MAGICATS!

by Gardner Dozoi

  "Cat. I'm a very hard cat to flatter."

  "I didn't order a cat. We just asked, you know, for reincarnation. In fact, I've been eyeing strangers all week, hoping one of them might be you. Nearly got punched by a stunt man in a bar over—"

  "Spare me the tacky details, old boy." He went four-footing into the hall, heading for the vast living room.

  "I honestly did miss you," said Buzz, following. "Despite our ups and downs, you were the best writing partner I—"

  "Okay, short change, what's the problem?" Groucho hopped up into the big leather chair Buzz had vacated.

  "I'm having trouble with the Goon Squad scripts."

  "I imagined you would," said Groucho. "The instant I smacked into that stone wall and realized I'd bought the farm, the last thought that flashed through my brain was, 'that little asshole is going to bomb out without my help.' "

  "That's touching, that you thought of me at the last moment."

  "Okay, old boy, grab a pencil." Groucho licked at the fur on his side. "I've been kicking around a neat switch on the basic incest plot."

  "One more switch on incest?"

  "Just listen, old boy, and trust me," said Groucho.

  Buzz laughed. "Boy, it's great to have you back."

  Although I didn't get to meet Groucho in those early weeks of Buzz's collaboration with him, I had no doubt the cat housed the spirit of Warren Gish. There was simply no other way to account for the fantastic improvement in Buzz's allegedly solo scripts. He simply couldn't have written anywhere near that well on his own and unaided. I began to hear talk that his new Goon Squad script dealing with rape, incest and leprosy was a solid contender for an Emmy. It certainly looked as though Buzz was going to maintain his position as one of the town's top television writers.

  Right about then I had to leave town again unexpectedly.

  There was new trouble with Brainwash, this time in the East Moline, Illinois, test market. The Arends Lab chemists had ironed out the hallucination kinks, but now something like seventy-two percent of the people who tried the new headache liquid woke up the next morning to find the palms of their hands covered with hair. The agency sent me to help the client's people whip up radio spots downplaying the social stigma of hairy palms. Unfortunately Junior Arends showed up in East Moline and, perhaps hoping for more hallucinations, guzzled down eleven bottles of Brainwash. I found him asleep in my room the next afternoon and covered from head to toe with short curly fur. What with one thing and another I didn't return to LA until nearly three weeks had passed.

  When I went into the agency the next day, my lovely secretary grabbed at my sleeve as I was heading for my private office. "He's in there," she whispered, uneasy. "With a cage."

  "Who?"

  "That bouncy little man."

  "Oh, Buzz Stover."

  She nodded her extremely pretty head. "Yes, with a cage on his lap. He insisted on waiting to see you."

  "He probably brought over Groucho, his new . . . his new cat."

  "The cage," she informed me, "is empty."

  Buzz was crouched in one of my imitation leather sofas with a cat carrying case on his knees. "They've betrayed me," he announced as soon as I shut the door.

  I bent, staring in through the wire crosshatch of the small cage. It was empty. "You don't, do you, think you have a cat in there, Buzz?"

  "Am I stark raving goofy?" He stood, bouncing on the balls of his feet, waving the cage the way an altar boy waves an incense holder at religious ceremonies. "Did I claw my way to the halfwit pinnacle of Hollywood success by imagining I'm lugging invisible pussycats around?" He sank back on the sofa, making it sigh. "My alleged love and my traitorous partner have knifed me in the back."

  I eased behind my large metal desk, tapped at the immense pile of stuff that had accumulated in my in-box. "How exactly?"

  "She wooed him away."

  "This is still Panda we're talking about?"

  "How many loves of my life do you think I have? When I fall, it's for keeps."

  "Panda did something to Groucho?"

  "Kidnapped him," he said. "Except it's all kosher."

  'Where's the cat . . . Warren?"

  "He's living with her in her mansion in Bel Air."

  "Since when does a secretary on a TV show like—"

  "She bought the damn house, made the halfwit down payment with some of the money they gave her," he said. "Do you know who used to live there? Orlando Busino, the great silent screen lover. It's a veritable mansion, a palace of luxury."

