by Clea Simon
I have the same advantage, of course, and even now, with the sun at its zenith, my color is an advantage. What shadow there is I can blend into, and if I am fast and dart in just such a way, tail low to the ground, the pedestrians avoid me, seeing in my movement something dangerous, uglier even than my feral self.
Care doesn’t have this advantage, not with her pink hair and the height that looks like it came on her recently, stretching her slender frame. Not with the curves just beginning to show, despite her too-spare flesh. The confident strut she assumed on the way downtown won’t work now either. She’s on the prowl, but others are, too, and I find my concern growing as we get farther from the alley. At the first corner, when others march ahead, I feel her hesitate.
‘Watch it!’ A man in a suit nearly bowls her over. His companion, whose trench coat swings so low to the ground I could grab it, curses under her breath as she detours around us, nearly shoving Care off the sidewalk, bustling by in a cloud of floral scent. I look up at her, concern making me forget my own vulnerability out here on the noisy thoroughfare. The girl must see this. She ducks and scoops me up so quickly I barely complain, so taken am I with my own thoughts. If she could slick back that hair …
I raise a paw as if to wash, even as she holds me. I press one ear flat, peering up to see if she is watching. The scent of those passers-by – sharp and clean and foreign – lingers. The city is overrun.
‘Care,’ the boy whispers, gesturing her over, and she puts me down. But even as she does, she pulls something from her bag. That scent again, of flowers. It is a kerchief of some sort, a square of filmy cloth in the tan of that trench coat, edged in red and black. Care ties it around her head, covering her shock of hair, and my tail resumes its proud loft.
I am less concerned now with the remaining blocks. Instead, I focus on what we will find when we arrive back at the store and what, in truth, we will do. That the girl and I will act as a team is a given. I have come this far. The boy I still cannot count on. While he has not betrayed us yet, I cannot discount a more subtle trap.
Care must be thinking this too – the way she stops short of the alley behind the jeweler’s. I am grateful for this caution, for it frees me. Hugging the building, I make my way to the corner. The two thugs who pursued us are there. Brian, the brute, and the shorter, rat-faced one. They are waiting, clearly. The way the big one slumps against the wall, kicking at it with booted feet while his companion paces. I smell cigarettes – several – and nervous sweat. They are muscle, but they are angry and frustrated and do not like to be kept waiting. Though whether they are expecting the man we saw before or the boy who runs their errands, I do not know.
‘Care?’ My ears pick out the boy’s voice and I freeze. If he is going to urge her onward, I will act. If he raises his voice – bringing them to her – I will act. I do not yet know what I will – or can – do, but I have resources, despite my age and size.
‘What?’ She’s peeking around the corner now too. She sees what I see, if not as clearly or with the elaboration of scent.
‘Couldn’t you be wrong about him? About Diamond Jim?’ The boy’s voice has tightened. He wants things to be peaceful, to be better. He is tired; I can smell it on him. Hungry, too. ‘I mean, you say he hired the old man. Maybe he hired these guys, too. AD’s friends. You know, to finish the job. After the old man died and all.’
‘He didn’t just die.’ Care’s voice has an edge too, though it’s not simply her hunger or her fatigue I hear. ‘He was killed. Murdered, Tick. And he wasn’t just some muscle you hire, like those losers down there. He was the best there is – a real private investigator. He solved that big heist down by the train station when the cops couldn’t get anywhere. And when Jonah Silver was losing inventory and nobody could figure out how? The old man did. That’s why Diamond Jim was looking for him, why—’
She stops, catching herself. Her voice has risen with her indignation, and the men in the alley are looking up. I feel my tail rise, my fur start to inflate as the rat-faced one begins to walk toward us. I ready myself for the fight.
‘You, boy!’ What happens next happens so fast, I am not sure of the sequence. ‘It’s the boy, boss. AD’s kid.’
Tick has stepped into the alley, in full view of the men. And when Care reaches for him, I throw myself at her shins, causing her to stumble. She catches the wall – catches herself – as the man grabs at Tick, who flinches but does not run. If he sees her, if he looks around at all, he sees the fancy scarf. The pattern of tan and black and red, and by the time she rights herself he has dragged the boy halfway down the alley.
