The Ninth Life

by Clea Simon

  I do not understand what she’s saying, though I can feel the thread of uncertainty that runs beneath it. Still, we are warm and have eaten. I am drifting toward sleep when she stands and wipes her hands free of crumbs. ‘Freddie will know how to reach him. Freddie or Junebug.’

  She turns to look at me. ‘Sorry, Blackie. I should let you sleep, right? It’s just … I’ve begun to feel like I can bounce things off you. I can’t talk to Tick like this, even when he’s here. When I was working with the old man I got used to it. Got used to putting my thoughts into words. Sometimes it helped.’ She shrugs. ‘I guess cats are good listeners.’

  I don’t disagree. Instead I yawn and stretch. If she’s heading out, I will accompany her. My dreams have been too disconcerting of late for me to crave sleep like some heedless kitten anyway.

  ‘If AD kicked everyone out, they’ll be at the club.’ She stops and looks at the sky. ‘If it’s not too early.’

  She takes off at a determined pace and we fall into a companionable rhythm. Like me, she pauses before crossing a street. Like me, she moves quickly through open space, looking for movement and other signs of life as we proceed. We have both learned caution on these streets, and although her instincts may lack the acuity of mine, she has been trained and trained well.

  It is therefore with some trepidation that I follow her down a narrow passage that does not have an outlet at its end. For me, this is less of an issue – its brick borders are porous and I see at least one space where I can squeeze in if need be. For the girl, however, the alley is a dead end. The walls of the decrepit buildings are stories high and the fire escape hanging above is rusty.

  No matter, she reaches for it. And when she can’t grab it, searches in the alley. Sure enough, a wooden cane – its rubber tip half torn off – is lying against the wall. Using its rounded grip, she pulls at the fire escape ladder until it slides down with a clang. It’s still ringing as she grabs its rusty side rail and steps onto the first rung.

  ‘Blackie?’ She looks around for me. I skittered back at the clamor, and watch now, wary, from halfway down the passage. ‘It’s OK?’

  She smiles and extends an arm. I remember my dream. The feeling of being caught, of being dragged into danger – hauled to my death. I recall all too well drowning. The eyes of those watching. I look up at her eyes – the girl’s – green as mine and nearly as fearless. I remember the feeling of hands taking me against my will.

  I jump.

  THIRTY-SIX

  We are in a low space but warm. The girl crouches as she advances, standing slowly as she approaches the center where the angled roof is at its peak. We have climbed to the top of the building. Or she has, to clarify. Once I landed in her arms, I accepted the berth of her bag as she ascended the ladder and entered an open window three stories up.

  ‘Freddie?’ Her voice is quiet. There are others here. Along the sides of the garret, bodies lie under their makeshift blankets. My nose identifies them as human but gives me no more, and I assume, from the trepidation in her tone, the girl can do no better. ‘Junebug?’

  ‘Care?’ One of the bundles stirs. A head appears and then the top of a torso – female. Nude. Through the worn cloth of the bag I make out the dark-haired girl from AD’s basement. She leans on her forearm, unconcerned about her nakedness and blinking. ‘You need a place to crash?’

  ‘No.’ Care starts to make her way over, careful not to step on any of the other sleepers. ‘Thanks,’ she adds belatedly.

  ‘Watch it.’ She jumps to the left as a hand reaches out from under a moth-eaten overcoat. ‘Hey, come here, girl.’

  ‘Over here.’ Freddie is sitting up now and gestures for Care to come and sit by her side. ‘Don’t mind Zeno. He won’t tax you just for visiting, and if he does, I’ll pay up.’

  As Care settles, leaning in against the low wall, I examine this Freddie. Older than Care, I judge by her heavy breasts and her scent, though by how much I could not say. She is undressed, save for a scarf in her hair, and as she begins to sort through a pile of clothes beside her a hand – male – reaches for her. She pushes it away. Its owner grumbles and then falls back asleep.

  ‘Freddie, I was wondering if you could help me find someone.’

  The girl fishes out a worn tank top and, pulling it over her head, keeps looking. ‘Uh huh?’ Her voice is noncommittal, her attention given instead to a green sweater. She turns it back and forth in the faint light, no doubt noting the holes in the hem and the sleeve, and then pulls that on too.

