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, he 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?’