As he quickly shouldered into the kitchen, the good smells wrapped him round, the thick miasma of smoked salmon and spiced meats and crab salad, this gourmetic bouquet overlaid with the malty smell of beer, and, of course, with a fog of cigarette smoke that he could do without. His first view of the group as he pushed in through the kitchen door was ankles and feet among the table legs: two pairs of men's loafers below neatly creased slacks; a pair of well-turned, silk-clad legs in red high heels; and Charlie Getz's bare feet in her favorite, handmade sandals. Clyde, as usual, was attired in ancient baggy jogging pants and worn, frayed sneakers. On beyond the table, Rube lay sprawled listlessly across the linoleum, the big Labrador's eyes seeking Joe's in a plea of lonely grieving.
Slipping between the tangle of feet, Joe lay down beside Rube, against the dog's chest. He tried to purr, to comfort the old fellow, but there was really no way he could help. He could only be there, another four-legged soul to share Rube's loneliness for Barney. Rube licked his face and laid his head across Joe, sighing.
Clyde had buried Barney in the backyard, but he had let Rube and the cats see him first. Dr. Firetti said that was the kindest way, so they would know that Barney was dead and would not be waiting for him to return. He said they would grieve less that way. But, all the same, Rube was pining. He and Barney had been together since they were pups.
Joe endured the weight of Rube's big head across his ribs until the old dog dozed off, falling into the deep sleep of tired old age, then he carefully slipped out from under the Labrador. Rube didn't stop snoring. Joe was crouched to leap to the table when he glanced toward the back door and saw the latest architectural addition to the cottage: Clyde had installed a dog door. He regarded it with amazement. The big plastic panel took up nearly half the solid-core back door, was big enough to welcome any number of interested housebreakers. Clyde had evidently reasoned that Rube would need something to distract him from grieving. Surely this new freedom, this sudden unlimited access to the fenced backyard, couldn't hurt. Too bad Barney wasn't here to enjoy it.
The other three cats would certainly find the arrangement opening new worlds. They had, heretofore, been subject to strict supervision. They were kept shut away from the living room so they couldn't go out Joe's cat door, and Clyde let them into the yard only when he was with them. In the mornings and evenings he let them have a long ramble, but strictly inside the yard. With the aid of a water pistol, he discouraged them from climbing the back fence. Two of the cats were elderly, and disadvantaged in any neighborhood fight, and the little white cat was so shy and skittish she was better off confined. Joe wondered what they'd make of their new liberty. Clyde must have been really worried about Rube to instigate this drastic change in routine.
As for himself, he had never been confined, not from the very beginning of their relationship, when he was six months old and Clyde rescued him from the San Francisco alleys. For the first week he'd been too sick to go out, too sick to care, but when he was himself again and wanted access to the outer world, and Clyde refused, he'd pitched one hell of a fit. A real beauty, a first-class, state-of-the-art berserker of snarling and biting and raking claws.
Clyde had let him out. And from that moment, they'd had a strict understanding. They were buddies, but Clyde would not under any circumstances dictate his personal life.
Leaving Rube sleeping, Joe leaped to the poker table, gave Clyde a friendly nudge with his head, and watched Clyde deal a down card. This group seldom played anything but stud. If the ladies didn't like stud, they could stay home. Max Harper glanced at his hole card, his expression unchanging. Harper had the perfect poker face, lean, drawn into dry, sour lines as if he held the worst poker hand in history.
Harper had gone to high school with Clyde-that would make him thirty-eight-but his leathery face, dried out from the sun and from too many cigarettes, added another ten, fifteen years.
The other officer was Lieutenant Sacks, a young rookie cop whose dark curly hair and devilish smile drew the women. Sacks had recently married, the heavily made-up blonde with the nice ankles and red shoes had to be his new wife. Joe thought her name was Lila. Absently he nosed at Clyde's poker chips until the neat round stacks fell over, spilling chips across the table.
"Oh, Christ, Joe. Do you have to mess around?"
He gave Clyde an innocent gaze. Clyde's second card was a four of clubs, and Joe wondered what he had in the hole. With Clyde's luck, probably not much. He tried to think what he'd done on poker nights before he understood the game. Just lain there, playing with the poker chips. The smell of the feast, which had been laid out on the kitchen counter, was making his stomach rumble. Clyde always served fancy, in the original paper plates and torn paper wrappers. He tried to remember his manners and not dive into Clyde's loaded plate, which sat on the table just beside him, but the smell of smoked salmon made his whiskers curl. Watching the bets, he studied the two women.
Charlie Getz was Clyde's current squeeze, a tall, liberally freckled redhead, friendly and easy, the kind of woman who did most of her own automotive repairs and didn't giggle. She wore her long red hair in a ponytail, bound back, tonight, with a length of what looked like coated electrical wire in a pleasant shade of green. Charlie tossed in her chips to raise Harper, and absently petted Joe, then handed him a cracker piled with smoked salmon. Across the table the little blonde watched this exchange with distaste.
He tried to eat delicately and not slop salmon onto the table, but when he took a second cracker, this time off Clyde's plate, the blonde shuddered, as if he'd contaminated something. Who the hell are you, to be so picky?
Though the fact did cross his mind that he'd recently been gnawing on a dead rabbit and had, moments before that, bitten and ripped at a flea-infested rat.
Sacks bet his king, and Lila folded on a six of hearts. On the last card, Clyde dealt himself another four. Across the table, Max Harper's lean, leathery expression didn't change. There ensued a short round of bluffing, then the hole cards came up and Harper took the pot on a pair of jacks. Charlie made a rude remark, rose, and filled her plate. She prepared a plate for Harper, too, and set it before him, then fixed a small plate for Joe, a nice dollop of crab salad and a slice of smoked salmon cut up small so he needn't make a mess, so he wouldn't have to hold it down with his paw and make a spectacle of himself chewing off pieces. Charlie did understand cats. He feasted, standing on the table beside her, thoroughly enjoying not only the fine gourmetic delicacies, but the scowling blonde's disgust.
When he had finished, he gave Lila a cool stare and curled up next to Charlie's chips, ducked his head under one paw, and closed his eyes. He was dozing off when Charlie said, "Oh, hell," and tossed her three cards toward the center of the table.
Joe reared his head to look. Harper had a pair of aces showing. With Harper's luck, probably his hole card was an ace. Clyde started to bet, glared at Harper, and changed his mind. He folded. Sacks and Lila folded.
"Bunch of gutless wonders," Harper said, gathering in the few chips. "What kind of pot is this?" He did not turn over his hole card, but shuffled it into the deck.
"His luck won't last," Sacks said. "It's the full moon- screws up everything." Sacks rose and opened the refrigerator, fetched five cans of beer, and handed them around.
Lila gave her bridegroom an incredibly sour look. "Honey, that's such a childish idea. I wish you wouldn't talk like you really believe in that stuff."
Harper looked at her. "Believe in what stuff?"
"In these silly superstitions-that the full moon changes your luck. The moon can't affect people. The moon-"
"Oh, it can affect people," Harper told her. "You'd better read the arrest statistics. Full moon, crime rate soars. Moon's full, you get more nutcases, more wife beatings, bar fights."