by Clea Simon
I begin to wash. My default behavior, I know, and yet I cannot explain the sense I had – the certain feeling of impending doom. A dream? Perhaps. At any rate, my startled leap has raised more dust and I do not want it settling into my fur.
‘I keep thinking of what Tick said, what the old man told him. “Too many tributaries,” if Tick even got it right.’ She’s picking up pages, bouncing them together to make them line up straight. I finish my bath, both dust and tension dispelled. ‘I guess I was hoping – hang on …’
She stops, crouching, and looks at the page in her hand. ‘A tributary – that’s a kind of river, right?’ She looks back up at me as I settle once more in my nest. ‘There’s something here called Rivers Imports. It was one of Diamond Jim’s references – one of businesses that told him about the old man. Only I don’t think the old man knew any Rivers Imports – it just says “Mister” and then a question mark where there should be a name.’
I do not know what she expects from me, beyond a sounding board or companion. And so, as she pulls the desk chair back and begins once more to read, I let my eyes close again. I am clean, my belly full, and as I slip into what I hope will be a dreamless sleep, I feel a purr of contentment envelope me. All is well.
TWELVE
When I wake, I am alone. I know this because I wake as do all my kind – instantly – with a beast’s perfect awareness of his surroundings. The availability of prey, the presence of larger predators, environmental change of all kind – they flood my senses at the moment of mindfulness like a light coming on in a dark room, not that I have much experience with lights. Or with complete darkness, for that matter. And yet, that is the image that comes to mind. Perhaps because I am in such a room, recently occupied, and the girl has gone.
I am not, at first, concerned. I have made my toilette, and she must hers. She had previously found water in an adjoining chamber, and I assume she has gone there. The building is not unoccupied. Alongside the distinct murmur of the city’s voices, I hear the rumble of plumbing deep within the walls. And so I stretch and groom, my sleep having left the fur on my right side slightly matted, and then dismount from the desk. The girl has left me the remainder of the cheese, alongside a shallow bowl of water. I pause momentarily, weighing the value of these dry scraps as a lure for something fresher, and then I eat. While there are rodents in the vicinity, the human presence is keeping them in check. The day is ending. Even beyond the darkening of the shadow that falls upon this building, I can feel the growing chill. Soon enough the city will be quiet, and then the hunting may commence.
Still, I am not quite easy. Not as the gloom deepens and the girl does not reappear. The plumbing has grown quiet; the rush of water through the recesses of the walls ceased and the occasional footfall down that worn linoleum replaced by the nervous scurry of lighter, unshod steps. I should begin my hunt: there is a crevice behind the desk that smells ripe with possibility. And yet, I am concerned. My earlier dream haunts me – the shadows of men. The surprise. The attack. And my sense of the growing darkness does not help. The girl is not a cat. She is vulnerable and she is alone.
I ascend the windowsill with a leap and stick my head under the raised pane. The sightlines are bad here. Off to the right, the glow of dusk reflects red off brick; to the left, the dark of the alley. The breeze brings me what I need, however. I smell the ebbing of humanity, the quieting of the traffic. And then – yes! – the girl.
Only she is in distress. I catch sweat and the bitter scent of fear. I can hear, over the distant hubbub, her labored breathing as she runs.
I must rely on my eyes, my least favorite sense. I peer down – there is a ledge of concrete, decorative at some point, perhaps half the distance to the ground. It appears to be solid, although I see how the edge has worn and crumbles. And so I gather myself up, twitching in anticipation, and I jump. The ledge holds; my paw pads grip its grainy surface even as my claws fail to penetrate. The scent is stronger from here and I catch a glimpse of her. The scarf she had donned has fallen back and she is hurrying, like some frightened mouse. Only I cannot ascertain who pursues her – or what.
One more leap and I am on the street, hitting the pavement a bit too hard for comfort.
