"Here in this apartment. I know you don't really like the neighborhood, and I know some -- well -- bad things happened here."
"I guess I never really thought about it. Why do you ask?"
He smiled; a little-boy smile tinged with mischief.
"I just bought a condo on the lake. Big place, plenty of room, killer view."
"That's great." I took a sip of my drink. "What about the house?"
"Sold. Move in with me, Jack."
Before I had a chance to answer, I noticed Mr. Friskers perched on top of my television, ready to pounce.
"Latham, don't move."
"But I have to move, I signed the papers--"
"Shh." I put my finger to my lips. "It's the cat. He looks like he's about to jump on you."
"Hey, I like cats. If you want to bring a cat along, that's fine with -- Jesus Christ!"
Mr. Friskers launched through the air like a calico missile and attached himself to Latham's face, all four claws locking in.
Latham screamed something, but I couldn't hear it through the fur. I grabbed the cat and gently tried to tug him free. Latham's reaction was muffled, but came through.
"No! Stop pulling! Stop pulling!"
I let go, frantic. On the floor, next to the sofa, was the catnip mouse I'd bought at the pet store. I picked it up and held it under the cat's nose.
"Good kitty. Let go of his face. Let go of his face, kitty."
Mr. Friskers sniffed once, twice, then went totally limp. I carried him into the bathroom, keeping the catnip up to his nose, and then set both of them down in the bathtub and locked the door.
I found Latham in the kitchen, liberally applying paper towels.
"Oh, wow, are you okay, Latham?"
He forced a smile.
"I may need a transfusion."
"I'm sorry. I should have warned you."
"I thought it was illegal to keep mountain lions as pets."
I gave him the short version, helping him dab at his wounds. They weren't as bad as Herb's, so perhaps Mr. Friskers was mellowing down.
"So you're not keeping him?"
"Not if I can help it."
"Good. I mean, if he was part of the package, I'd accept him. But I wouldn't want to take off my pants with him in the room."
I opened my mouth to say something, but I wasn't sure what to say. Moving in with Latham would be great. He was right -- I didn't like the neighborhood, and I didn't like my apartment, and having him to hold every night would go a long way toward helping my insomnia.
But instead of focusing on all of that, I focused on my mom, stranded on the floor of her bathroom.
"Latham, I'd love to move in with you--"
"That's great!"
"--but I can't. When my mom gets out of the hospital, she's coming to live with me."
I winced, watching the disappointment slowly seep into his face.
"The condo only has one bedroom."
My guard went up. "Latham, I didn't ask if my mother could move into your condo."
"I know. I mean, I'd want her to, if she's with you, but the place is only one bedroom. There wouldn't be any room for her."
"Hey, I didn't ask."
"That came out wrong." Latham touched my cheek. "Look, Jack, I really want to be with you. This whole I- sleep- over- at- your- place, you- sleep- over- at- my- place thing, we're too old for that, you know what I mean?"
"I know, Latham. I wish there was some way."
"Is there? Some way, I mean?"
I didn't like where this was going, but I baited him anyway.
"What do you mean?"
"How about she stays here, at your place? It's only a twenty-minute drive away."
"She needs someone around her at all times."
"Okay, fine. There are facilities. Good ones. Your mother could get the assistance she needs, the medical care, and we could visit her every--"
"I'm going to say good night now, Latham."
I took him by the crook of the arm and escorted him to the front door.
"Jack, all that I'm saying is that taking care of an elderly parent is a lot of work. I don't want you wasting your life--"
I opened the door.
"Caring for my mother is not wasting my life."
"I didn't mean it like that. Look, Jack, it's been an awful night and I'm not thinking clearly."
"Apparently not."
Latham's eyes got hard. I'd never really seen him angry before, and I didn't like the preview.
"I may be tooting my own horn here, Jack, but I think I'm a pretty decent guy."
"You're right," I told him. "You're tooting your own horn."
I felt terrible the moment it left my lips, but before I could apologize, Latham was halfway down the hall.
"Latham . . ."
He disappeared through the stairwell door, not giving me a backward glance.
Nice one, Jack. You just screwed up a relationship with the last decent guy in the Midwest.
From the bathroom, Mr. Friskers howled in agreement.
I walked back into my apartment, finished my drink, Latham's drink, and one more on top of that. Pleasantly tipsy, I let the screaming cat out of the john, took off my makeup, curled up on my sheetless bed, and slept for forty-five wonderful minutes before jerking awake.
For the next three hours, sleep was a stop-and-go affair, short stretches interspersed with bouts of anxiety, nagging questions, and doubt.
When I finally got up for work, the mirror was not kind.
I forced myself through some push-ups and sit-ups, took a cool shower, and dressed in a tan Perry Ellis blazer, matching skirt, and a striped blouse.
Venturing into my living room, I discovered I wasn't the only one who had a busy night. To my endless amusement, Mr. Friskers had clawed most of the paint off my grandmother's antique rocking chair. He perched on the sofa, staring, while I inspected the damage.
"Now I understand why so many people own dogs."
He didn't reply.
I cleaned up the kitty litter as best I could, poured him another bowl of food, forced down some Frosted Flakes, and went out to face the day.
Chicago was a furnace, hot enough to make my eyeliner run. Stopping for coffee seemed absurd, but I needed the caffeine. I bought an extra for Herb.
The district house still had an air-conditioning problem, which felt great for about two minutes, and then became painful.
Herb wasn't in his office, which was unusual. He always beat me to work. I set his coffee on his desk, then returned to my office and did some follow-up calls about the incident last night.
The gut-shot bouncer had stabilized, and the perp, defying all expectations, still clung to life. I left word with the doctor to call when toxicology finished the blood work, but she said it wasn't necessary.
"I'm ninety-nine percent sure he was high on Hydro."
"Water?"
"No. Hydro is the nickname for a new street drug. It's a mean mix of phencyclidene hydrochloride, phentermine hydrochloride, and oxycodone hydrochloride; basically angel dust, speed, and codeine. Why anyone would want to mix those is beyond me. Plus, someone is cutting the drug with mephyton phyonadione."
"Which is?"
"Vitamin K. It's commonly given to patients before surgery because of its ability to aid in blood coagulation."
"This drug turns people into psychotic supermen who don't feel pain or bleed?"
"Makes you long for the sixties and good old LSD, doesn't it?"
"Who would make something like this?"
"After working the ER for six years, I've lost count of the different ways people attempt to destroy themselves. I just patch them up so they can go do it again."
"You sound cynical."
"I'm the one who stitched up all the holes you put in this guy, and you're calling me a cynic?"
She had a point. Curiosity prompting me onward, I called the DEA.
"You've no doubt heard about the Big Bust."
The Big Bust the agent referred to was a capture of almost a billion dollars in heroin off the Florida coast. One of the largest drug seizures in history.
"That left a vacuum in the market," he went on. "The junkies still needed something to shoot, so a West Coast drug ring hired some chemists to cook up a replacement. We've already shut down three Hydro labs, but they're popping up all over the place. It's a bad high too. Causes some major freak-outs."