  ‘Someone big.’ Care looks at her, willing her to pay attention.

  ‘Big?’ The other girl smiles and removes her scarf to finger-comb her curly brown hair. ‘You looking for an arrangement?’

  ‘No, no.’ Care shakes her head. ‘Not like that. I want to report—’ She stops herself and swallows. ‘I have something to sell,’ she says.

  ‘Like, to AD?’ Freddie reties the scarf.

  Care shakes her head. ‘Bigger.’ I watch, unsure of her plan. I have my suspicions, but they hint at a dangerous game. ‘Too big for AD. I was thinking of going higher.’

  ‘Mister?’ Freddie’s voice drops to a whisper.

  ‘Mister – like, Mr Bushwick?’ Care keeps her own voice low.

  Freddie pauses and I see her chewing on that name. Then she shrugs. ‘Maybe. I just know him as Mister.’

  I close my eyes, a strange calm flowing through me. Perhaps it is the warmth. The bodies in this garret, the commercial enterprise that must still take place below, have heated this enclosed space more than any room I have inhabited in recent memory. Perhaps it is the pouch I still rest in. It is comforting to be held in this way, the scent of the girl dominating the rank sweat of the others. But it is also, I know through means that I cannot explain, because this girl is following a trail that has been long laid out.

  Yes, I think to myself, the low rumble of a purr beginning. This is what must happen. She must seek out Mister. We must …

  ‘Is that a cat?’ My eyes pop open to see Freddie beaming down at me, the wear in her face eased by her wide-eyed smile. ‘How cute!’

  ‘Careful.’ Care draws back even as her friend reaches for me. But she need not fear my claws, not today. Instead, I allow the blowsy brunette to pull me from the bag and haul me into her blanket-covered lap. She has offered shelter, of a sort, to the girl and seems likely to provide information as well. Besides, she is warm.

  ‘So,’ the brunette says after an appropriate amount of cooing. The two females are leaning together against the wall, the blankets pulled up over their shoulders. ‘What are you looking to sell?’ She is stroking me as she speaks. But although I am purring and my eyes have closed, I listen carefully, curious to hear how Care will answer.

  ‘Just info,’ she says. My ears perk up. This woman is her friend but she does not trust her – not entirely. ‘It’s possible that someone is ripping him off.’

  Freddie nods, her hand resting on my back. ‘That would be worth something.’ She sounds thoughtful. ‘It’s not – not someone here, is it?’ Her body shifts as she looks around.

  The girl doesn’t bother to look. ‘No,’ she says. ‘They’re not the type.’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ There’s a sharpness in her tone but Care does not respond and the brunette returns to stroking me. The two sit in silence for a moment, and I feel myself start to drift.

  ‘It wouldn’t be that goon he’s always traveling with. What’s his name, Brian?’ This close, I can feel Care shake her head. ‘Or his scrawny buddy?’

  ‘Please, Freddie.’ The girl’s voice is low, barely more than a whisper. ‘It’s better that you don’t know.’

  The bigger girl shifts but keeps petting me. She is waiting, possibly, hoping that Care will break – will share something. Possibly she is thinking, running through what she knows. Who she knows. How. It is my job to stay still, to encourage the sharing of information, the cozy confidentiality between Care and this source.

  It has its
challenges. Combined with the warmth, the constant stroking is hypnotic. I am listening, collecting impressions and already planning how to share what I may gather with the girl. Already, I am envisioning those two hoodlums, strong-arm men of the crudest sort. They are flanking their master, the brains of the operation. Care is waiting. They are waiting.

  ‘Well, I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Freddie breaks first, frustrated at being left out. Her tone is peevish and her hand has become heavy. I look up at her, noting how her full lips pout. ‘Whoever it is, Mister is not going to be pleased.’

  ‘I know.’ Care’s tone is serious and I wonder if she is having second thoughts. She is not the killer that I am, and the news she carries may well bring a sentence of death. ‘But I need this.’

  The brunette shifts and I resist the urge to sink my claws into her soft thighs. She’s curious, waiting to be entertained. With a sigh, Care obliges.

  ‘Someone – well, it was a cheat that hurt a friend of mine. Hurt him bad. And now, well, if I can do him a good turn, maybe he’ll sponsor me. Use me.’

