"I won't bend," I told Mr. Friskers. "She needs my help."
He howled, which I took to be agreement.
With only two hours to make myself gorgeous before my guy showed up, I decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped at a pet supply superstore and bought the essentials: litter box, litter, cat food, and a mouse toy stuffed with catnip. I asked an employee if they had muzzles for cats, but she looked so disgusted I'd even suggest such a thing that I left without getting an answer.
My apartment was where I'd left it, and it took two trips to bring everything up from my car. I kept the air-conditioning off to save money, which meant my place was roughly the same temperature as hell, but more humid.
The city of Chicago paid me a respectable wage for my services, but Mom's condo payment took a big bite. I had a private arrangement with her bank; she'd get a token monthly bill, easily covered by her pension and Social Security, and I took care of the lion's share.
In my quest to pinch pennies, I'd turned my apartment into a greenhouse. It was so hot I had wild orchids sprouting on the sofa. I set the air to tundra and took a cold shower, but the water never got any cooler than lukewarm. Wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, I attended to the Mr. Friskers situation.
My skiing days long behind me, I did own a pair of black leather gloves that would offer me some protection. I slipped them on, ready for battle.
Mr. Friskers sat patiently in the carrier, probably plotting the downfall of the United States. I opened the door latch, but he made no attempt to howl or attack.
Perhaps he'd worn himself out.
I took two bowls from the clean side of the sink and poured water into one. The other I filled with some of the dry cat food I'd purchased. I set the bowls on the floor in front of him.
Mr. Friskers walked out of the carrier, sniffed the food, and gave me a look of utter disappointment.
"Your cream-from-the-bottle days are over, buddy. And come to think of it--"
I reached down and grabbed him by the diaper. He morphed into the Tasmanian Devil, whirling and clawing and spitting and hissing, catching me a good one on the right forearm. But I proved to be the stronger mammal, and managed to pull off the tabs and remove the diaper before losing too much blood.
The aroma was heady. When the dizziness passed, I wrapped the diaper in a plastic garbage bag, then wrapped that garbage bag in another garbage bag, and walked it out into my hallway, depositing the package down the garbage chute.
When I returned, the cat was lapping at the water dish. Without the diaper, he looked less demonic, and more like a plain old cat. After slaking his thirst, he again sniffed at the food dish. He gave me a look that on a human would have counted as a sneer.
"This guy likes it," I told him, pointing to the cat on the bag of food.
He seemed to consider it, then began to eat.
Now for phase two.
I set the cat box on the floor and read the instructions on the back of the kitty litter bag. Simple enough. I tore the corner and filled the box, getting a noseful of sweet, perfumey dust.
Mr. Friskers looked up from the food dish, cocking his head at me.
"Okay. Time for your first lesson."
I picked him up gently, and he allowed it, going limp in my hands. But when I tried to set him down in the cat box, he dervished on me, twisting and screaming and kicking up a spray of litter. I had to let go of him, for fear of losing an eye, and he bounded out of the kitchen and down the hall.
I spit out some kitty litter. The bag hadn't lied; the granules clumped like magic.
"We'll get to lesson two later," I called after the cat.
I picked some litter out of my damp hair and attended to my makeup. For work, I made do with a light coat of powder, some eyeliner, and a slash of lipstick. Tonight I went all out -- base and mascara and eye shadow and lipliner and a touch of color on my cheeks and a final brush of translucent powder with highlighting bits of glitter in it.
Satisfied I looked as good as I could with my bone structure, I went into the bedroom to pick out special occasion underwear. I put on black satin French-cut panties and my only good bra, a cleavage-enhancer that Latham had only seen me in twice before.
I hated my clothes closet for more than simple fashion reasons, so I didn't dally choosing an outfit. I went with a classic black dress, low cut and strapless. It was calf length, but had a dramatic slit on the right side up to mid-thigh. I liked it because it hung rather than clung, meaning I didn't have to suck in my tummy all night.
I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn't tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.
"Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit."
So much for the litter box.
I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.
It was coming up on six, and I hadn't even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.
My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.
Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.
Only it wasn't Latham after all.
Chapter 10
"Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you're all dressed up and looking girly. How'd you know I was coming?"
Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I'd last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man. He wore his usual three days' growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.
"I didn't know the Miami Vice look was back."
Harry grinned. "I don't have socks on, either. Aren't you going to invite me in?"
"No."
"Come on, Jackie. You can't still be mad."
"I'm not mad," I lied. "I'm getting ready for a date. Why don't you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?"
"Jackie, partner--"
"We're not partners anymore, McGlade."
Harry spread out his hands. "Look, I'm sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy."
I'd visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. "So they get the authenticity right," he'd told me.
It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his Fernando rights.
I crossed my arms, anger rising. "You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure."
"Heh, heh. Remember the Fernando rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick."
I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.
"Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It's hugely important."
I pushed harder, leaning into it.
"It's life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!"
If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he'd continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn't want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.
"Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go."
"Sixty."
"Thirty."
"Forty-five."
"Twenty."
"Fine. Thirty seconds, then I'm out of here."
I released the door. Harry grinned.
"Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?"
I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.
"So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy."
"You have twenty-five seconds left."