  I rocked once in my swivel chair. "I don't think I understand what Panda's done," I told him, "Did she make some kind of scriptwriting deal and go into partnership with your cat?"

  "No, no, don't be a halfwit. She's Groucho's agent." He whapped his fist on the empty cage. "She sold his services to Yowl! They've been beating the bushes for months hunting for a perfect cat to star in their TV commercials. I have to admit Groucho does look terrific on camera. Takes direction like a vet, has a sneer on his kisser that is perfect when they mention the rival products."

  "Does he . . . he doesn't talk on these commercials?"

  "Of course not, he only talks to me and Panda," said Buzz. "Even in Hollywood you couldn't get by with letting a cat talk all over the place. But because Warren's spirit is inside that cat, he's better at commercials than any other cat known to man."

  "How'd Panda manage to—"

  "She was insidiously clever." His fingers drummed on the top of the carrying case. "Naturally, since she was with me a good part of the time, I confided all in her. Groucho, having known her in his previous incarnation, was cordial, too. At first it was a dream of bliss. The scripts were nifty. I had them about ready to give me a pay hike. Yet all the while I was nursing a viper, in the person of that raven-tressed—"

  "I thought she was a redhead."

  "No, she was a blonde, but she switched again," he explained. "Listen, the point is, Yowl! is one of the sponsors of that idiotic piece of crap, Strange, Isn't It? She heard about their quest for a cat, smuggled Groucho out to an audition while I was on location in Apple Valley with Goon Squad."

  "He's your cat, isn't he? Legally you—"

  "Ah, but there again she was diabolically smart." He dealt the cage a heavy whack. "Panda went to the people who used to own Groucho and she bought him. She owns that damned Judas."

  "How does he feel about this?"

  "It's gone to his head. Starring in commercials, being fawned over," said Buzz. "Warren was a great writer, but he originally came out here to try to get into the movies. As an actor. This is one of his boyhood dreams coming true and he's ditched me for it."

  "Is the money better?"

  "Sure, they're pulling in a bloody fortune from Yowl!" he said forlornly. "When this thing really gets rolling, there'll be a multimedia blitz. Panda and Groucho will net a million bucks easy."

  "What do you plan to do?"

  "Panda's still allowing him to collaborate with me . . . some."

  "How much?"

  "Well, Groucho is busy most of the time with the TV spots, the magazine ads and all. I'm darn lucky if I get at him for an hour a week. Barely enough time for a plot session."

  "Might be wise to look for a new partner."

  "Nope, there is only one Warren Gish."

  "You could give writing alone another try."

  He stood up, the cat cage swinging in his hand. "Perfect dreams don't come along very often. If I can't work with him, I don't think I can work at all."

  "You're romanticizing, Buzz. When Warren was alive and in his original body, you fought all the time."

  "We fought, sure, punched each other out, but we wrote some dynamite scripts." He pointed a warning finger at me. "I got him back and we are going to keep on working together."

  "That could," I warned, "mean trouble."

  "For Panda, not for me." With the empty cat case dangling in his grip, he went stalking out of my office.

  Since I never saw him again, ali
ve or dead, most of the rest of this account is based only on what I am fairly certain is what happened.

  You probably know what a substantial hit Groucho was. The first cycle of Yowl! commercials doubled sales in less than a month. The cat caught the public fancy, you saw him on the covers of Time, Life, Us, People, Mammon and even Vogue. There were, soon, Groucho posters, Groucho toys, Groucho lunch boxes, Groucho calendars, a Groucho biography turned out by the same man who'd done bios of Lola Turbinado, Dip Gomez and Leroy Blurr. The money was such that within four months Panda, now a platinum blonde, was able to buy the Bel Air mansion outright. Because of Groucho's burgeoning fame, the cat's schedule became increasingly crowded. He appeared on talk shows, never talking of course but letting Panda hold him on her lap and act as spokesperson. He did supermarket openings, hospital tours, movie premieres. It became impossible for Buzz to work with Groucho more than once every three or four weeks.

  When Buzz was able to reach his reincarnated partner on the phone, Groucho was aloof and indifferent.

