As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘Someone’s in for it.’ The familiar voice makes Care turn. I could have told her that the woman has been waiting. I have been eyeing her, watching that she kept her distance, as Care pressed against the fence. Blowsy and unclean, her scent is one of the many in this alley. She did not spend the night here, unlike that other, older female I have sensed. But she has been here since the rain, since leaving that low bar last night. Her appearance perhaps no more than a return to a usual post.

  ‘They’re on lockdown,’ she continues, her voice is low, her syllables elided. The drink – or the men – of the night before have left her drained. Arms crossed for warmth, she raises her chin to indicate the yard, the men within. ‘Nobody’s going to be coming to the fence today.’

  They watch the men in silence, but I can see Care’s eyes glancing over at the woman.

  ‘This about Dingo?’ she says at last. She’s reaching, the girl. Throwing out a line in the hope of drawing the woman in. A tease, in lieu of liquor or of coin.

  ‘What about him?’ She aims for impassive. Wooden. Still, there’s an edge to her words that hint at some urgency, some emotion.

  ‘You heard. You must have.’ Care keeps her voice level, watching. ‘The stiff at his place? That was him.’

  The woman flinches as if slapped. As if her denial of the night before has made her weaker, somehow. More vulnerable.

  The girl sees it. She speaks again, her voice low but clear. ‘Dingo’s dead, Gina.’

  Gina turns away, as if aware of the scrutiny. As if aware that her heavy makeup will not hide everything. She is facing the yard but her jaw is slack, her gaze unfocused. Whatever she sees, it is not the men circling. ‘Yeah,’ she says at last, when it becomes apparent that some response is necessary. That Care requires one. ‘Yeah,’ she repeats herself and looks down. ‘I heard.’

  Care’s face softens, although the woman does not see it, and I sense a wave of sadness coming over her. She did not know this man, the one she was paid to find. But the woman beside her did, and everything about her posture – the way she hugs herself, the way she kicks at the base of the gate – suggests she mourns him, in her fashion.

  ‘Maybe one of the inmates knows something.’ Care pauses, considering her next gambit. She would entice this woman, draw her out through her self-interest and her loss. ‘Maybe that’s why the lockdown. Maybe he was in league with them.’

  A laugh, or something like. ‘Hardly,’ Gina says, and shifts, wrapping her arms more tightly around her bust, her low-cut top too thin for warmth on this chilly morning. ‘Dingo was one of Gravy’s top guys. One of his trusted ones.’

  ‘Really?’ Care appears to consider this. I see how she is watching the woman, though. Wondering what else she knows, and what she will volunteer.

  ‘Always in and out of his office,’ she says. ‘His inner sanctum.’ She is reciting words she’s heard. ‘I should know.’ Another laugh, although there is no humor in it, and then falls silent.

  ‘You should know?’ Care’s voice is an echo. A prompt, no more. In the yard, the guard shouts an order. The men shuffle to a stop and he shouts again. The line begins to move.

  ‘Gina?’ Care should wait. She should give this woman time, but she has seen the woman straighten and begin to turn. A car has appeared at the end of the alley. In the shadow it resembles the car that picked her up the day before, but newer, maybe, with chrome that reflects the morning light as do its tinted windows. Gina looks at it as if sizing up the money spent on those fancy rims, on keeping its paint so clean and white, and then turns back to Care.

  ‘Look, kid,’ she says. From the way she licks her lips, I gather she thirsts and would be off. That car waits, its engine a low purr, rich with promise. She glances back at it, anxious. I do not believe it will wait for long. ‘I owe you. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Dingo was one of the good ones. He didn’t—’ She breaks off. Shakes her head, as if responding to some internal reprimand. ‘Not that,’ she says. Pulling her top into place, she walks off, wobbling on the broken pavement.

  Care stares off after her, as she gets into the car. Creatures such as she do not offer their gifts freely, and I consider what this means. Care has helped her, that is sure. She has also bought her drink. But where Care has provided, others may pay more.