  ‘Use you?’ Freddie looks her friend up and down, her body shaking with barely concealed laughter.

  ‘My services,’ Care clarifies. ‘I mean, if he’ll spread the word that I can find things out. That I—’

  ‘That you’re a rat?’ The brunette has stopped laughing.

  ‘That I can find things out,’ Care repeats. ‘Find people, things. Figure out what has happened.’ She pauses but the silence is no longer companionable. ‘It’s not like I’d go to the cops.’

  I ride up and down as the big girl sighs. ‘Well, it’s your funeral,’ she says at last. ‘Just don’t bother him before tonight.’

  ‘What’s tonight?’ Care sounds like herself again. Girlish, but it’s an effort.

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ So does the brunette, though I can hear the boredom creeping in. She shifts, and I stretch out along her thigh once more as she renews her ministrations. ‘That’s all anyone has been talking about. The big deal. They’re bringing in a load. They’re going to light this town up.’

  ‘With what?’ Care has been out of the loop too long. Away from AD too long.

  ‘Scat, silly.’ Pleasure has replaced boredom in Freddie’s voice. The pleasure of being the one who knows.

  ‘But AD is the cook around here.’ Care is talking to herself. Piecing together what she’s heard. I think of an alley at night. ‘Or he was …’

  ‘He isn’t anymore.’ The hand stops and settles on my back. Freddie is done. ‘He’s moving up. He’s going to handle distribution, at least for the waterfront. You can ask him yourself.’

  ‘AD? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Well, if you want to see Mister, that’s who you’re going to have to go through. Him or Diamond Jim. They’re going to be down on the docks tomorrow night. They’re managing the whole thing.’

  ‘Wait.’ Care sits up with a start. Freddie pulls back and I tumble from her lap. ‘Diamond Jim?’

  ‘Yeah, That’s why he’s getting to play. I heard he bought in with something big.’

  Care walks more slowly after we leave. She stops at a cart that smells deliciously of meat and, a half a block later, settles against a building to share her purchase. Chicken, I think, though rat is a possibility – it has roasted so long it is both the color and consistency of leather. We eat in silence, both of us licking up any traces of the salty sauce.

  The silence suits me. I am musing over my dream, the echoes of that half-waking memory taking on the names and faces of those we seek. They are monsters, I know for sure. As I scour the leather bottom of my toes, I remember how I batted furiously against the water. How I gained no purchase against the flood. How it pulled me under. How I sank. Yet there is some part of this that eludes me still, something I do not understand.

  ‘I don’t get it, Blackie.’ Care has been sucking on the skewer that held the meat. Now she taps it against her teeth, considering. ‘I mean, I get Diamond Jim wanting in. A deal that big could finance him for a long time. And I figure he’s fronted before. AD wouldn’t know a swell like him otherwise. But why hire the old man? He gave him a deposit and everything – for information. That was specially agreed to. It’s in the contract. And why kill Fat Peter?’

  She pauses, the stick resting against her lower lip. ‘That might be unrelated. Fat Peter was greedy. Greedy and stupid, everyone said. But Jonah, too? He was just a poor old man.’

  The sun is high and I have fed. Her voice is low and soft, blending with my memories of the waking dream. The old man …

  ‘The answer has to be in something he said. But what …’

  My eyes closed, I can visualize the older man. Gaunt and scared, Jonah started at every shadow, yet he had risked his life to tell this girl something.

  ‘The marker? No, they took that. Took Tick, too.’ She sighs and shakes her head.

  He had shaken his head, too. Hung it as if weighed down by grief or a memory. What had he said?

  ‘I kept it straight.’ The words come from the girl’s mouth as she, too, remembers. ‘He refused. He thought he could—’

  She jumps up so quickly I mew in protest, but she does not apologize. Rips her bag open and pulls out a handful of papers, half of which she drops on the broken pavement. One she grabs, holding it in both hands. It’s the contract, which she has already read so many times that I recognize its scent – the markings on its surface. ‘Rivers.’ She says the name out loud. ‘The reference. The blank in the ledger – and the ticket that had no name. The whole thing was a set-up, Tick. The whole job. There never was any robbery. That was never what this was about. They just hired the old man to make it look real, and when he found out the truth they had to shut him up.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  As a cat, I have little sense of time. For me and my kind, life flows in an uninterrupted stream, from dreaming to waking and meal to meal. We do not bother ourselves with deadlines or watches, and our sense of the passage of the hours comes only from such concrete issues as a certain stiffness in one’s hindquarters, the yearning for food or the comfort of another.

