by Clea Simon
‘Who’s there?’ She pushes back and I see her reaching for a book or board. I hop down to let her know she need not fear.
‘It’s me.’ The dirty face appears as the door cracks open. ‘Care?’
‘Tick!’ She rushes to the door and pulls the chair before it back. He steps in and looks around, panting. He has run. ‘I’m so glad. You wouldn’t believe what I found. What I figured out. Did you find Jonah?’
She’s talking quickly, unaware that the boy has been running, not seeing how his thin chest heaves. But with her last question his face pinches and she stops.
‘What is it, Tick?’ She bends to face him, wiping away the marks of dirt and sweat with her thumb. ‘Could you not find him?’
He shakes his head and blinks. Tears, not just sweat, have made those marks. ‘I found him, Care. Down by the loading dock, just like you said. Only—’ He stops. Swallows. Tries again. ‘They said he made a run for it. That he was trying to jump a train. Only he didn’t make it, Care. He’s dead.’
THIRTY
Any response she might have made is interrupted as the boy bursts into tears. He quiets almost before she can comfort him, though, pulling away from her embrace to wipe his face roughly with the sleeve of his jacket.
‘Sorry, Care.’ He sniffs, his face unreadable. ‘I don’t mean to be such a baby.’
‘You are—’ She stops herself in time. ‘You’ve had a shock. It’s understandable.’
‘It’s not like I haven’t seen a stiff before.’ Another sniff as, chin up, he assumes a tough-guy pose. ‘It’s just – it – he was really messed up.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Care withdraws to the sofa, her eyes still on the boy. ‘Poor Jonah. You saw it – saw what happened?’
The boy shakes his head. Swallows. ‘No, but they – they had him there.’
‘Nobody tried to help?’ She answers herself. ‘No, not that crew. They wouldn’t.’
‘They were all saying how it was his own damned fault.’ The boy is talking, seems to want to talk. The girl doesn’t respond but he keeps going. ‘How he got what was coming, him not holding up his end and all.’
‘Not holding up his end.’ Her voice is soft. She shakes her head, then turns again to address the boy. ‘He was an old man, Tick. He shouldn’t have been doing that kind of work anyway. Not anymore.’
‘It wasn’t the work,’ says the boy. ‘It’s that he was always talking. The other guys on the dock said he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’
‘He couldn’t …’ She stops herself. ‘Who said that, Tick?’
A shrug. The boy is himself again, the shock of what he has seen dulled by the retelling. ‘The lugs on the dock. The guys who unload the trucks. You know.’
‘And did any of them see what happened?’
Another shrug, eloquent in its lack of commitment. ‘They were all talking like they knew, and, Care, it must have just happened. I mean, they brought him back and he was just lying there, like …’ Another swallow. ‘It was pretty gross.’
‘And they just kept him there, laid out.’
The boy nods. He is looking queasy again, looking the child he is. But she’s not seeing how his face has gone soft and bunched up. She’s staring into the middle distance, biting her lip as she thinks.
A minute passes, maybe two, and then she turns toward him again. ‘I don’t think it was an accident, Tick.’ I cannot see her face from where I sit, but her voice has grown hard. ‘I don’t think, if he was hit by a train, there’d have been anything much left to lay out. I think they killed him – and they killed him because of me.’
I jump down from the sill. This is an interesting development, and I follow the girl to the desk to examine for myself the papers to which she has returned. I make my next leap with care. She is hunched over the cluttered surface and will not want to be disturbed. It does not matter. She barely acknowledges me as she scans the document before her. ‘The question,’ she says, running her finger down a piece of paper, ‘is why.’
‘I don’t understand.’ The boy steps up to the desk and tilts his head. It is clear he can read no more than I, but I at least content myself with watching the girl. Waiting to see if she pulls any new pages from the pile.