‘Blackie!’ Passing by the alley, she has caught the movement and races down to scoop me up. Hissing, I retreat. This is no time to compromise my movement, and she freezes in response. Ignoring the look of pain on her face, I make my own approach, brushing against her shin to reassure her as I take in the scents and sounds of the street. No, there is no pursuit, and so I lead the way back out of the alley, pausing at its mouth. I am pleased to see her hesitate as well, to see her taking in the diminished traffic before she ventures forth. She has resumed her furtive mode, leaning into the building, the better to pass unseen. At the entrance, she barely opens the door, and when we both slip in we begin to hurry again, me bounding silently up the stairs as she keeps pace, her breathing hot and hard.
‘I don’t understand it.’ Once inside our sanctuary, she closes the door and locks it, leaning against it as if to add her slight form to its force. She has taken a bottle from her jacket and drinks deeply before pouring some in my dish. Water, I am glad to see. It has a different tang than that from the nearby tap, but it is clean and so we both drink. ‘I knew him, Blackie.’
She slumps on the sofa and I look up at her. She does not need my green eyes for prompts, however. Something has happened, and without the boy here she seeks to unburden herself to me.
‘I couldn’t figure out this Rivers thing, so I went to see Jonah – Jonah Silver.’ She takes another drink and licks her lips. I am right about her fear. She has been running, but her pace is not entirely responsible for her quickened breath. ‘He was the last client the old man finished a job for. I worked with him on that case, Blackie. It was my first real case. And I thought …’
She pauses. Unlike me, she has a face that changes as thoughts pass through it, like clouds in the sky. Or reflections in a puddle, perhaps, obscuring the depth beneath. I see hurt as well as fear, and beyond it all, confusion, which makes its way into words.
‘He knows me. He congratulated me, Blackie. I was the one who noticed the lack of damage to the storeroom lock – the fact that nobody had forced it or picked their way in.’ She flexes her hands in a gesture I recognize. I, too, flex my claws, remembering a successful hunt.
‘I mean, I kind of think the old man saw that too, but, anyway …’ She shrugs. ‘I thought he’d be doing great now. Now that we solved his loss problem, figured out that it was an inside job. But he’s not, Blackie. He’s barely keeping his head above water. The place is a shambles. And personally, he’s a wreck. I mean, when he saw me, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. I thought, you know, maybe he’d heard about the old man and he was worried about me. Maybe he’d heard I’d gotten hurt too. But I think he was scared for himself. He said something about Fat Peter …’
She pauses, as if considering the possibilities. Remembering the lies that the dead man’s hulking guard seemed ready to spread.
‘Jonah can’t think that I had anything to do with that,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘He doesn’t. He can’t. But he knows about Fat Peter, and that those creeps are looking for me. I think he knows more, too. I told him about Tick and he said he’d heard nothing, but he was lying. I can tell – I mean, the old man taught me what to watch for. It’s funny, some of it. Like, you’d think that people would look away, only they don’t. If they want to convince you, they stare at you. Hard. And they raise their chins a little. And when I asked him about Rivers Imports, he started to sweat. I could see it, Blackie. Beads of sweat broke out all over his forehead, and he got all twitchy.
‘I was trying to find out more. I mean, he owed the old man big time. And I thought he liked me. I thought he’d help me when I explained about Tick. But when I asked him who was in charge of Rivers – the name of the man who referred Diamond Jim – he lost it. He nearly kicked me out, Blackie. I mean, h
e grabbed some bills from the register and shoved them at me, but then he pushed me out the back. He really spooked me, the way he was acting. I ran all the way back here.’
This is a lot to absorb, and I find myself regretting the nap that kept me from accompanying her. This girl is brave, and she has learned some skills. But she has no sense of smell, and her hearing, well … I should be glad that she has survived this encounter. ‘Twitchy’ does not sound promising. I need more information, and put my face up to her hand to see what I can gather. She misinterprets, pulling me onto her lap. It’s awkward. I am too large for this, and she is too skinny. My hind legs hang over the sofa and I must restrain myself from using my claws to secure purchase in her threadbare jeans.