  "Listen," Buzz would begin, "about this expanded two-hour Goon Squad they want. Do you really think our switch on the rape and brain tumor plot will stretch for two frapping hours?"

  "Trust me, old boy."

  "They have their doubts at the network."

  "That's what they get paid for. Those of us . . . oops, here's the photog from Movieland magazine. Bye."

  The network didn't accept the two-hour script, even when Buzz changed the brain tumor to lung cancer. They ordered a major rewrite. When Buzz went rushing over to the Bel Air mansion, the rejected script tucked up tight under his arm, they wouldn't even let him on the grounds. Panda had hired a couple of hefty fellows, both weightlifting trophy winners, to guard the wrought iron gates and keep out fans and tourists. There was a small dinner party for the top Yowl! executives that night and Panda didn't want Buzz barging in.

  Stubborn, he pretended to drive away. Instead he parked his Mercedes a few blocks off, sat in it muttering to himself. The night grew darker, clouds hid the moon. Finally, at midnight, Buzz went skulking back toward the mansion. He skirted the high stone wall and found a spot where a fallen tree trunk allowed him to boost himself over. Panda hadn't as yet gotten around to having an electric alarm system installed. Buzz's advent went unnoticed.

  Hunched low, still hugging the failed script to him, he got to the shrubs near the open garages and hid. By a few minutes after midnight the last of the visitors had driven off.

  A pleased smile touched his face when he saw Panda, in an absolutely stunning satin evening gown, standing at the top of the marble front stairway with Groucho himself cradled in her arms.

  She placed the butterscotch cat on the marble, patted his furry backside. "Do your business, Groucho, and hurry back," she told him. "It's late and you need plenty of sleep. We start taping your special tomorrow."

  "I may chase a bird or two, but I'll be back soon," the cat promised, padding down the smooth steps.

  Buzz waited until Panda closed the door and then whispered, "Hey, Groucho."

  The cat halted, tail switching. He glanced toward the pile of shadows where Buzz was ducked. "That you, old boy?"

  "Over here, in front of the garages."

  "They had orders to give you the old heave-ho tonight." Groucho came, backside swaying, over to him. "How'd you—"

  "They shot us down." He held out the script. "We've got to fix this. Quick or we could lose the damn show."

  "Why do you keep saying we?"

  "Because we're still a team and—"

  "You're getting solo credits on the scripts now," the cat reminded. "Warren Gish is dead. Groucho the cat is a national, indeed an international, favorite. Do you know how much we'll take in over the next—"

  "Okay, you can make more dough doing commercials and gobbling swill. But you are a writer at heart."

  "Nope, I'm an actor," corrected the cat. "You know, old boy, I always wanted this. To be a star. Not a walk-on or a bit. But a real damn star."

  "You have to drop this, Groucho, and get back to helping me out." He shook the script near the cat's nose. "I need you. If you don't help me, I'll go to Yowl! and—"

  "Easy there, old boy," warned the cat. "I'm really enjoying this present incarnation. Woe to him who mucks it up."

  "You've got to help me out."

  Grouncho shook his furry head. "Nope, I'm through saving your bacon."

  Buzz let the script drop, made a grab for the cat.

  Groucho's fur stood up like thousands of exclamation points. Making a hissing sound, he backed toward one of the open garages, clawing at Buzz. "Watch it."

  Buzz, angry, made another grab and got hold of the cat around the middle. "I'm going to take you away from Panda. You're going to help me save . . . ow!"

  The cat had raked him, hard, across the face. Blood came running down Buzz's cheek. "You son of a bitch!" He kept his hold on the struggling animal.

  Groucho dug into Buzz's midsection with his back claws. "Jerk," he said.

  The front claws ripped into his face again.

  Buzz cried out in pain and then, catching the snarling cat by the tail, he sent it whizzing across the shadowy garage.

  There was an enormous thud when Groucho's skull connected with the wall.

  Charging into the garage, Buzz caught up a tire iron from the concrete flooring. He ran to the place where the dazed cat, wobbling, was trying to stand.

  "Why won't you help me? Why?" Buzz chanted that, smashing at Groucho's small skull with the iron.

  The cat made a harsh keening noise and died.

