before him to get my commendation. He recognized me halfway through the ceremony and just about shit a brick. After that, he did everything he could to make my life miserable. I almost didn't get my gold shield because of him. So like I said, it's personal, and I'd rather you didn't mention that I told you."

  Solo pursed his lips and nodded. "Okay. I'll keep him off your back. You said you wanted three things. What's the second?"

  "Her," said Leventhal, pointing at Karen.

  Her eyes went wide. "I beg your pardon?" she said.

  "Why?" said Solo, frowning.

  "Because she's in on the ground floor of this thing and she already knows what it's about," Leventhal replied. "She can function as my liaison with Moran. The less he sees of me, the better he'll like it, and I haven't exactly got a lot of friends in Homicide. Also, she's on motors, which means she hasn't been around long enough to get her nose brown or figure that she knows it all."

  "Unlike you, I suppose?" said Karen dryly.

  "And I like her attitude," added Leventhal, looking directly at her with a grin.

  "Swell," she said.

  Solo glanced at Karen. "What do you think, Officer Sharp? You want in on a homicide case?"

  She glanced from him to Leventhal and back again. "Hell, yes. Sir."

  "Okay," Solo said, nodding. "You're on it. I'll tell the chief." He turned back to Leventhal. "That's two. What's three?"

  "I'd like to have the cat," said Leventhal, jerking his thumb at me.

  I blinked with surprise. Solo and Karen both looked surprised as well.

  "Gomez?" Solo said. He looked at me with a puzzled expression, then back at Leventhal. "Why?"

  "Because this thing's all about ERA," Leventhal replied. "Or, at least, that's how it looks, and that's how the media's gonna play it. My instinct tells me they're gonna turn this killing into a big political issue. I want to throw a monkey wrench into the works, show 'em the department's taking it seriously enough to have a thaumagene representing animal interests in this case. Besides, he might come in useful when it comes to questioning some of the ERA people."

  "But Gomez isn't a trained detective," Solo said.

  "In that case, he'll fit right in with half the guys in Homicide," said Leventhal.

  Karen stifled a chuckle. Solo didn't look amused.

  "Ba-rum-bump," said Leventhal, imitating a rim shot. "Joke."

  Solo shook his head and sighed. "I'm beginning to see what Moran meant when he said you were a problem," he said. "You don't have any respect for authority at all, do you?"

  "I guess that depends," said Leventhal. "I respect people who give a shit and know what the hell they're doin'. Like I respect you, for one, and I'm not just saying that to kiss ass. You could've slid into the mayor's office, if you wanted to, but instead you took a job where you could make a real difference. Hell, if my manner offends you, Commissioner, I'm sorry, but then I don't think my having a few rough edges makes a difference in why you're gi
vin' me this case."

  "Tell me something, Leventhal," said Solo. "What made you want to become a cop?"

  "I wanted to catch the bad guys," Leventhal replied. "And I'm good at it, even if I am an obnoxious SOB. But I figure you've gotta bring some to get some, if you know what I mean."

  Solo shook his head. "You're some piece of work," he said. "But you are good at it, I'll grant you that. Otherwise, with your attitude, you never would have lasted this long."

  "Thanks," said Leventhal.

  "I'm not sure I meant that as a compliment," said Solo.

  Leventhal grinned. "I'll take what I can get. So, do I get the cat?"

  Solo glanced at me. "Well, I can't say I haven't got a lot of reservations, but it isn't entirely up to me. Gomez doesn't belong to me. He's a free agent. You'll have to ask him."

  Leventhal raised his eyebrows. I guess he must have figured I was Solo's pet.

  "I'd be happy to help if I can," I told him, "but I'll tell you up front, I've got a bit of an attitude myself. I'm not too good at taking orders."

  "You know, somehow, I had that feelin' about you," said Leventhal, pointing at me and smiling. "I've also got a feelin' there's more to you than meets the eye. You've got the look of a real scrapper. I like scrappers. I think we're gonna get along just fine."

  "You know, I think so, too," I said. "You remind me of someone I knew once."