‘Hang on.’ She shifts, pulling me more fully onto her thin thighs and begins rubbing my neck. It’s a pleasant feeling, her warm hands smoothing my fur, but I have work to do. I run my nose over her other hand, mouth slightly open to take in all the flavors of the day. Sweat, fear and a mix of varnish and rust. That former client’s shop might be rundown, but he is working hard to save it. ‘Are you looking for treats, Blackie? I’m sorry, I was in such a rush, I didn’t get anything else to eat. Stupid, probably.’
I look up at her, willing her to understand that I do not think that. That, in fact, I wish she would be more circumspect while those thugs are on the loose. She, after the fashion of her species, misinterprets.
‘You know “treats,” huh?’ She smiles, which only makes it worse. ‘I wonder if you were a house pet once?’
I jump to the floor in disgust and she rises. ‘Look, I’ve got some coin. Let’s see what we can get. Unless you’d rather wait here?’
In response, I rush the door as she opens it. She chuckles as we descend the stairs, her earlier fright forgotten. I must be careful, I realize. She seems to derive comfort from me and that may put her off her guard. Better to keep my distance, I decide as I bound down the last flight ahead of her. If she has been followed, I will do what I can to alert her and to stop the attack.
The man is rank, scent coming off him in waves. I smell him before we reach the lobby – before he has even reached the door. I freeze as his odor hits me, blinking as I work to decipher its mix of filth and perfumes, chemicals and the very animal scent of death.
Too long. When the building door opens before us, it is all I can do to dart to the side. From the shadow of a doorway, I wait, willing Care to be as alert as I am. Willing her to be aware. Her sense of smell is sadly lacking, this I know. But surely she will have heard and will wait out this intruder. Surely she has the sense of a three-day-old kitten.
‘Mr Bushwick, good to see you.’ No, she’s taking another tack. Walking slowly down the center of the stairs as if she owns the place. I wait to see her play.
‘Oh, hey, kid. You’re … that kid, right?’ The man who has stepped into the lobby nearly dwarfs it, his obesity exaggerated by the coat hanging open over a shiny three-piece suit. The coat has a fur collar, which he fondles as if he were stroking a pet. A dead, poorly cured pet. ‘You worked with the old man?’
‘How do you think I recognized you?’ Care has a half-smile on her face as she stops, still three steps above the ground floor. She’s waiting for the newcomer to respond, positioning herself where she’s slightly taller than him. It’s a good play, a dominance play, and I settle back to watch.
‘Yeah, of course.’ He pulls a handkerchief out his pocket and mops his head. He’s sweating despite the chill in the air, and I wonder at the coat with its dead, cheap collar. He takes more time than he needs to with the handkerchief, and makes no effort to shed the coat. Rabbit, I believe, though the scent is primarily of acid and rot. Something else as well – something that makes me think of mice and fledglings too weak to fly. He’s stalling, I see that now, and hope the girl notices as well. ‘Hey, sorry for your loss.’
‘Thanks.’ I see her making a mental note, acknowledging that he is aware of the old man’s death. ‘So what brings you here?’
I wince. Better for her to have waited. The sweat and the procrastination were already building up the pressure.
Still, he answers. Her youth, her gender and her slight build give her an advantage in that he discounts her. ‘When the old man – ah – passed, he was looking into a thing for me.’ He strokes the collar, one hand lingering. It seems to give him confidence. ‘A job. I gave him some papers to get him started. You know, a lead. Anyway, I need them back.’
‘He was doing a job for you?’ Her eyes narrow. She doubts him. Doubts herself, too, I believe. There’s something wrong here, but she’s not sure of herself. ‘You came back to him?’
‘Yeah, kid.’ He sees her hesitation. ‘A load of coats went missing. I think he was going to handle it himself. Maybe he thought you hadn’t earned one yet.’ He gives her the once-over. His eyes would linger on her thin body, I believe, but her dead-eyed stare soon turns him away. ‘Anyway, he never got around to it, so I’m going to put in for the insurance.’
‘Insurance?’ Care is eyeing him in a way I know. Taking his measure. It’s not just the coat, too heavy for the weather. The cheap, badly cured fur. There is something wrong with what he’s saying.
