‘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.
‘I don’t want to give this place up, Blackie. I mean, maybe I really can take over. The rent’s paid up till the end of the month, I know that. And if we leave …’
She doesn’t finish. Doesn’t have to. Bushwick had the gloss of a pampered house cat, accustomed to having his way, but there is something off about him. Something driving him. ‘Nothing I can do about it tonight, though, and I need some kip. I’ll barricade the door. And at first light, Blackie, we’ll see what we can find.’
I watch her as she sleeps, careful that she’s fully out before I do what I must. It’s pleasant, I find, to perch on the sofa’s back as she curls on the cushions below. In sleep, she becomes younger. A child almost, her face losing its taut watchfulness as it relaxes. Even her body appears softer, more childlike, her knees pulled up and one hand lying open on the pillow. As her mouth opens slightly and her breathing deepens, I dismount the sofa’s arched back and land softly by her side. It is warm here and her breath is sweet. I lean in, my whiskers coming close to those chapped and worried lips, and must pull myself back. It is her youth, I suspect, that draws me. The change I have witnessed once more from the guarded young animal of the evening to this open and tender child that urges me to give over my plans. To fit myself beside her and let her wake to the softness of my fur. I am not a house cat and have no memories of domesticity. Of kindness at the hands of others. And yet I understand its allure.
Which, I recall, is why I must not linger. Turning from her face, with care I sniff her palm. She has told me what matters to her, but I want to know for myself what happened during her outing. Besides, before that greasy suit took off, she took his hand and shook it, although – or perhaps because – it disconcerted him. I do not think she did so for my benefit, but I will make use of her gesture, examining what traces he has left. I am glad I have eaten. As his attire suggested, Bushwick is self-indulgent. The big man has a fondness for bacon and eggs, as well as other meat products that I cannot name. His corpulence could have told me that, but there’s another scent beneath the grease and salt that is more disturbing – one that had been masked by the cheap fur and the overbearing cologne. The bitterness could be explained by illness: this man indulges himself to an unhealthy extreme. But when I factor in the sweat, beyond what the stairs up to the office merit, I sense the acid has come from more than indigestion or, perhaps, both the indigestion and the self-comforting with food spring from an external stimulus.