by Clea Simon
I stop. The sense of my own thoughts has caught up with me. That and the throbbing of my leg. I lift a paw, the pad grown rough and sore from city streets, and consider my surroundings. Halfway between the dull and sleepy district where Care has made her home and the harbor, this is a border zone. The fox whose scent had caught me up has moved on, I now perceive; her hunt has yielded food enough to feed her kits. What other life remains is hunkered down, as perhaps the girl is too. The trail grows faint. This is the coldest time of night, and here in the quiet, I should seek my rest.
A light, and the quiet rumble of human conversation. These should not draw me, but I am weak. I seek the warmth that humans bring with them, and I do not catch the sounds of threat or anger among the murmured talk, not for such as I am now. I see the door, outlined faintly in its tilting frame. The bottom corner brighter, where both wear and weather – and an industrious wharf rat – have eaten the wood away. I sniff it with both care and interest: wood beetles burrow in the soft rot. I have dined on worse. But another, more welcome scent entices me to bypass such easy prey and, instead, duck down to my belly and squeeze through to the room within.
It is a tavern, of a sort. If such a low room could be deemed the site of commerce and of refuge. At any rate, it is a public place: two old-timers lean against the plank serving as a bar. The barkeep glances up at my entrance. His eyes are good to catch my passing shadow, but he quickly turns away. I am neither trouble nor a paying client, except in as much as I may help keep the vermin down. Still, I am alert as I make my way along the wall. The few chairs – backless, broken – are empty, and the two drinkers look incapable of standing without the aid of that raw plank. But I am tired and am not at my quickest, and there are those who would do a creature such as I harm, simply for the diversion.
I settle into a corner by what once must have been a noble hearth: soot-darkened stones as large as my body reaching up nearly to the sagging beams. Here, I am in shadow and yet within sight of the door, and although the fire smokes and sputters, it has burned for long enough to take the chill from these stones. On one side, near the door, a pile of rags stirs at my approach, but briefly. Rheumy eyes glance toward me, their focus disconcerting despite their filmy nature, and then down. The woman underneath has come seeking shelter too, I surmise, her position on the floor a plea for sufferance. I return the gesture, the slow blink a courtesy among my kind, before I turn away.
From here, I can make out the far corner, beyond the makeshift bar and its two clients. A row of crates on end, their empty, splintered sides set back against the wall. On one of these, sits Care, whose warm scent drew me in. As I watch, she places a dirty glass on the crate beside her, its murky contents still untouched, and surveys the room. The flames reflected seem to glow within her eyes.
‘Hey, you. You gonna drink that?’ The barman stirs. ‘I’m not running an inn, you know.’
He has not rousted the two now leaning on his plank. Care is unknown here, has no custom. She does not drink. Instead, she raises her head to stare at him, the flames replaced by sullen fury, and with a shrug he turns away. Now that I have found her, I am content to wait. As, apparently, is the girl.
Perhaps I doze. It is the gift of my kind, to sleep whenever life permits. Besides, the hearth area is warm. But then a change in the air rouses me. The door has been pushed open. I hear the echo of it scraping on the floor and glance up to see a woman stumble in. She pauses, blinking even in the dimness of the hovel, and takes a moment to pull her garment up above her shoulder, to tug down her hem, before stepping to the bar with exaggerated care. This is whom the girl has waited for, the reason for that untouched drink. A movement at my side earns a glance. The rag woman has roused, as well. I catch her looking down. She too avoids the direct gaze.
‘Gina.’ Care’s voice is low, but in this small room it carries. The woman jerks as if stung, pausing in her progress, mouth and eyes wide.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ Her body slumps in recognition. The girl is not a threat. Indeed, as Care holds up the dirty glass, the woman smiles and shuffles forward. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ she says, and takes the offering. She looks around, but Care anticipates her, dragging another crate from against the wall.