  Therefore, it would be foolish of me to venture how long we remain on that street. How long I do, at any rate, soaking up the weak early spring sun. Although the girl doesn’t go anywhere, she is in constant motion, pacing and cursing, grabbing at the papers from her bag and shoving them back in again. I can tell she’s bothered by the way she murmurs, her voice almost a growl. I wake and stir as she kicks a paving stone. I cannot but feel calm, however. The news of a double cross, of a trap set for one of her own seems inevitable to me in this world of predators and prey.

  ‘It was the downtown office as much as any reference,’ she says out loud. I sit up and yawn, taking the morning air into my mouth, showing my fangs to the world. ‘That was why the old man trusted Diamond Jim – why we both did.’ She shakes her head and collapses on the broken pavement beside me.

  ‘I wonder if he knew. If he suspected who Diamond Jim was really working with.’ She pauses, mouth slightly open. It seems, for a moment, as if she can taste the air. Can read it, like I do. She seems to be gathering information. Putting the pieces in place in her mind. ‘He liked to know things. “Knowledge is power,” he always said. He wouldn’t have interfered, though …’

  She stops. I have seen her bite her lip before. She is lucky her teeth are not like mine. In so many ways, she is unlike me. For all her apparent independence, she is not that tough. She is, in many ways, a child.

  ‘No, he might have, Blackie. If he thought that they were dragging in Tick or me …’ Again her voice breaks off. She pulls the card from her pocket and stares at it like it will tell her something, but then she puts it away.

  ‘He and I used to talk about this. About my education. About Tick’s. He used to say Tick didn’t have enough of a base. I always thought he meant that Tick wasn’t smart enough. Wasn’t as quick as I am, but maybe that wasn’t it, or not entirely. Tick was re
ally young when his mother gave him up. He’d been in the home for a few years when I got there, after my parents … after the crash. He took to me. He was such a sweet kid. If you knew him then …’

  She stops. Her lip is beginning to bleed where she has worked it raw.

  ‘I don’t believe he would betray me, Blackie. Anything he did he did either because he thought it was what I wanted or because he had to. I mean, he’s a kid. Small for his size, and he gets hungry. Gets picked on. And after our foster father …’ She stares at the card again. And again she shakes her head. There’s a battle going on inside her, and it has made her as itchy as if she had fleas.

  I shiver, my coat twitching all over at the thought. But that is all. Maybe it is the cold. The nights still have frost in them. Maybe it was that dunking. I’ve not been bothered by vermin, I realize. I have not thought about such things as fleas or ticks. Nor, really, about any other hungers beyond my belly. Maybe this is the natural outgrowth of that constant dream state. Maybe it is age or the wear and tear of injury and the streets. It occurs to me now, though, that all I have thought about since the culvert – the vision – is this girl. This girl and that one strange image of three men with cold eyes.

  ‘They’re monsters, Blackie. The lot of them. AD’s the most obvious, but that Fat Peter worked the trade, too. And if Diamond Jim and Bushwick are in league? No, Tick’s not safe with them, and I bet the old man knew it. I bet he thought he was protecting me too.’ She looks at me, her green eyes sad. ‘I bet he would have tried to stop them. Maybe he did.’

  She rests her chin on her arms, staring into the street. From the side, I can see the tears welling up in those eyes, the way her lips tremble. She is sorrowful, as lost as any creature I can recall. I lean toward her, pushing the flat of my head against her elbow in a clumsy imitation of a head butt. I am a denizen of the streets, and the gesture is somewhat foreign to me, despite this day of purring and being stroked. She sniffs and looks over at me, momentarily distracted. So I repeat the motion, rolling my eyes up to look at her as she reaches over to massage the base of my ears. I add a purr, knowing it is a poor offering in the face of so much loss, and rub my cheek against her. And when her lip stops trembling, when the ghost of a smile begins to play at its corners, I do it again, pushing my head hard into her arm. It works. She smiles.