  "Yeah? Who?"

  "Me," I said. "When I was just a wiseass little kitten who thought he could take on the whole world."

  Karen cracked up and almost spilled her coffee. Even Solo had to chuckle. As for Leventhal, his jaw dropped and his cigarette fell from between his lips. He quickly picked it up before it could burn the tabletop.

  "I think he's got you there, kid," Solo said. He grinned and shook his head. "This partnership is going to be one for the books. I can't wait till Moran finds out about it. He'll throw a fit."

  "He will, huh?" said Leventhal. He looked at me and grinned. "Well, in that case, put 'er there, partner."

  He held out his hand. I put my paw in it and we shook. Like I said before, life tends to throw you curve balls every now and then. I had a feeling this one was liable to be a real corker.

  Seven

  WE left Princess sleeping in Solo's guest room and took the elevator downstairs to the lobby. The crowd of reporters had mostly broken up, realizing they'd gotten all that they were going to get, at least for now. However, a few of them had stuck it out, and they descended on us with their mikes and notepads and tape recorders. They fired questions at us, and a bunch of them seemed to know Leventhal personally, but it wasn't what I'd call a warm relationship. They seemed interested as hell in me, and my presence deflected a lot of questions, which I guess was the general idea. In any case, I gave them a lot of noncommittal answers and generally felt foolish about the entire thing.

  When we finally broke away from them, we were approached by another reporter who'd been waiting off to the side, a young and heavyset woman in her mid to late twenties. She wasn't the glamorous type, so that meant she was print medium. As far as the television media are concerned, the only people worth looking at are those mannequin types who look as if they've been stamped out with a cookie cutter. Heaven forbid you should get the news from someone who's got mousy hair or is just a little overweight.

  This woman did not have mousy hair. In fact, she had truly spectacular hair, flaming red, which she wore long and loose, except for a thin little braid hanging down on the left side. However, she was on the heavy side, and unless she lost about fifty pounds she'd never be doing any stories on TV. She didn't look as if she gave a damn. She was dressed in loose, baggy, black trousers; heavy, lace-up boots; a white pullover; and a black frock coat with an Edwardian collar. She had been standing across the street from the building entrance, leaning back against her car and smoking, and as we came out, she crushed her cigarette out beneath her heel and headed toward us with a cocky swagger, her hands jammed in her pockets, a wry smile on her face.

  "Aw, hell," said Leventhal.

  "How's it going, Dan?" she said, falling in step beside him. "Don't tell me they're actually putting you on this case?"

  "Okay, I won't tell you," he replied.

  "I thought they sent you down to Vice," she said.

  "Well, you oughtta know, B.J."

  "The name's Bobbie Joe," she said.

  "I like B.J.," Leventhal replied. "I've always like B.J.'s. It just sort of rolls right off the tongue, if you know what I mean."

  "Yours is probably small enough to roll right off the tongue," she came back, acidly.

  "Yeah? How would you know?"

  "Snappy comeback, Danny boy." She glanced at me. "This your new partner?"

  "As a matter of fact, yeah, he is," said Leventhal. "Catseye Gomez, meet B.J. Jacklin, would-be ace reporter for a would-be newspaper called Breakwind."

  "That's Westwind," said Bobbie Joe.

  "One of those free rags they leave lying around in bars, quasi art cafes, and topless joints," said Leventhal. "Terribly relevant. Definitely P.C."

  "P.C.?" I said.

  "Politically correct," Leventhal explained. "They'll tell you where all the bodies are buried, where to get the best cappucino, what's hot and what's not, and they'll even help you with your love life. Well, maybe not yours, Cat. You'll find lots of cunt in their personal ad section, but very little pussy."

  "That's what I've always liked about you, Leventhal," said Bobbie Joe. "You're such a 'Now' kind of guy." She glanced at me. "What's a nice kitty like you doing with a creep like this?"

  "I'm his partner," I said. "And I'll make a deal with you. You drop the 'kitty' stuff and I won't call you B.J. Okay? The name's Gomez."