‘Take a load off.’ I hear the flatness in Care’s voice. The woman, however, does not – or dares not question an apparent act of friendship – and with a placatory grin, tucks her short skirt beneath her as she sits, holding tight to the glass all the while. She downs the drink in a shot and looks over at Care. But the girl’s face has gone stony and so, after a pause that says more of desperation than of hope, the woman reaches over to place her empty on the bar. The barkeep’s expression isn’t any more giving, and so with a sigh that appears to deflate her, the woman pulls a coin from her bag and pushes it toward him. She downs the resulting refill in another long pull, her eyes closed in something like ecstasy. When she opens them, she turns toward Care, ready, now, to pay for that first, much needed shot.
‘What brings you here?’ She punctuates the question with a smile. This, it is obvious, is her modus operandi. Never mind that Care is far from her usual clientele. ‘Looking for a bit of fun?’
‘I’m looking for Tick.’ Care stops herself from saying more. Her hands are in her pocket, balled into fists. The effort is obvious, even to the woman, who nods slowly.
‘Yeah, your boy,’ she says. She has confused Care’s story with her own. I settle down again, waiting to see what the girl intends. ‘I was a good mother, you know.’
She addresses the room, as if expecting an argument. The barman has moved away, unwilling to deal with the sodden woman, and so she turns to Care. When the girl doesn’t respond, she grows more maudlin. ‘He was my baby. My youngest.’
Care starts slightly, a movement too modest for the other woman to notice, even were she less inebriated. She is taken aback, perhaps, by this admission, as if the woman were not simply another beast, breeding and releasing her young upon the world. Perhaps she isn’t. I know I cannot remember any offspring, kittens I may have begotten in an earlier life, when I was young. I doubt the females of my kind do, either, once they have weaned. We are, as I have noted, solitary hunters, and such pointless reminiscences serve no purpose in our world.
I look to Care, expecting a similar reaction. The girl is fastidious, almost as much as I, despite inferior capabilities. But she is not withdrawing. Although she turns away, I can see sorrow in her face, her features so much more mutable than my own. And I recall, again, how young she is. That she has survived thus far is testament to her spirit, as well as to what skills I have shared with her, in one form or the next. She is of a different mettle than the woman who now sniffs back tears, melancholy with the drink if not memory. Still, for her kind she is too young to be on her own.
And she desires something from this woman. Not guidance, but a lead. With a barely audible sigh, Care shifts back now to regard the blowsy blonde anew. Not with the disdain of one both clean and young, I suspect. Some other thought – some strain – is at work. ‘Do you know where else – where they keep them?’ She makes an effort to keep her voice steady.
‘You got to check out the Dunstan, I tol’ you.’ The woman digs another coin out, and the barman appears, bottle in hand.
‘I went to the Dunstan. He wasn’t in the crew,’ Care says, but the woman is focused on her drink. ‘Anyplace else? Gina?’
The woman wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and sucks on her lips. ‘They’ve got hidey-holes all over.’
‘No.’ Care isn’t letting go. ‘I know the Dunstan. My father—’ She stops. Catches herself. I see her blink back tears.
‘So you did have someone there.’ The woman – Gina – seems to focus now, as if shared grief makes the girl more real to her.
‘My father worked there.’ Care is talking to the table, her voice low. ‘His last job. Before he – before the accident.’
‘Your father was a screw?’ Gina sits up straight, her voice shrill.
One of the drinkers rouses and grumbles.
‘No.’ Care keeps her voice low, but her tone is insistent. She looks up at the barman, but he has turned his back. All kinds come in here. As long as they have coin to pay. ‘He did the books.’ Her voice has grown soft. ‘He was a good man.’
A grunt that passes for a laugh. ‘If he worked at the Dunstan, he wasn’t no good man.’
Care’s eyes flick toward the other woman, and I crouch, prepared to leap. I hunt alone, but when this girl fights, this Care, I will fight with her. But she doesn’t. I see the skin around her mouth grow tight, her lips pale with the pressure, and yet she keeps her silence. When she does speak, it is on a different topic.
‘So how much did you tell them?’ Now her voice has that sing-song quality. My ears prick forward, curious as to what this signifies. A rustle to my right lets me know that the rag woman has shifted too.
‘Tell who?’ Gina is examining the glass. In different circumstances, I believe she would lick it.