  Care sighs and sucks her own lips, though I gather doubt, rather than any hunger, is behind this simple act. I am glad. The girl is smart and she has been trained well. But she is too quick to take in those in need. Though I do not trust the boy and I am glad that, for now at least, he is gone, I have less confidence in this woman, and in the debt she would have Care believe she owes.

  SIXTEEN

  The girl has the wit to drop back as the car drives away, sheltering in the wall’s shadow. The occupant had been waiting for Gina. The door opened before the woman reached the end of the alley and closed behind her as she slid in. But what may have been a simple transaction has taken on suspicious ramifications. Although the woman may have been following the same leads that brought the girl here, her appearance is curious. We have been in this alley, many times. Yet I do not recall her presence here before Care was hired by this Gravitch, with whom the woman has dealings. Not before she sought the information that the woman drops so casually, like a trail in the dirty alley.

  The idea that this Dingo was a valued member of Gravitch’s team has merit. The oily man paid quickly what Care requested to seek him out, to observe him and report. And she has heard others, members of his crew, remark on his absence, reinforcing the woman’s words – that Dingo was one of the ‘good ones,’ valued and deserving of a better end.

  As I stare up at the girl’s face, I find myself trying to read her. To understand what she does, and to follow how she thinks. Surely, she must wonder at her hiring – and at the timing of the missing man’s death. Surely, she will not forget the bright lights of the authorities or the hammering that broke down her door.

  She is owed payment for the job, a commission that she fairly earned, for she did in fact track the quarry as agreed. But I do not believe this is why she will not let the matter rest. Nor is it because she has been looped into the killing of a man she did not know. Nor because her trade – the training she received and the memory of he who introduced her to it – has been leveraged to trap her, to take advantage of her youth and inexperience. No, I see the conflict of emotion on her face, the way she chews her lower lip as she stares down the alley. She would finish this job because she has accepted it. Has bound herself to the responsibility, employment of a sort as her options narrow daily. And because she saw the pain on Gina’s face, the loss and sorrow of a woman similarly bereaved. Who searches, also, for a boy.

  I do not realize that I lash my tail until it strikes a chunk of asphalt, a black and broken slab kicked up by Gina’s toe. It is this last factor that infuriates and sets my tail to moving – Care’s disregard for risk as she seeks the boy. He is alive, but that does not suffice. And I, who would protect her, cannot point out this simple fact.

  Now I must watch and wait, unable to guide this girl, my charge. She is thinking of the woman, it is clear. She stares toward the street where the blowsy blonde got into the car, her face drawn as she considers what the older woman has said. What she, both here and in her cups, has been willing to share.

  I would advise her, if I could. While it is possible that this Gina has gathered this information over time and would share it with another female, also bereft, who seeks information about a boy, it is not likely. Not for free, nor for a tumbler of cheap whiskey already drunk. I understand that Care seeks the comfort of kinship. That she would make allowances for this woman, worn down by her trade. But I would have her notice the repercussions of this trade, of the woman’s diminishing market value. She has learned to see the world in terms of her low occupation, and that information may be a more durable asset than her body.

  As Care makes her way down the alley, I believe she has marked another sign that all is n
ot as it would seem. To start with, the car that had pulled up was large and clean, indicating not only a newer model but one on which more has been spent than is usual for this part of town – or for that kind of companion. In addition, despite the obvious effort expended on the vehicle’s upkeep, it would appear to have been flawed. When that door opened for the woman, no light went on inside.

  There is something more. As we reach the road, I scent it, nearly hidden in the rich atmosphere of the wet earth, the mix of refuse and waste that serves as the alley’s loam. If I were a younger cat, perhaps I would have caught it earlier, even from where we stood. Perhaps I was distracted by the interaction between the two – by the girl’s concern and interest with the caged men. Perhaps it wasn’t here.

  In the hours since the rain has stopped, the city has sprung to life. The rats and insects, I have noted. The woman and her trade as well – men since the two last night. Others who did not usher her into a vehicle or take her away. The ground around us spews forth scents in a maddening mélange – mud and paper, rot and debris. But among them, half buried beneath a high-heeled footprint, I have found the remains of a matchstick, the chewed remnant of sulfur sharp to my wet nose.