‘Tick—’ She swallows her cry, aware of the futility of the situation, and, instead, bundles me up into her arms. Together, we watch as the two men take the boy in through the back entrance of the jewelry shop and the door closes behind them.
ELEVEN
‘That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.’ She looks at me. I do not mean my green eyes to register doubt. My eyes, like those of all cats, are naturally cool. Appraising.
‘OK, may have been. But if he was going to betray us …’ She stops talking. We both saw how quickly the boy was hustled indoors. What neither of us can tell is whether he went by prior agreement or if he sacrificed himself to save Care from discovery. Nor what his relationship to those men – so much larger than he – may have been.
I am grateful to hear Care second-guess herself, although the wrinkle in her brow reveals the pain she feels at doubting the boy. I myself have not drawn a conclusion as to what transpired. As a cat, I see subtleties. Options that the girl has not considered. The men may have simply been inept, unwilling to wait until the boy had sprung their trap and lured Care into their reach. Independent of his loyalties, they may have decided that Care is no longer necessary to their machinations. Willing or not, Tick may be the scapegoat they need, or maybe Fat Peter’s murder is no longer even a concern. Or, perhaps, the girl who stands beside me, leaning against the brick of the alley, is correct and the boy willingly gave himself up as a distraction when we were at risk of discovery.
It does not matter. The boy is gone, under circumstances that neither of us can be sure of but which may pose a danger to us. We should regroup. I look up at the girl, willing her to be sensible. To consider the environment as well as her emotions. To act, in other words, like a cat. A hunter, albeit a small one, who knows how to survive in the wild.
‘We’ve got to figure out what’s going on, Blackie.’ She meets my gaze, although her answer is not all that I would wish. ‘I’m sure it’s all connected.’
We have retreated, since the boy disappeared, back to the other alley, but I am not comfortable here. The unfamiliarity of my surroundings plus the sickly sweet aroma are enough to convince me this place is not hospitable to my kind. The odds are high that this space, deserted as it may seem, is monitored, and I do not hunt where I do not know what other predators I may encounter.
‘Why would Diamond Jim be meeting with those creeps?’ She looks at me as if I might have the answer. I can only stare back, willing her to think. We both heard the boy’s theory: that those thugs were performing some kind of service. ‘He wouldn’t have hired them once he heard about Fat Peter.’ She shakes her head slowly. Clearly, she is wrestling with the possibility that her former mentor has been replaced. ‘Would he?’
I cannot answer, but I blink to encourage her process. Question everything, I want to tell her. She may be larger than I am, but she is small compared to many in this city. We must be mindful to survive.
Several more minutes pass and I am beginning to despair. If I cannot rouse her, I should take my own leave. This place does not feel safe, and I know there are those who wish us harm. I have not forgotten the man from my dream, and while Care may be questioning the role his colleagues are playing, I do not want to be caught unawares again.
‘Come on.’ Care pushes herself off the wall and I jump to my feet. Clearly she has reached the same conclusion I have. We small crea
tures must be alert in order to survive. But as she pauses in the mouth of the alley, I do have a moment of doubt, as painful as that twinge in my hip. She cares about the boy, that much I know. If she seeks to follow him – to go after him within the jewelry shop – will I risk my own safety to follow?
Every whisker is alert as I scrutinize the traffic, both ve-hicular and foot, going past. Every current of air brings me information. I will weigh them all. Only then will I decide—
And the choice is taken from me, once again, as the girl grabs me around my midsection, lifts me up and holds me close.
‘Naaoh!’ It is not only humiliating to be lifted so, it is disabling. No matter how stiff my hindquarters might be, I can still jump and run and slash. Even this girl would be better off unencumbered by me, were I to leave her and not lend my teeth and claws to her defense. And yet I try to keep in mind her intentions as I squirm in her grip.