‘I didn’t get a chance to tell you,’ she says without looking up. ‘I met with Diamond Jim. He was there, in his shop with his muscle, and I told him that I’d solved the case. That Bushwick was behind the robbery. That he probably still has the jewels, though I’m betting the necklace has been broken up by now. And, Tick.’ Here she looks up. I can see that she wants the boy to understand. I can see also that he’s trying, mouth slightly agape as he listens. ‘He didn’t care. I think he already knew. It was the weirdest thing.’
She bends back over the paper. ‘I found the contract. He was promised either info or the jewels. Paid half upfront too, but he didn’t care.’
‘Maybe he heard already?’ The boy’s voice is tentative. He’s trying out a theory without realizing his own process. ‘I mean, if his guys roughed up Fat Peter before they offed him, maybe they already knew about Bushwick?’
She shakes her head, still reading. ‘Bushwick should be toast. He should be as dead as Fat Peter if he stole from Diamond Jim and was found out. And he’s not – he’s not even scared. When I realized how odd it all is, I remembered something Jonah told me. About how Bushwick is the big boss now. It made sense, ’cause that’s how he was acting, and I was wondering …’
She breaks off. ‘You heard them say it was because he was talking too much, right?’ The boy nods. ‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Yeah.’ The word comes out like a croak.
She nods to herself. ‘Jonah wasn’t supposed to tell me that. That’s why they killed him, Tick.’
The boy is silent. This is not an unusual development, I sense. These children live in a world of casual violence and retribution.
‘But why would that be a capital offense?’ She is asking herself, thinking, no longer reading. I sit up to watch her. Her pale face is smutty, streaked with dust and grime; these children seem to attract filth, no matter how often the girl washes herself or washes her friend. The finger she rubs absently over her chapped lip is frayed as well, the nail chewed down to the cuticle. And yet, there is something feline about her. The movement of her eyes, perhaps. The way her brow knits, as if she would bring her ears up, keen and alert, scanning for the slightest sound.
‘The answer is here, Tick. I know it.’ She looks at me and I blink, slowly, to encourage her. I too know the frustration of feeling a solution to be ever so slightly out of reach. I sense a kinship with this girl, despite her youth, her inexperience, her inability to see …
‘If Diamond Jim knew that Bushwick was behind the robbery but didn’t do anything …’ Her voice startles me, and the train of thought is lost. ‘Could it be because Bushwick is his boss? You know how AD is about tribute.’
She barely acknowledges the boy’s enthusiastic nod. She is thinking aloud, and so I fold my paws beneath me and close my eyes, the better to hear her reasoning through.
‘If Diamond Jim wanted to give – had to give – the necklace to Bushwick, maybe it made sense to pretend it was a robbery. To hire someone to hunt for it, knowing …’ She laughs softly. ‘I bet he had insurance on the thing. I bet he made sure of it, and now he’s going to collect. No wonder everyone is so happy.’ Her voice has turned bitter. Turned cold. ‘Everybody makes out. Only the old man was too good at his job. He came around asking questions and Fat Peter must have said something – given something away. The old man said he wasn’t on the level, right?’
‘Not on the same level,’ Tick mutters. ‘It might have been that.’
‘Either way,’ the girl adds, ‘he said – or they thought he said – too much. The ledger …’ She looks around before she remembers. ‘No, they don’t care. But the marker … What is that about, and why do they need it?’
She reaches into her pocket, retrieving the pawn ticket, and star
es at it for the longest time. As she does, the boy settles on the couch. He is bored – the shock of what he has seen has passed, leaving him tired and drained. He sticks his hand into his own pocket, pulling out the brass weight. I watch him as he tosses it from hand to hand, and then turn back to observe the girl, her pale face a mask, now, hiding thoughts I cannot read.
THIRTY-ONE
The room is quiet. I drift, as is my wont, toward sleep, settling into the drowsy dream-like state that allows me to better review my thoughts. I twitch at a touch. A fly or – no – a hand.
‘He’s so soft.’ It’s the boy, his voice quiet. ‘He looks so beaten up, but his fur is really soft.’
‘Let him sleep, Tick.’ The girl now, her voice gentle. ‘He’s not a young cat anymore and he walked all over the city with me today.’
