No window was lighted on either floor to indicate human presence save, at the upper level, halfway down, one window reflecting a weak, greasy glow barely visible behind the dirty pane.
Padding along the top of the fence, the cats studied the metal fire escape that hung above them, folded against the bricks. They could see, just above it, a row of narrow, jutting bricks running the length of the building at the base of the upper windows, apparently a halfhearted attempt at architectural detail-otherwise, the structure was as plain as a prison. Nor was the little ledge much of a walkway, maybe wide enough for a broad-shouldered mouse.
They had already circled the building from the sidewalk. The front door was solidly locked, and there was no other way in. They had swung from the door's latch, pressing and pawing, but nothing gave. Now there was nothing left to try but the fire escape.
Crouching, Joe sprang high, grabbing the metal with his claws, fighting to gain purchase on the rusty steel. Dulcie followed him, and together they twisted and raked at the bars until they had pulled themselves up into the center of the folded tangle then onto the brick ledge above.
Precariously balancing, they pawed at the first window, but it was stuck or locked or nailed shut.
Padding around the corner on the thin ledge, they clung close to the long wall, leaning into the bricks, stopping at each dirty pane of glass. All the windows were stuck, and they couldn't see much through the grime. Most of the rooms looked empty. They made out the dim lines of an overstuffed chair, and in another room, when they had pawed dirt from the pane, a lone, unmade bed, its graying sheets wadded in a bundle on a stained mattress. The window halfway down the building where the thin light burned was caked with dirt as thick as garden soil. Dulcie pawed at it irritably.
"Lick the window."
"I'm not licking it. You lick it." She pressed her face against the glass. "And what's to see? A bunch of dusty boxes stacked up." She didn't like schlepping along the precarious ledge past blind windows where, behind the dirty film, anything could be observing them. She didn't like looking down at the dark alley, either, with its jagged cans and broken glass. Contrary to popular human opinion, a cat certainly could fall from high places-or could be pushed. She had the feeling they were being watched, that something was tracking their progress.
Slipping past the light they gained the corner and padded along the short, connecting wall. They had started up the other side when, across the way, the lighted window slid open.
Against the dull glow, a man stood silhouetted. His voice was grainy, thin.
"Come in, you two. Come on in here, if that's what you want." He shoved the window higher, and the light picked out his gnarled hands and wrinkled leather jacket. "Come on in-or go away and quit snooping." Reaching down, he fetched a cardboard box from somewhere beside his feet and fixed it under the raised window.
So this was where the old man was hiding. Had he been here ever since they saw him leaning over Dora and Ralph's bodies? They remained still, not sure whether to run from him, along the narrow ledge, or to go back and step inside.
"Come on, you cats. Get a move on." He leaned farther, peering across at them. "I know what you are. Do you think I wouldn't know?"
Joe glanced back at Dulcie, where she crouched behind him.
"Who you looking for?" Greeley said. "There ain't nobody here but me-and my friend." Slyly he glanced around to the shadowed crates behind him.
"Who you looking for?" he repeated. "Or are you just out for an evening's stroll, in this delightful portion of the village?"
"We weren't looking for you," Joe said coldly. Dulcie stared at him, shocked, and wanted to slap a paw over his mouth.
But why not speak? Obviously Azrael had told Greeley all about them-thank-you very much. And now from the shadows behind Greeley, a voice mumbled, and Greeley laughed harshly.
"Who you looking for, then, if not me?" Greeley said rudely.
There was another comment from behind him, and his eyes widened. "You cats looking for Pearl Ann? Is that it? You come looking for Pearl Ann Jamison?"
They hunched lower, crouching single file on the narrow ledge.
"You two don't want to mess with Pearl Ann. You don't know half about her. What you want with her?"
Joe glanced behind him at Dulcie. She would have to turn around and go first if they were to return the way they had come and approach Greeley.
She flattened her ears, shook her head. She didn't want to do that.
"Go on, Dulcie. Move it. We can't stay here all night."
She crouched, frozen.
He flipped around on the ledge, seeming to hang in midair, then crouched on the ledge facing her, waiting for her to turn back.
She hunched, staring at him, their noses inches apart, her green eyes huge and uncertain. He had seldom seen her afraid- fear was not her nature. Irritated, he tensed to spring over her along the thin protrusion.
She glared at him but at last she switched ends, flipping around precariously on the thin bricks, holding her breath as her three paws struck empty air then hit the bricks again, and she started back reluctantly toward Greeley. At every step she wanted to beat it out of there.
"Go on," Joe growled. "Hurry up."
She padded a trifle faster.
"Move it, Dulcie. What can he do to us?"
She could think of a number of things.
"Go on. Show a little spine."
That moved her. She gritted her teeth and headed fast for Greeley, racing along the bricks, her tail low, her ears plastered tight to her head.
As she reached the window the old man stepped aside, and she warily slipped beneath the raised glass, dropping to the floor and backing away from Greeley. Beside her Joe hit the floor with a heavy thud. Immediately Greeley slammed the window. They heard the lock slide home.
23
THE SMALL, crowded room was shut tight, the window bolted, the door securely closed. Around the cats towered cardboard cartons labeled Scotch, rum, bourbon, and vodka, either the supplies for a huge private party or perhaps the extra stock of a nearby liquor store. The room stunk of booze as if Greeley had been happily sampling the various brands. The only light was from a battery-operated lamp of the kind kept for emergency power outages. Anyone who had been through a California earthquake or considered such matters maintained a stock of battery-powered lamps, a radio, bottled water, and emergency food and medical supplies. The cats saw none of these other essentials, only enough booze to weather any quake, and the squat lamp, its light reflecting from the eyes of the black tomcat where he crouched atop the tallest stack of boxes glaring down at them: an ebony statue, the great el primo gato.
In the far corner an old, stained mattress lay nested between the cardboard cases, fitted out with a limp pillow ticked in gray stripes, and a wrinkled army blanket laced with moth holes. On a box beside the bed stood four cans of beans, with a can opener, a dirty paper plate, an open bag of chips, and a pair of dirty socks.
The opposite corner of the room served as a depository for trash and empty cans.
Greeley's shirt and pants were wrinkled and stained, and he smelled not only of rum but desperately in need of a bath.
"What you want, you cats? You didn't come to this dump sightseeing. Why you looking for Pearl Ann?"
But then the old man's face crumpled. "You didn't come to make condolences, either." He stared hard at them. "You saw her, didn't you. You saw her dead-I saw you looking!" He sat down on the mattress, eased a bottle of rum from under the blanket and upended it, taking a long pull. He was so pitiful that Dulcie wanted to pat his face with a soft paw.