‘Hang on.’ She presses me close as she dashes into the street. I do not mean to claw, but as I see the onrush of traffic, I struggle for purchase and connect only with the denim of her bag. Still, I will kick. I will jump free. I will not let this child betray me and—
We are across. I have seen the startled faces turning toward us as I cry. Felt her hands clench in my fur. But now she is running, maybe not faster than I could go, but farther at this pace. Within minutes we are beyond the bustle, back in shadowed, narrow streets that seem both safer and more familiar. As we approach one building, its façade striped with damp, she slows, and I prepare once more to leap.
She releases me and I land on all fours, hissing. My bared fangs, wet with spit, must seem a poor rejoinder after recent events, but I do not like being surprised. I have been a victim of malice and not of mishap, of this I am certain. And while I want to trust this panting waif, I cannot condone such treatment – such blatant disregard of my feline dignity.
‘I’m sorry, Blackie.’ She nods, acknowledging the righteousness of my complaint, and just like that, I feel myself settling. It helps that she has turned away, the arrogance of a direct stare mitigated by modesty. Or, no, she is fumbling with a door. She presses a brass lever and, with a sidelong glance, slips inside.
I follow, as surely she knows I will, and climb behind her up the worn stairs, the filthy linoleum worn concave by untold, tired feet.
‘Hang on.’ She searches through her bag and pulls out a ring of silver slivers. I watch, curious, as she slips first one and then another into the nicked keyhole. The hallway is too dark for her eyes. She works by feel, one hand tracing the opening, the other working the pick. I find her face to be of more interest than her hands. The way her brow has furrowed, the working of her teeth on her lower lip. These are not signs of sadness nor the worry that has eaten at her before. She is thinking, this girl. Detailing the process in her mind. Remembering, perhaps, other hands – older and more deft – manipulating the metal just so.
And with a click, the memory is complete, a broad grin wiping out the worried frown. As carefully as I would wish her, she inches the door open. Leans to listen …
And I am in.
‘No, Blackie!’ She reaches for me, but it is kitten’s work to evade her now. Her poor senses may still be in doubt but I can hear and smell the emptiness within. The dust of days has only just been sent floating; the rodents in the baseboard scurry, shocked. I do not know this place but I sense we will be safe here.
With a leap, I gain the back of an ancient couch and mark its horsehair fabric as my own. It tears with a satisfying rasp and I am nearly done by the time the girl has finished her own examination of the room, collapsing on the seat beside me with a heavy sigh.
‘You would’ve liked him, Blackie,’ she says. I do not think she can see me. The light in here is dim, the windows shaded, and she is facing away. ‘He liked animals. More than most people, maybe. Then again, most people didn’t like him. Too big for his britches, some said. Even the cops – they thought he showed them up, made them look bad at their own jobs. The old man made enemies. AD warned me. He said the old man was past it. That he really was too old.’
I bristle at that. How could I not? This talk of age and infirmity hits close to home. The girl feels me shifting and misinterprets. ‘I’m sorry. I know I startled you, grabbing you like that, but I had a bad feeling. I wanted to get away – to get away and think. He always told me to trust my instincts. Told me that I was responding to stimuli – to senses I didn’t even know I had. That’s another thing you would have liked about him, Blackie. And he – well, it’s too late now. But I don’t think he told anybody else about this place. I think we’ll be safe here, at least for a while.’
The day has passed its zenith and the office is both quiet and shadowed. I expect her to sleep and prepare for that myself. But she is restless, rocking the old sofa as she pushes to her feet and begins to pace.
‘I should never have let Tick go.’ She runs her hand through her hair; the pink stands up like a cockscomb. ‘I’m all the family he has. The only family he can rely on, anyway. And AD isn’t …’ She stops, her thoughts getting the better of her, and shakes her head. ‘I mean, if the old man hadn’t found me … hadn’t singled me out …’
I watch her, curious about her process. She is working out a problem, I can tell. But whereas I would choose to sit and watch – to wait, still and silent, for a movement, for the prey to reveal itself – she must stay active. I see that, and consider. For all her size, she has been a prey animal. Such activity must have been vital at some point. If she now seeks to hunt, however …
‘Hang on,’ she says. I cock my ears. She has rushed over to a cabinet and I turn, my eyes following her as she crouches low. This is hunter behavior. This is how stealth turns to profit. But no. She has opened a door and pulled out – can it be? Yes, the aromas announce themselves even before she turns, a grin making apples of her wan cheeks.