  "Got it," she replied. "This on the level, Dan? You're partnered with a thaumagene?"

  "It's on the level."

  "Since when do they have thaumagenes on the force?" she asked.

  "They don't," said Leventhal. "This is a special case. Gomez here is a close friend of the commissioner. An interested party, you might say, representing animal concerns on this case."

  "So you really are on this case?" she said.

  "Yup. I really are."

  "Why you? Why not Chavez and McVickers?" she asked.

  "They wanted someone who knew how to deal with the media," he replied.

  Bobbie Joe snorted. "You? Give me a break. I still remember how you shoved Tommy Martino's microphone halfway down his throat."

  "Like I said, they wanted someone who knew how to deal with the media," said Leventhal.

  "You're serious?" she said. "They really put you back on Homicide?"

  "As per the commissioner, himself." Bobbie Joe whistled softly. "That must've put a burr up Moran's ass."

  Leventhal grinned. "Yeah. Too bad, ain't it?"

  "You know, I always wondered what it was with you and Chief Moran," said Bobbie Joe. "I always thought it was just your winning ways, but I heard a rumor it was something a bit more personal."

  "Man just doesn't like my style, that's all," said Leventhal. "I heard you fucked his daughter. Any truth to that?"

  "I heard you pull the train for the Broncos. Any truth to that?"

  "I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

  "No, thanks," said Leventhal. "I don't think I could handle that."

  "Never know until you try."

  "Why, B.J., is that a proposition?"

  "Would you take me up on it if it was?"

  "What, and ruin a beautiful friendship?"

  "Didn't think you'd have the guts for it."

  "It ain't that, B.J., it's just that I like to mate within my species."

  "You mean you only fuck baboons?" I was enjoying the hell out of their interchange. Despite the shots they were trading, it was obvious they really liked each other. And just as obvious that they had never been intimate, though both of them had given it some consideration. That undercurrent of sexual tension only takes place between people who've giv
en it a lot of thought, but have never been able to work their way around it for one reason or another. My guess was that she found Leventhal attractive, but was put off by his macho prick attitude. And Leventhal liked her personality, but couldn't get past the extra weight she carried. Maybe one of these days they'd both get really drunk, and go for it. Then, in the morning, one of two things would happen. They'd either wake up in love or not speaking to each other.

  Leventhal reached his car and opened the door on the driver's side. I noticed that his car seemed to fit his personality. It was an old Cadillac Margaux, one of the last ones made and, therefore, a classic, worth quite a piece of change when properly restored. Except Leventhal's was painted a flat, primer black, with orange and purple flames on the hood, and a red leather interior. It was enough to make a collector blanche with horror. I liked it. So sue me.

  "So how about it, Dan?" said Bobbie Joe.

  "How about what?"

  "Come on, stop being such a fucking hard case, will ya? Don't you ever get tired of this fruitloop act of yours? How about a break for your favorite journalist?"

  "Sure. Where do you want it? Arm? Wrist? Kneecap?"

  Bobbie Joe rolled her eyes. "I could help you out, you know, if you'd meet me halfway."

  "Yeah? How? Whatcha got?"

  "Quite a bit, actually. On Susan Jacobs and the ERA. I was working on a piece about it."

  "No kiddin'."

  "No kiddin', tough guy. So, what do you say? Want to compare notes?"

  "Yeah, sure. One condition, though."

  "Shoot."

  "Anything you get from me, you sit on until I say it's okay to use it. Otherwise, all bets are off."

  Bobbie Joe nodded. "I can live with that."

  "Okay, but I haven't got the time now. Why don'tcha meet me tonight at Mudd's? I need to see the Baghwan."

  "Okay. About eight o'clock?"

  "Better make it nine. I got some stuff to do."

  "Right. See you then."

  As Bobbie Joe walked back toward her car, I jumped up onto the front seat through the driver's-side door and Leventhal got in behind me. He inserted the key into the switch and turned it, activating the thaumaturgic battery. The dash lit up with a soft blue glow and the car gently rose about two feet off the ground.