  ‘Gravitch,’ says the girl, and I look up, startled. For a moment, I wonder if she too has picked up the match’s sharp smell. But, no, she does not share the acuity that has come to me with this form. She is merely thinking of the woman and where she may be found. Of how she knew the dead man and his cohort.

  I am relieved to see, when she looks down at me, that she is troubled by her thoughts. She does not rush off without consideration, and I sit and stare back up at her, willing her to take her time.

  ‘I wish I …’ She pauses and shakes her head. Glances back at the yard. It is empty now, the men have filed back inside. She knows their schedule, that they will not reappear, but something in her continues to hope.

  ‘Those pages – those were lists of case numbers. I knew the sequence was familiar. Nine digits. I had one myself. And Tick is tied up with him somehow.’ She is talking to herself as much as to me, and as she strolls back to the railing, I remain silent, bidding her to process as she has been taught. Besides, better here than by the road, exposed. ‘The case was a fake,’ she says. ‘But why?’

  Again and with a renewed pain, I regret my muteness. I cannot tell her about the third man – the shadow who haunts my dreams. The maze of deception and machine. I would not have much to share, not knowing myself who this creature is or why he haunts me so, but I would warn her, if I could. Tell her that there is such a one, a creature who wields a power over this city, and that Care has hurt him, by her dealings. By her efforts to free herself from the lower trades of this city. And that I have put her in his way by helping her. It is this that binds me to the girl, a knowledge and a past that I cannot communicate and do not fully comprehend.

  Thoughts of this man are why I start at the sound of footsteps. Cheaply made shoes, they slip on the stone of the courtyard, moving quickly and with stealth. But I am prepared. I arch my back and hiss, ready for the grab – the fight – and this is what rouses the girl, who starts, stepping away from the fence. In truth, the man who approaches, crouching as if he would evade some watchful eye, is not the fearsome apparition I had expected. This man is scrawny, his body bent and his face bruised. He reaches through the bars and gestures, and the girl steps hesitantly forward.

  ‘You, girl!’ His voice is more breath than sound, but still he looks around, haunted. The bruise on his face is fresh, and there’s a strange pitch to his voice – a high whine of panic – that calls rodents to mind. ‘This is for you.’

  He reaches inside his filthy shirt and pulls out a bundle. Folded cloth, it appears, though of a sickly yellow green rather than the grey denim that the prisoners wear.

  ‘I don’t …’ Care keeps her distance, watching the little man as he holds the cloth toward her. As he shakes it, urging her to reach forward. Still she holds back. I do not believe she can hear the fear, that strange high whine, but she can see the bruise, and she understands what pain and fear may make men do.

  ‘From Big Al,’ he says, as if that name should mean something. ‘Him you gave the apple to. Wanted you to have this, didn’t he?’

  ‘Why?’ The girl steps forward. ‘Did he find out anything about Tick? About my friend?’

  A puzzled look, the bruised lips drawing down into a frown. ‘I don’t know nothing about that. Only Big Al was my friend and now he’s gone, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Gone?’ Care’s voice catches, but the little man shakes his head. ‘You mean …’

  ‘Nah,’ he cuts her off. ‘Big guy like him? He’s worth something. They jobbed him out, the bulls did. On a work detail. That’s when—’

  ‘I know what it is,’ Care cuts him off, her voice sharp. There’s a tone I do not recognize – harsh with pain, I believe, or with regret. I see her jaw tense up as she bites down on the words.

  The man addressing her does not. ‘He’s lucky,’ he says, his voice growing soft with longing. ‘They put him out on the river. Real work. It’s rough out there, they say, and ten years will be hard. But who knows? I hear they’re getting sloppy. Losing their edge. Maybe he’ll get away. Maybe he’ll end up on some island somewhere, far away from here. That’s what I want to do.’

  The girl leans in, the sadness in the man’s voice draws her. I would alert her to the panic, to the pain, if I could. Instead, I must watch and listen as she draws him out.

