Over the years, Marlin’s yellow wood walls had darkened to the color of dead oak leaves. The leather upholstered booths were worn and cracked, but were deep, comfortable, and private. Clyde and Wilma sat at the back, away from the few other customers. They ordered an English dark draft, and rare burgers with onions and Roquefort.
When the Latin waiter had brought their beer and gone away, Wilma said,“Just before we left the library, when I went back to my office, Nina Lockhart told me that someone else has been interested in the material on cats.”
“Oh? But not the kind of material we dug out.”
“Exactly the same material. The same references.”
Clyde watched her uneasily.
She said,“I remember the man, he came in late last week. I remember Nina helping him.” She sipped her beer. “Nina pulled up the same entries we used. She brought him the same books.” She set down her glass. “She plugged into the Internet, helped him copy the same pages we copied. I was working in a carrel across the room. I remember him because he seemed uncomfortable and hurried.”
The soft overhead light brightened her steel-colored hair and the silver clip that held it.“He didn’t notice me until around midmorning. But then, when he looked up and saw me, he looked shocked. Looked as if he knew me. He stared at me hard, then snatched up his copies and left.”
Wilma sipped her beer.“He didn’t finish copying the references Nina had set out, he just left.”
“Who was he? Do you know him?”
“I’ve seen him around the village. I don’t know who he is.”
“He couldn’t be an old parolee?”
“No.” She laughed. “That man was never on my caseload.”
“Did he check out books? His name would?”
“He didn’t check out anything, just made copies. He didn’t tell Nina his name, and he’s not a regular patron. A thin man, tall and quite stooped. Light brown, straight hair down to his shoulders, muddy-looking eyes. Some kind of scars on his face and hands, covered over with flesh-colored makeup. Nina said it looked disgusting. He wore a tan windbreaker, tan cotton sport shirt, dirty white running shoes. Nina said he had a British accent. I could hear a little of it from where I sat. Lyrical-I’d say maybe Welsh-a poetic lilt. Charming, but amusing in such a dour man.”
Clyde had set down his beer.“That was Lee Wark.”
She waited.
“He’s Welsh, been over here about ten years. A freelance used car agent. He deals with us, picks up special models for us across the country. Are you sure it was cats he was researching?”
“Of course it was cats. I told you, the same references we were using. What else do you know about him?”
“Not much. I think he grew up in a small fishing village on the Welsh coast. I get the impression his family didn’t have much, that they were dirt-poor.”
“Welsh,” she said, making circles with her beer glass on the table. “The Welsh are raised on the old folktales, on Selkies, Bogey Beasts, the shapeshifting hounds.”
The waiter brought their hamburgers. His English wasn’t too good, he had trouble understanding that Clyde wanted mustard. He returned with catsup, Tabasco, steak sauce, and mustard, and seemed pleased with himself that he had covered all possibilities.
Clyde spread a thin layer of hot mustard on his French hamburger roll.“This is weird. Why the hell does Wark want to know about cats?”
Wilma shrugged,“I don’t like coincidences. If Wark’s connected with the agency, maybe I can learn something about him, some reason for him to be interested in cats, from Bernine Sage.”
“I didn’t know you and Bernine were friendly.”
“We’re not close friends, but she’s useful. You’ve forgotten, we worked together in San Francisco.”
He remembered then. Bernine had been a secretary in the U.S. Probation Office the five years Wilma was there. He wasn’t fond of Bernine. She had been Beckwhite’s secretary, and was the agency’s head bookkeeper, a striking redhead who always dressed to the teeth, smart orange outfits, pale pink blazers. She was a woman who used the truth as it suited her, bending it for maximum advantage. At one time, Bernine had had a thing with Lee Wark. They had lived together during his swings through Molena Point.
Wilma finished her fries, drained her beer, and handed the briefcase across the table. They paid the bill and headed for her place, Clyde driving slowly, watching the streets. When he dropped her off, even before he pulled out of the drive he heard her calling Dulcie. His last view as he drove away was Wilma’s thin figure in jeans and sweatshirt, standing alone in her yard calling her lost cat.
At home he dropped the briefcase on the couch and yelled for Joe. No response. He hadn’t really expected any. He petted the dogs and the three cats, talked to them and gave them a snack. While the animals ate their treats he straightened their beds in the laundry room.
He had removed the door between the laundry and the kitchen, and had installed a narrow, two-bunk bed against the wall between where the washer and dryer stood and the corner. The dogs had the bottom mattress. The cats had the top; they could jump up onto the dryer, then onto their bunk, enjoying a private aerie that the dogs couldn’t reach.
Both beds were covered with fitted sheets which could be easily laundered, and each bed had several cotton quilts that could be pawed into any required configuration. Finished with bed making, he popped a beer and went out to the backyard.
He called Joe, certain that the tomcat wasn’t anywhere near. The stars looked very low, very large. The sea wind was soft; the distant surf pounded and hushed. The sound was steady, reassuring. He sat down on the back steps and thought about Joe Cat. He thought about the old Welsh tales, about cats which were more than cats.
He sat for a while staring at nothing, then drained his beer and went back in the house.
The three cats lay upon their bunk, the white cat’s paw and muzzle draped over the side, looking down at him and purring. Rube and Barney were in their lower bed lying on their backs, all legs up, in a tangle of quilt. He rubbed their stomachs and said good-night, then poured a brandy and took Wilma’s briefcase to bed.
Half-reluctantly, half-fascinated, he sat in bed sipping brandy and reading again the results of their search. Reading about hillside doors into unknown caverns, about strangers appearing suddenly in a small, isolated village. About the sudden appearance of dozens of cats in a little Italian town, as if from nowhere. He read about hidden doors into Egyptian tombs built for the exclusive use of cats. Doors to where? Why would a live cat need a door in a tomb?
Twice he got up, pulled on a robe he seldom wore, and stood in the open front door calling Joe. Three times he picked up the phone and listened for the dial tone to be sure it was working. When he fell asleep, with the light on, he slept badly.
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Kate gave a final lick to her paws and rolled over on the lawn in front of her house, letting her clean feet flop in the air above her, the fur bright now, and soft, a pale creamy shade.
The rest of her was still filthy. She couldn’t bear to lick off all that dirt. She had clawed the worst of the caked mud from her tail but it still looked like a dirty rope. She rolled back and forth, trying to rub dirt off on the grass, then rose and checked the street for any sign of Lee Wark.
There was no one on the shady street. Beneath the oaks, only two cars were parked, both belonging to neighbors. When she was sure Wark hadn’t followed her, she got up, stretched, and trotted around the side of the house and down the little walk between her flower beds. How strange that the yellow and orange flowers of her gazanias reached to her chin, and her irises towered above her.
Leaping to the back porch, she jumped up the screen door, snatching at the latch. She pulled and kicked until she had forced the screen open, and slid in between the screen and the solid door; the screen hit her hard on the backside.