The hand withdraws and I shift, tucking my nose beneath my tail. I will not argue with her assessment, though I reject the implication that I am exhausted or unwell. No, I have lived, even if I retain little memory of times past. What I do have is a sense of proportion, of timing, that a younger mind lacks, and which at this point alerts me that something is amiss. The girl – we – have missed a beat, and I would like to pick it up.
It is not simply that the girl cannot quite make sense of the killing of Jonah Silver. As I slip into semi-consciousness, I find myself pondering what I have heard, and an unaccountable sadness washes over me. Grief, perhaps, albeit trimmed with a sense of culpability. Of responsibility or guilt, sat-urated by an overwhelming melancholy. Were I human, I could weep.
It cannot be for that scarecrow of a man. I did not know him, having no recollection of him before the day’s introduction beyond the merest flicker of recognition, one I can trace to the girl having mentioned his name. Besides, death is part of my routine, dealt by me as often as not, and not anything to be laid so low by. My own death, yes, I have tasted it. Fought it, too, and will continue to do so. But that is our nature, which we beasts do not question. The death of others? It is of little account.
No, it must be for the girl that I am sad. This girl whom the man would have protected. Tried to shelter – as others have—
I wake with a start, having fallen more deeply asleep than I’d intended, having dreamed of concealment and betrayal. The boy is dozing beside me, stretched out on the sofa. The girl is gone. I yawn, back arching and tail outstretched to fling off any vestige of stiffness, and as I do, the inchoate impressions of my dream come back to me, coalescing into a sense of urgency. Of dread.
The girl has missed a cue. This I had known, I had sensed while she dredged over the papers, over the events of the last few days. What has come to me now is not what has been overlooked – not exactly – but a sense of its importance, not only to her queries but to her more essential being as well. Her freedom – possibly her life – is mixed up with this quest of hers; the threats that poor man would have sheltered her from are lurking. And my role? Cats are not reflective. We do not pause to consider our place in this world. We simply are. We do. We act. With that in mind, I turn once more to appraise the room behind me. The boy asleep, the jumble of papers on the table. No, I will not find my answer here. Turning once more to the window, I ready for the leap and exit, silent as a ghost into the city beyond.
The sun is setting. I slept longer than I had intended, and while time has little meaning in any abstract sense, I am aware of the shadows stretching across the alley. Dusk brings good hunting, the first waking of night creatures, the sleepy fumbling of daytime dwellers. For me, however, my search this time is of a different kind, and while I would prefer the clarity of daylight or the cloaking of night, I am committed to this errand regardless.
At the alley’s end I pause to sniff the air. Spring is growing stronger, the warmth of the season bringing forth a flowering of scents. Young birds, newly fledged, the ripening of what fauna can survive among these stones. And – yes – the river, its nearness clear to me in this damp and warming air. Despite a shiver of apprehension – a chill as if a hawk had just passed overhead – I head toward that scent. I do not know what answers I will find, if any. I do know that I must try.
There are advantages to being a cat. A cat alone, that is, and not burdened by the presence of a young girl, no matter how well meaning. As an unaccompanied feline, I am free to find my own way through the city, and as the day’s shadows lengthen, I move quickly, my jet-black fur giving me a freedom that no human could ever know.
Unencumbered by the girl, who needs must travel by the surface routes, I make my own way. Time slips away as I glide through dark alleys and over fences. The day darkens and the moon rises as I leap and run, a dark streak in the glowing night. Night is my element, and I take strength from the scents and sounds. Prey scatters before me, but I have another pursuit on this night. I am seeking the truth.
I am headed back to where this adventure began. I am headed for the river.
THIRTY-TWO
Being feline has many advantages, as I have said. One of them is that we do not force ourselves to follow straight lines. Over a fence, along a roof, I make my way toward the fetid artery that pumps life into this city. As I clear a trash heap – the vermin within squawking in terror – I muse on what that means, and what I can do that the girl I have aligned myself with cannot.
