by Clea Simon
‘I’m glad they got Diamond Jim,’ she says as we settle into the couch. I curl up beside her, purring from the sheer pleasure of being still. Remembering that other time, that other life. ‘He deserves to go to prison for life. Actually, he deserves worse.’ We are quiet for a bit, and I wonder what she is thinking of. Of the old man, who loved her so. Or of Tick, whom she could not save.
‘At least Bushwick got what he deserves,’ she says again, her voice growing sleepy. ‘That bastard.’ She is fading. ‘I never knew he had it in him to be so cruel. To demand …’ She falls silent and I know what she is thinking. To demand a death. A tribute. A blood price. ‘I’m going to keep after Tick, though. I’m going to find …’ Her breathing becomes even and slow and I begin to drowse. We are at peace. We are safe. Now, perhaps, I can let go. To surrender to the pain, the fatigue. To the wear of an age and a battle that is now finally done.
Done. I wake with a start, jumping to all four feet, my fur on end and new energy coursing through me. An impression of drowning has come to me. Of sinking into deep waters, into death, as three men look on. Two goons, yes, but a third man – cold-eyed and silent. A man who inspired fear – fear unto death – and who was not there to be taken, to be killed. A master whose mark made all happen. Who will, as Bushwick knew, be angry. Who will be looking for the one who alerted the authorities. For a girl and a little boy.
I am not done here, not yet, and I will stay. I am a cat, and I have one life left.