  ‘Do you think you’ll follow him?’ Her voice is soft again, and he relaxes into its comfort. Into his dreams.

  ‘Me? Nah.’ He huffs in what I assume to be humor, and I can smell his breath. He is half-starved, and his teeth are rotting. ‘Little guy like me? I’ll be lucky if I get the factory. That’s tough, too, they say, but it beats being here.’ He holds the bundle out again. ‘Besides, you get to make some pretty things,’ he says. ‘Take it, Miss. Big Al said I should give it for you. Told me, “Eddie, give this to the girl.” In memory of your old man, he said.’

  ‘What?’ Care leans in. ‘The old man?’ My ears prick up at the words, but not the tone. This man is weak and dying.

  ‘Your father!’ The skinny brute leans against the bars, his arm extended, the bruise over his temple growing more florid with the effort. Care looks at the bunched fabric, but I take in his bony wrist, the blue-black marks that hands or shackles have left. ‘Big Al says he knew your father.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right.’ The girl sounds deflated, and I experience a strange rush of pride. The old man – the one who mentored her – did more to prepare her for this life than did her father, I suspect. I know the girl still mourns her parents. Vague memories pass through my mind – her face was rounder then. Her lips trembled as she wiped tears away. But it is the old man she seeks to emulate. Whose career, as well as whose office, she has taken over.

  There is no time for reminiscence now. The scrawny man has spooked at something. He tosses the bundle, which falls open as it hits the pavement. I approach, gingerly, waiting for whatever may crawl out, but my ears register his footsteps as he runs, darting, back toward the building, toward the relative safety of his own kind.

  ‘For my father?’ Care has crouched beside me and eyes what appears to be a sweater, knit of some soft, cheap yarn. It has a familiar funk to it – a mix of dust and something else – but as I step closer, she lifts it out of reach. In the yard, a cry, quickly broken, and then the sound of feet. A guard, his leather boots making more of an impact on the courtyard stones, gives us ample warning, and Care tucks the item under one arm and dashes away, back toward the street – toward where the car picked up Gina. By the match.

  There is no traffic now, although the day has blossomed bright and clear. The sun warms my black fur, but I can see how the girl’s flesh dimples in the breeze. She is ill equipped for this city, even in this more moderate of seasons, and I lean in to share my warmth with her. As she contorts, I look up. She is p
ulling on the garment, its unnatural green playing up the strange pink of her hair. It is tight, and the arm begins to pull from the body even as she works her hand through the sleeve. Clearly, this garment did not belong to Big Al. Even in his emaciated state, it would not suffice to cover him. Not even his bruised friend could have fit into the sweater Care has donned. Her arms are covered, but as she pulls the fastening close in front a tearing sound announces a new rent in its back.

  ‘Well, the idea was nice.’ Care peels the cheap cloth from her back and looks it over. She has learned, this child, not to discard anything that may be of use, and I see the play of thoughts across her face. I could by this time almost narrate them. Perhaps the piece will serve for barter, she is thinking, or for some other purpose in the constant market that keeps this city on its feet. I do not indulge in such exchanges. My life is more basic – I hunt, I feed, I sleep – but like her, I gather knowledge in the pursuit of these activities. I do so now, taking in the fruitful air with all its prompts. That one scent bothered me, although I cannot place it, but already it has passed, superseded by fresh traces of prey and of freestanding water. The rain has provided both, and I approach a puddle with a sniff. Oil has risen from the stones beneath, and filth of other sorts. But the source is new enough and clean, and so I lap, the brimstone tang a bitter reminder of my station here, my place. And something else – a memory. I pause, head up, to take it in. My senses now more acute than once they were, but it is gone. I am old, and I no longer command the faculties that once were at my disposal. This scent …

  A gasp. I freeze, but the street remains empty. It is the sweater that has caused the girl to catch her breath, to blink. She stares down at it now, its thin collar in her hands. One arm hangs down, its cuff already fraying, and so I turn to sniff – the friable yarn has more in common with the oily street than even the wear-softened denim of the girl’s jeans.