‘Supplies.’
There is something complicated here, with metal and a small machine, but she masters it. The scent that reaches me first – an aged cheese – is only part of the feast, and before long, Care has revealed both fish and fowl.
‘Anchovies,’ she says. Her nose wrinkles despite itself, and I realize this will be my portion. The chicken – a pallid version, cold and cooked – seems a poor substitute, but I will not complain when she takes that as her share. The cheese she slices between us, leaving the bulk of it intact in its waxy red casing. I cannot stop gorging, my purr almost obscenely loud. The girl makes her own noises, though, and for a time we are of a like purpose. We eat until we cannot consume more, and then we rest.
‘The old man.’ She leans back in the one wooden chair, shaking her head. The memories are fond now that her belly is distended. I have licked my whiskers clean and settle down to hear her reminiscences, the full meal making me sleepy. ‘I forgot that he kept this place so well stocked. He was always prepared.’ She’s sleepy too. I can hear it in her voice. ‘Which is why …’
Her voice drops off. I glance up. Her eyes are still open, and rather than push back, she pulls the chair up to the desk where I lie, my forepaws tucked neatly away. ‘He was careful, Blackie. Always. Kept great records, too. They’re all here.’
She opens a drawer to bend over it. As I hear her leafing through paper, my eyes begin to close, opening only briefly as she hauls a thick folder out onto the desktop beside me.
Some of the pages she flips through right away, moving them to the side. I sniff them, curious, but smell only dust, the faint scent of tobacco and something other. The last man to handle these was ancient – older even than Care imagines – and he was cautious. I get no tang of fear or nervous sweat. In fact, the odor is pleasant, like a familiar blanket or a remembered kindness, and as Care begins to read I shift over to the discarded pages, nestling down on the pile.
‘What’s this?’
I look up, eyes half open, at the girl’s question. She is holding a sheet up, her brows drawn together in a bunch which then rel
eases as she exhales, flattening the paper down on the desk before her.
‘It’s code, Blackie,’ she says as I once more drift toward sleep. ‘I forgot. He didn’t trust – well, he trusted me. I think. I mean, he taught me his code. He only took cases that he could verify; that he knew about first-hand or that came from a previous client. He thought that way he could manage things. Manage the risk.’
She keeps reading while I settle down. The papers make a good, warm bed, holding my body heat and cushioning the wood of the desk. Except for the occasional rustle or a soft sigh, the room is quiet and I begin to doze. We have food, of a sort. We are protected from the elements, from the chill that comes as the sun drops. We are inside. Care has closed the door behind us. The lock she picked and opened. The walls …
It’s a trap.
I jump with a start that sends the pages flying. Before I know it, I’m on the floor – spine arched. Ears back. Ready to attack.
Only there is no enemy before me. None that I can see. Only Care, who has slid back, her eyes wide with surprise.
‘What?’ She blinks. The sudden nature of my response has left her nearly wordless. And I …
How can I explain? I’m not sure I myself understand the sudden terrible conviction that shot through me. I spin around but my eyes merely confirm that which my other senses have already told me. No, there is nobody – no enemy – behind me. Certainly not the shadowy figures I was certain were there – was certain I had recognized a scant moment too late.
I sit, my mouth still open as I pant. As I take in the air with its scent of dust and paper. Of Care and of another – the man who spent his time here. He left his scent in sweat and exhal-ations. Not scared, no, but careful. One who in his own cautious way marked this place as his own, as surely as my claws rent that sofa back. Before …
‘I don’t know what got into you.’ Care has risen from her chair and is now retrieving the pages that I scattered. ‘You scared the crap out of me, you know that?’