  "Oh, Jesus." Buzz rose. "I've killed my partner."

  "Groucho, are you fighting again?" came Panda's voice from the doorway of the mansion.

  Buzz ducked low beside the dead animal, breath held.

  "You act so much like a cat sometimes, it's spooky." She went back inside and closed the door.

  Buzz crept out and retrieved the script, came back and scooped up the cat on it:

  There was a back door and, trying not to look down at the grimacing cat, he made his way out into the night.

  Behind a row of thorny shrubs near the back wall of the estate he dug a hole with his hands. In it he buried both Groucho and the script.

  Five days later the producers of Goon Squad gave Buzz an ultimatum. Come up with an acceptable revise right away or step down off the show. That night he took his spare carbon copy of the two-hour scripts and spread the pages out on the living room rug.

  There was a hot desert wind blowing, brushing at the windows, rattling shutters.

  "No reason I can't do this myself." He wandered among the sprawl of pages.

  Something scratched at the kitchen door.

  The noise persisted, the screen door clattered.

  Buzz crossed the kitchen threshold. "Somebody out there?"

  There was a clawing on the door.

  "Okay, we'll see what the hell is going on." He went striding across the floor and yanked the wooden door open.

  Standing half inside the screen door was a large gray police dog. The hair on its back was bristling, its teeth showed.

  "I'm back again, old boy," the dog said and came leaping for his throat.

  My Father, the Cat

  By Henry Slesar

  Henry Slesar has worked extensively in the mystery-suspense field and for television—winning both the Edgar Award and the Emmy—as well as producing well over a hundred SF and fantasy stories, many of which originally appeared in slick prestige markets like Playboy. Here he relates a wise and gentle fable about the sacrifices that people—and cats!—must sometimes be willing to make for those they love. . . .

  My mother was a lovely, delicate woman from the coast of Brittany, who was miserable sleeping on less than three mattresses, and who, it is said, was once injured by a falling leaf in her garden. My grandfather, a descendant of the French nobility whose family had ridden the tumbrils of the Revolution, tended her fragile body and spirit with th
e same loving care given rare, brief-blooming flowers. You may imagine from this his attitude concerning marriage. He lived in terror of the vulgar, heavy-handed man who would one day win my mother's heart, and at last, this persistent dread killed him. His concern was unnecessary, however, for my mother chose a suitor who was as free of mundane brutality as a husband could be. Her choice was Dauphin, a remarkable white cat which strayed onto the estate shortly after his death.

  Dauphin was an unusually large Angora, and his ability to speak in cultured French, English, and Italian was sufficient to cause my mother to adopt him as a household pet. It did not take long for her to realize that Dauphin deserved a higher status, and he became her friend, protector, and confidante. He never spoke of his origin, nor where he had acquired the classical education which made him such an entertaining companion. After two years, it was easy for my mother, an unworldly woman at best, to forget the dissimilarity in their species. In fact, she was convinced that Dauphin was an enchanted prince, and Dauphin, in consideration of her illusions, never dissuaded her. At last, they were married by an understanding clergyman of the locale, who solemnly filled in the marriage application with the name of M. Edwarde Dauphin.

  I, Etienne Dauphin, am their son.

  To be candid, I am a handsome youth, not unlike my mother in the delicacy of my features. My father's heritage is evident in my large, feline eyes, and in my slight body and quick movements. My mother's death, when I was four, left me in the charge of my father and his coterie of loyal servants, and I could not have wished for a finer upbringing. It is to my father's patient tutoring that I owe whatever graces I now possess. It was my father, the cat, whose gentle paws guided me to the treasure houses of literature, art, and music, whose whiskers bristled with pleasure at a goose well cooked, at a meal well served, at a wine well chosen. How many happy hours we shared! He knew more of life and the humanities, my father, the cat, than any human I have met in all my twenty-three years.

  Until the age of eighteen, my education was his personal challenge. Then, it was his desire to send me into the world outside the gates. He chose for me a university in America, for he was deeply fond of what he called "that great raw country," where he believed my feline qualities might be tempered by the aggressiveness of the rough-coated barking dogs I would be sure to meet.