I do my best to tune them out. I am hunting bigger prey, and once I am above the basement I know I have him. Bushwick, the man in the suit, has been here recently. His scent is fresh: new tobacco – newly lit, that is, but stale – the fetid fur and even more, that bitter undertone that makes his human sweat so sour.
It is almost too strong. I close my eyes as it washes over me and find myself clinging to thoughts of Care. She has sensed something of this man, has tested his bluff with her own will and found him wanting. Still, he has experience on her and the power of a suit and a big cigar. She does right to be wary of him, although if I can find his weakness I will do what I can to bring proof of it to her.
Tick. That is whom she fears for most, the reason she let her guard down with the suited man. Ears up, I listen. These walls jump with life, but I tune out the rodents and the grubs. His breathing would be softer than the large man’s, his footsteps quicker and more light. Starting with the corners, I search for any trace of the boy. For his powder-soft child scent or the acrid tang that had also marked him during our brief acquaintance. Scat. The word comes to me. Of course. But there is nothing of the boy or his drug here, not even the second-hand scent of one who had come in contact with him or his few possessions within memory.
With the silence my kind are known for, I scale the stairs. Here a hall is lined with offices and wooden doors left half ajar, their daytime occupants heedless of the outside world. Bushwick is king here. I catch his scent on every door; every surface holds his ashes. I imagine the scene by daylight: workers scurrying as those rats did before me. Bushwick prowling at his ease. And yet not – that fear scent again. The tang of sweat. He is a big man, overdressed in his shoddy fur, but there is more to his stench than overheating, than vanity. I am on Bushwick’s territory, his base of operations, but he is not comfortable here either.
This is a mystery I would unlock, and so, with paws and stealth, I make my way through the remainder of the floor to see what scares him so. The first room sends me reeling. Scent so thick as to be maddening. Tobacco: the leaves in back already rotting sweet. Bushwick and his minions have not cottoned onto the leaks that weakened their foundation. They do not know their store is going bad. This, I realize, as I retreat back to the hall, must be the source of the man’s power – there is too much here for his personal use. Too much, even, for the revelers I passed on the street. The man must bring this foul leaf in to distribute throughout these streets.
The next chamber has been better secured. Against men, however, and not a cat who can contort himself through even the tightest space, around a loosened grill and in. Bushwick was more careful with the venting here, and as I drop to the floor I understand why. Once again, I am enveloped immediately by an aroma so strong it sets my ears back. Prey animals once. Or … I blink in the darkness, dim even for my eyes, and make out three figures. Men. No, mannequins; faceless and cold, despite the coats draped over their – I see now – decidedly female bodies, set before a sofa steeped in the funk of flesh and ash. I think of Bushwick’s collar, the way he stroked its cold, dead fur, of the reek that nearly sent me reeling. Of the woman outside Diamond Jim’s. For a moment, I wonder if I have grown used to the miasma. The smell of fear and death and commerce. The trade in flesh of many kinds. Or … wait, did Bushwick not say that such as these were missing? Could this room or others like it have held more? Is that why the stench has faded? I examine the mannequins, their forms so cool and still. All are covered; all are clothed. This stage has been set for its tawdry drama, and it has not been disturbed.
And then it hits me. What I have not scented here matters as much as the odor that now enrobes me. I have not found Tick or any trace of him, despite the suited man’s insistence that the boy sent him to Care. Nor, I realize, have I gotten a trace of the old man, the subtle spice of his good pipe tobacco or the indescribable warmth Care sought on those pages. Not in these rooms, at any rate. Nor, I suspect, were these coats ever missing, despite what Bushwick has told the girl.
Why this lie should threaten him so, I do not know, but logic suggests a connection. As surely as rats will find water and weak spots and rot, so too will men link money and power. And while this chamber – this entire building – appears full of the goods of commerce that the city craves, there is something wrong here. Bushwick is not enjoying the fruits of his success. He is seeking something, something he has lied about, and there is some element of that search that has left him in fear.
FIFTEEN