‘The men – whoever picked you up.’ Care has kept her voice even, but Gina glances up at her. Despite the drink, she is alert. ‘What did you tell them about me?’
Now it’s the woman’s turn to fall silent, though her mouth is open and slack with shock.
‘I saw you,’ says Care. ‘You were at Gravitch’s place. It was Gravitch who sent me to Dingo’s squat.’ She doesn’t mention Tick this time. The boy who also appeared unexpectedly in that foul hovel. Instead, she pulls her hands out of her pocket, one hand balled into a fist. I wait, as does the girl, for a reaction.
But the woman doesn’t respond. Instead, she glances at the door. Either she is thinking of bolting, or she is expecting someone to enter. Care reaches out with her empty hand and takes the woman’s. It won’t hold her, if she wants to run. The other woman may be drunk, but she is bigger than Care, and I have seen how cornered creatures can fight back.
Still habit, or perhaps the thought of the cold outside, have an effect. After a moment, the big woman shrugs, her sad face sagging with fatigue. And then she nods. ‘They asked,’ she says at last. ‘I didn’t offer.’
‘Besides,’ she says after a moment’s pause, ‘they knew.’ Her voice is so quiet even I must pitch my ears forward. ‘There wasn’t nothing they didn’t know.’
‘They knew …’ Care leans forward, willing the woman to finish the thought.
‘About Dingo. That you’re looking for him.’ Gina looks up, her face drawn. ‘Look, I had to – those toughs are my bread and butter.’
Care sits back, pocketing her closed fist and whatever it may have concealed, but her eyes are sharp. I can tell she is working through the woman’s speech. That she is confused by the woman’s words. I am alert, my ears up. I wait, whiskers forward. ‘What, exactly, did they know?’
I could purr. This girl – this Care – has chosen her words well. Would that I could speak, but I have other ways of following a trail, and I wait my turn.
‘Nothing else.’ She looks away and, with one hand, reaches for her hip to rub it, surreptitiously, as if to soothe or groom. I remember her limp as she exited the alley. I would know more.
I amble toward them and rub myself against her bare leg, aware as I do of the heat and swelling of contusions. She starts, but only slightly, and then lets out her own purr of pleasure. She has no recollection of me, I believe. But I am soft and I am warm, and this woman knows little enough of either.
‘Jicks,’ she calls over to the barman, confirming my impression. ‘I didn’t know you had a cat.’
Jicks grunts and turns toward Care. She nods, and he refills the dirty glass. Care keeps her eyes on Gina as he pours the murky liquor, and I feel a tug of grief. She must grasp my purpose – to ease the rough woman’s fear, her urge to run. And yet I would not have the girl believe my affections tended this way.
‘I have my own methods,’ Care says, watching the woman as she downs the drink. ‘My ways of uncovering the truth, and that can help you, too. Gina.’
She pauses, and what passes for calm settles over the makeshift table. My actions have bought the girl time, and I am therefore recompensed.
‘But first, you need to help me,’ says the girl, her voice even and soft. ‘Help me, and maybe I can help you. For starters, Gina, who was the stiff they left for me in Dingo’s place?’
ELEVEN
As I have noted, I am a cat. And while I may be frustrated by my inability to communicate directly, at least with the girl with whom I have forged a bond, I do enjoy my superior senses. Scent, for example, tells me that this woman does not panic when Care asks her about the corpse in the hovel. Fear gives a sour edge to human sweat, a tang made more bitter when the anxious creature cannot or does not allow her or himself to flee, as any sensible creature would. Nor does she relax unduly, giving one of the great unwitting exhalations that follow a revelation that has long been expected and comes as no surprise. Instead, she leans in, a blank expression on her face that is mirrored in her widened eyes.
‘A stiff at Dingo’s?’ She tilts her head. ‘No. You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ A bitter laugh cuts through Care’s words, fracturing them with its exhalations. But she retains her focus, despite the involuntary response. I discern how her eyes fix on the woman’s slack mouth, on the way she leans forward, rather than what she says.