The girl has her strengths. Brave and loyal, she has stood by me as she has her younger friend. Smart, as I have said, in that way of humans, and determined, working hard to understand that which she has gathered before her. That, alas, is also her weakness. Seeking a linear cause, a single meaning in what she has heard and what she has learned, she has overlooked the slantwise meaning – the implication behind the remarks. The casual comment that could unravel it all.
‘They need it for the deal.’ The dead man, Jonah, had told her this, but so preoccupied was she with the thing itself – the ‘it’ – she had forgotten. ‘I tried to save him,’ he also said. The deal and his death, it is clear to both of us, are related. Only as bright a child as she may be, she has not had my experience following a trail. Piecing together the clues that will lead, ultimately, to the reward. In this case, the trail begins with a common thread. The scent of the river, rich and full. The place where, but for her intervention, my carcass would have ended. The site, I have reason to believe, where all these disparate elements may yet come together.
Or may not.
By the time the moon has begun to set, I am within hailing distance of the river. The ancient warehouses, most as hollow as the water-rotted piers, loom ghostlike over the pockmarked streets, their missing cobbles filled with rainwater too foul to drink. The train tracks, with their scent of cinder and oil, pass by here, too, cold now and silent.
Closer to the water, human activity picks up. Although it is past the hour when daylight creatures should be asleep, I hear voices inside the shuttered buildings, muffled by the night. I skirt the light that leaks out of their windows, ducking into an alley as a door opens, spilling out two men, wobbly with drink. I shelter by a wall, the refuse shielding me as they get their bearings. Make their plans. Spring is spring, even for humans, and although the night is chill and damp, in the dark behind me I hear the sounds of rutting, furtive and rough.
‘Hey, you owe me.’ The act is finished while I wait for the drunkards to be gone. The commercial nature of the transaction clear.
‘You smoked so much scat you should pay me, darling.’ My ears prick up. The voice. It is the girl’s former comrade, her leader – I hesitate to use the word benefactor – AD. ‘But you knew I’m going to be flush. Didn’t you, darling?’
Movement, and the intake of breath as in pain or surprise. Then he laughs, and she murmurs an apology. Soft words, the hint of an endearment delivered in fear rather than affection.
The flash of a lighter – the click and the blue spark – and that now-familiar acrid pungency wafts toward me. The couple, silhouetted against the brief glow, separate, the woman leaning back against the filthy wal
l. I watch, waiting, as AD leaves her and comes toward me, stopping at the alley’s mouth to light a cigarette. It was his lighter I heard, although the chemical glow remains behind, with his temporary mate. Illuminated by the red glow, he looks both more gaunt and taller in the flame light, and I take the time to examine him. To weigh whether his appearance, if not his words, have any relevance to me or to the children. I do not expect him to see me, sheltered here by the trash. I am small and dark, and humans, I have found, rarely see what they are not expecting. Perhaps I move; my tail does have the habit of expressing that which I would keep hidden. Perhaps my eyes, as smooth as glass, reflect the glowing ember of his smoke. For a moment, he looks at me and I experience the oddest emotion. I feel he sees me, as humans so rarely see others. More than that, I believe he recognizes me in some way.
I back away, the only prudent path for a smaller creature on a night like this. He watches, for a moment, then shakes his head and walks on, tracing the path those drunkards have taken. Back to the building with its noise and light.
‘Yo, you know who I just thought of?’ His voice booms out as he pulls the door open. ‘You must remember—’ And it closes, muting the words that follow.
They are of no concern. I deal in reality – the fact of his presence, more than his thoughts or memories, are what matter to me. I have come here seeking convergences. Explanations. A reason why two powerful men should seek to harm one girl. I have found a third, less powerful, perhaps, by the brute measure of their world, and yet certainly a master of his turf.
Behind me, the woman coughs as she stumbles. I wrap my tail around my feet, having no desire to be trod upon. This sad soul presents no other threat to me. Barely able to walk, she teeters toward the same door that AD entered, only to pause in the shadows as the cough takes her.
