I am, as previously noted, a cat. And while this means I possess senses more keen than those of many creatures, as well as the ability to reason and to evaluate that which I observe, I do not read. And while I doubt the boy’s ability to do so either, despite Care’s obvious concern and tutoring, I see no point in huddling with her as she examines the ledger, murmuring as she runs one finger down each scribble-filled page. Instead, I examine the cover, rubbing my jaw against the tattered binding to capture its scent – its essence – and begin my own analysis.
Leather, but better quality than expected. Fat Peter may not always have been the small-time hustler that his shop suggested, not if he kept his accounts in a volume such as this. Though considering his trade, that dusty window full of junk, it is more likely that the book came in as collateral – some poor accountant too tangled in his own numbers to have anything else to offer as his bond.
I sniff the cover again, open-mouthed, and close my eyes to better take it in. The quality of the hide and its deep perfume reminds me again of the man I had trailed and his own badly cured pelts. He had been afraid, this man who had accosted Care, the stench of fear overpowering those sad, dear furs even in his own place of business.
What had he been seeking? My companion has surmised, with reason, that his stated goal was not his real one; that this man – this Bushwick – has most likely by now searched the office where her mentor once offered sanctuary. Did he find that which he sought? Did he seek it for himself, as he had said, or for another? The deep warmth of the leather calms me, but I am mulling over that stranger – the third man at Fat Peter’s. Did he seek this ledger, too? Was he affiliated with the treacherous AD, or was there something other here at work, something that I have as yet failed to grasp?
‘Look at the cat,’ the boy whispers, but I ignore him. ‘He’s totally asleep.’
‘Shh.’ Care would silence him, though for the benefit of my supposed rest or to aid her own concentration I cannot tell. ‘Come here.’
She does not speak to me, and so I continue with my cogitations. The boy, however, climbs over to where she sits and folds himself under her arm. My eyes remain closed, of course, as I persist in my analysis. My ears, however, twitch, registering every motion, even as the boy’s lips begin to move, sounding out the words and symbols held before him.
‘Do you know what this means?’ The girl’s voice is soft, though her concern is more for the child cuddled close than for my supposed slumbers. ‘These numbers here?’
‘The items?’ The boy is guessing, and she prods him further.
‘What do you see?’
‘Three four eight one oh.’ He makes the numbers out slowly and then stops. ‘Three four eight one one.’ Clearly, she is moving him down the list. ‘Three four eight one two.’
‘Very good.’ The sound of paper as she turns a page.
‘Three four eight one four,’ says the boy, and I sense rather than hear Care start.
‘Wait.’ The page again. She is turning back. ‘Well, Fat Peter skipped a number, Tick. That seems unlike him.’
More pages turn but she ceases to speak. I have shifted again. The last of the afternoon sun now rakes the basement floor; the shadow of the two children stretches along the uneven dirt and I align myself with that, my sore side absorbing what is left. The light gives precious little warmth, but what there is my fur absorbs. I think of those pelts again. Of that strange fat man and all his clothes. These children could use half as much. They could use my fur, were things to come to that. I do not see what they have that he would want. Nor Fat Peter’s role in such transactions as would interest him.
‘No, he never skipped a number.’ Care is speaking to herself as much as Tick, but I hear him turn to look at her. ‘There’s no item listed. No name, either. Just—’
‘Do you think this is what the old man found out?’ His question seems so guileless, but I am instantly alert. This boy turns like a centipede, slipping into corners. He has even bragged of this, if only Care will remember.
‘Maybe, Tick.’ She’s thinking – of his absences, I hope. Of his time with AD and Diamond Jim’s men. ‘You’re sure about what he said?’
‘Something about weighing down the scale,’ the boy repeats. ‘And that Fat Peter’s not on the same level. I think that’s it.’
‘Fat Peter must have been involved in the theft from Diamond Jim’s. Why else would the old man have passed that along?’ she asks, as if not expecting the boy to reply. ‘Maybe it’s as simple as that – and that he was killed when those thugs found out. They wouldn’t have had the old man’s technique but they’d have their ways. And if they even suspected him …’ She doesn’t say more. There is no need. We all saw what became of Fat Peter.
In her arms, the boy begins to squirm. Discomfited by the memory, perhaps. Or by some knowledge that he dare not share.
‘What is it, Tick?’ Care sits up and I do as well, taking in the scene before me. The boy does not stand; does not pull away as if to answer a call of nature. Instead, he stares first at me and then, my green gaze too cool for his liking, at the pile of bricks that had concealed his prize. ‘Tell me.’
He bites his lip, as if to keep the words inside.
‘I don’t know, Care.’ He doesn’t look happy. ‘I mean, maybe I got it wrong?’