‘What happened?’ There’s an urgency to the woman’s question. And to the next one. ‘Who was it?
It is Care’s turn to fall silent, and as she considers her reply I can see the play of emotions across her face. Sorrow, perhaps. Disgust. ‘I don’t know,’ she says at last. ‘Some – guy. He was stabbed, I think. At least, that’s what it looked like. I had to get out of there and it was – it happened a few days ago.’
The woman sighs, expelling the mild tension of her curiosity. ‘Dingo’s on a job, I heard Gravy say. Could be a friend dropped by. Could be someone needed a place to crash.’
‘So you did talk to Gravy?’ The girl doesn’t miss much, but the woman only shrugs.
‘I hear stuff.’ She looks away, distracted. ‘I’m in his office a lot. It’s – convenient.’
Care digs her hands in her pockets. It’s a gesture of frustration, but almost immediately she draws one out again. ‘What do you know about this?’ This time, she opens her fist, and the wrinkled scrap unfolds on her palm. It has her scent on it, now, her warmth. But I know that if I were to put my nose to it, I would still get the stench of death and of decay.
The woman lacks my acuity, her senses dulled by drink. She looks it over without flinching. ‘What of it?’ Her voice reveals no distress, only – yes, a little tension. ‘It’s a label.’
‘I can see that.’ Care’s voice has gone cold as the woman turns away. She gestures to the barkeep, raising her glass. ‘Gina?’
Avoiding the girl’s stare, she addresses the barkeep. Her glass. The whiskey. ‘A label, the kind they sew in the clothes,’ she says. Her voice is unnaturally even. ‘You’re probably wearing some of Gravy’s duds yourself.’
With that, she turns to the two drunks with something very like a purr. One of them mutters and digs out two more coins. The barkeep scoops them up, but the woman has seen them, too. She stands with a wobble, steadying herself by reaching for the bar and steps toward them.
‘We’re not done yet.’ Care keeps her voice low.
‘You want some too?’ The drunk leers, revealing missing teeth. ‘I know a place that’s nice and warm. Private, too. Eh, Gina?’
The girl looks away, and he laughs. I glance up at her. I trust her to have observed what I have – that the woman is distracted by more than drink. By more than the promise of custom before the night ends. There’s an uneasiness to her, a worry that she is not ready yet to name. Her discomfort is contagious and makes my hide twitch, as if I had contracted mange.
I have not, having retained a certain fastidious self-regimen that carries over well to my current form. But the instinct to scratch and then to b
athe is difficult to suppress until a grumble and the scrape of raw wood make me freeze. The other drunk at the bar has roused. And while his friend is preoccupied with Gina, he has taken notice of me. I cannot hear what he mumbles to his colleague. I doubt he retains the ability to form coherent words. But the dumb malice in his eyes is clear to see, and I have lived long enough to know it is better to avoid a battle than to fight one, no matter how incapacitated the opponent may be.
Whiskers alert, I scan the room. No other seems to mark my presence any longer, none but the ragged woman by the door, who still sits, watching, from the hearth. I envy her now that cozy berth, but the time has come to act. Using the rough furniture as cover, I move silently, running low to the ground.
The drunk has shoved the makeshift stool aside but stumbles, cursing, the ragged woman somehow in his way. I do not pause. Any acknowledgment on my part would render her gesture futile, if in fact the move was generously meant. Besides, I am at the door. I push myself through the rat-gnawed corner and back into the night.
Where I hesitate. The girl remains inside, and that drunk is spoiling for trouble. I flick my ears back. She would make noise, if accosted. It’s a sound strategy, a means of putting an assailant on edge. What I hear, though, suggests another option. A high-pitched squeal – a woman’s voice – rises and then falls within. I envision the pile of rags. But, no – the squeal becomes a laugh before it climbs again. I pause, waiting, but there is nothing of fear in it. Nothing of pain. It is a practiced sound, with all the spontaneity of that factory whistle and serving much the same purpose. Gina, plying her trade, summons both the men toward her, and when Care appears moments later, I assume she has succeeded, reaching some accord as to coins or to liquor.