‘Yeah, insurance.’ He’s talking too loudly now. Stressing the word too hard. ‘These were the real deal, kid. Not that Chinese dog or rabbit or whatever it is. But you wouldn’t know the difference. Maybe in a few years.’ The leer again, forced this time. He can’t keep himself from looking beyond her. Looking up the stairs.
‘Anyway, it’s legit. And I really need these papers I gave him. For, you know, customs. I figure he kept them in his office. The office he keeps here.’
‘Wait, who told you that?’ Care asks. ‘He never saw clients here.’
It’s too much. He smiles, his information confirmed. ‘A little bird,’ he says. ‘A little sparrow down by Diamond Jim’s.’
‘You saw Tick?’ She can’t help herself. She comes forward – the desperation in her voice doing more to lower her stature than her descent in the eyes of the fat, overdressed man. ‘Where? How is he?’
‘He a friend of yours?’ A greasy grin spreads across the round face. I flex my claws. ‘Yeah, you’re both on AD’s crew. Funny, I never put that together.’
‘Where is he?’ Care’s voice has gone flat. If this man has any sense, he’ll hear the warning in it.
‘Cool your jets. He’s fine. AD’s got him working. Making a living. Which is more than I guess you’re doing.’ He eyes her, and I can imagine what he sees: the tattered, dirty clothes and the pallor of her thin cheeks. ‘Still, you could earn.’
He licks his lips. My ears go back.
‘I’ve got a job.’ Care’s chin goes up but it’s pride that I hear, not deception. ‘A career. I’m taking over the old man’s cases,’ she says. ‘So, no, you can’t look through his papers. But if you’re looking for someone to help you retrieve what has gone missing or locate the lost, I’m your gal.’
She’s quoting someone – the old man, presumably. The words have a grand sound in her mouth, though. They serve to put this sordid suit in his place. He pulls his feet together. Stands up straighter and looks at her with newly opened eyes. ‘You? You’re taking on the business?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, I am. And to start with, I need you to tell me where you last saw the boy, Tick. And also what you know about a company called Rivers Imports.’
THIRTEEN
We celebrate with tuna. A can each, as well as an orange soda for the girl. That man Bushwick hadn’t been much help, but Care did her best with him, and she seems to have enjoyed the process as much as it discomfited him.
‘Did you see how he was sweating, Blackie?’ She wipes her mouth, her smile popping right back up. ‘He didn’t want to tell me where Tick was, but when I described Diamond Jim’s and his muscle, he thought I already knew. That I was testing him. I’m glad Tick’s OK.’ She turns somber in a moment. ‘At least, so far. I don’t like him being there,
though. I know he can’t go back to his mom. Not now. But working for AD? Even if he’s got him over at Diamond Jim’s, that’s not a good environment for him.’
She glances at me, but I understand. I smelled that bitter scent on the boy, and I have lived long enough to understand something of human weakness.
‘Bushwick’s scared. When I asked him about Rivers Imports, he pretended he didn’t know what I was talking about, but he did. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack.’ She stops and looks at me, and for a moment I believe she sees me – sees that I understand and would like to contribute. ‘It could be a business thing. But if that’s the case, why’s he so scared? I don’t care if he’s changed his name or set up a shell corporation or whatever. I know about “doing business as.” The old man taught me all that, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. But it is, Blackie. It definitely is.’
I want to tell her about the fur, about the corrupt stink of the man. I do not know how. I think of prey animals and how I would teach a kitten, but I come up blank. She has seen his fear, and I try to be content with that. Still, my tail lashes the air as she mulls over his visit, as she considers the meaning of names and the truths that may lie behind them.
‘It’s got something to do with the paper. He wants that file, or whatever it was he left with the old man, but not for an insurance claim. The businesses down by the docks don’t file for insurance. And when I told him I’d be taking over, he didn’t look happy. Maybe he doesn’t think I can do what the old man did. More likely, he doesn’t trust me.’ She rolls the words around slowly, thinking them through. ‘No, there’s something else going on – something else he wants from the old man’s office. And I wouldn’t put it past him to break in to get it. We should find it and clear out. I mean, I should find it.’ She wipes her hands and looks around. Sighs.
