Whites, blacks, Asians, Hispanics... yuppies, artists, truck drivers, wealthy widows, college students, a couple of stunning call girls, and a few bums and crazies, but they're harmless." "You make it sound irresistible." "I live at the Casablanca myself," she said with a small hysterical laugh.
Quill now remembered more about Amberina. She had dark hair, very attractive blue eyes (probably wore contacts), and a husband. Yet she now spoke as if she lived alone. "I'd like to see the place," he said.
"Mary said to tell you the penthouse apartment is available for sublet, and it's very well furnished. Maybe you'd like to come down and stay for a while." "Well, I don't know..." "You should decide fast, Mr. Qwilleran, because the developers are putting pressure on the owner of the building to sell it to them. SOCK is getting kind of antsy." "Who is the owner?" "We call her the Countess. She's seventy-five years old. She's lived in the building all her life and still has her original apartment. I'm sure you could talk her into selling to your Memorial Fund, Mr. Qwilleran. You're a very charming man." "Not always," he protested in mock modesty, grooming his moustache. He was well aware of his success in winning over women, especially older ones. "If I were to drive down there," he said slowly and thoughtfully, "I'd have to take my cats. Are pets permitted?" "Cats are okay, but not dogs. In fact, there are cats allover the place." Amberina giggled. "Some people call it the Casablanca Cathouse." "Did you say there's a penthouse available?" he asked with increasing interest.
"You'd love it! It's really very glamorous. There's a large sunken living room with a skylight and indoor trees...
and a marvelous view... and a terrace..." "Let me call you back tomorrow. I'll have to discuss it with my bosses," Qwilleran said facetiously, meaning the Siamese.
"Don't lose any time," she warned. "If anything happens to the old lady, Mary says, the building will be sold to the developers so the heirs can be paid off." After hanging up the phone he rationalized fast. One: He had been confined to Moose County for three years, except for one flying trip Down Below to have dinner at the Press Club. Two: Winter was on its way, and winters in Moose County were not only cruel but interminable. Three: The imperiled Casablanca would be a convenient excuse to escape the glacial pavements and ten-foot snowbanks of Pickax. At least, he thought, there's no harm in driving down and checking out the building's potential.
First he broke the news to the Siamese. Living alone, he made it a practice to converse with his cats, often reading aloud to them and always discussing his problems and plans. They seemed to enjoy the sound of his voice, whether or not they knew what he was saying. More importantly, verbalizing his thoughts helped him to make decisions.
"Listen, you guys," he called out to them, "how would you like to spend the winter in the Crime Belt instead of the Snow Belt?... Where are you?" His companions had deserted their comfortable chair and were nowhere in view.
"Where did you brats go?" he demanded. There was not a murmur from either of them, although he could feel their presence, and he could guess where they were. Koko had bur- rowed under the hearth rug, and Yum Yum was hiding under the rug in front of the sofa. Their silent comment was readily interpreted: They abhorred a change of address, and they sensed what Qwilleran had in mind.
He paced the floor with growing eagerness. De- spite the reaction of his housemates, he relished the idea of a winter in the big city. He missed the Press Club. He missed the camaraderie of the staffers at the Daily Fluxion, where he had been a popular feature writer. He missed the stage shows, the hockey and pro basketball, and the variety of restaurants. There was one drawback: He would have to forgo the companionship of Polly Duncan. He had become very fond of Pickax City's head librarian. They shared the same interests. She was his own age - an intelligent and loving woman. And since neither had a desire to marry, they were a compatible pair.
Polly was the first one he wanted to consult about his proposed venture, and he phoned her little house in the country, but before he could break the news, she quelched his elation with a cry of distress.
"Oh, Qwill! I was just about to call you. I've had some dreadful news. I'm being evicted!" "What do you mean?" For years she had been the tenant of a snug cottage in farming country, and he had spent many idyllic weekends surrounded by cornfields and deer habitat and a hemisphere of blue sky.
"I told you the farm had been sold," she said, almost in tears. "Now I learn that the new owner wants my cottage for his married son. Winter's almost here! Where can I go? Landlords don't permit cats, and I can't give up Bootsie! What shall I do?" she wailed. Here was a woman who could devise a swift solution to the most complex problem arising at the public library; her panic over this personal setback was disturbing. "Are you there?" she cried impatiently. "Did you hear me, Qwill?" "I heard you. I'm thinking," he said. "It so 'happens that I'm invited to spend the winter months Down Below - in a penthouse apartment. That means... you could put your furniture in storage and stay at my place in Pickax while you scout for a new house." Whimsically he added, "I have no objection to cats." There was silence at the other end of the line. "Are you there, Polly? Did you hear me?" "I'm thinking," she said. "It sounds like an ideal solution, Qwill, and it's certainly very generous of you, and of course it would be handy to the library, but... " "But what?" "But I don't like the idea of your spending all that time Down Below." "You went to England for an entire summer," he reminded her. "I didn't care for that idea, either, but I survived." "That's not what I mean. Cities are so unsafe! I don't want anything to happen to you." "Polly, may I remind you that I lived in large cities all my life before moving up here." "What is the penthouse you mentioned?" she asked warily.
"Let's have dinner tomorrow night, and I'll explain." Next he phoned his old friend, Arch Riker, now publisher of the local paper. He said, "I've just had an interesting call from Down Below. Do you remember the Casablanca apartments on the edge of Junktown?" "Sure," said Riker. "Rosie and I lived there when we were first married. They'd cut up most of the large apartments into efficiencies and one-bedroom units. We had a few good years there. Then the kids started coming, and we moved to the suburbs. What about the Casablanca? I suppose they're tearing it down." "You guessed right," Qwilleran said. "Some developers want to take it over." "They'll need a nuclear bomb to demolish that hunk of masonry. It's built like the Rock of Gibraltar." "Well, hold on to your hat, Arch. I've been thinking it might be a good public relations ploy for the Klingenschoen Fund to buy it and restore it" "What! You mean - restore it all the way? That would be a costly operation. You're talking about megamillions!" "That's what I mean - restore the apartments to their original condition and go condo. The Fund is making money faster than the board of directors can give it away, so what if it's a financial loss? It will be a triumph for the cause of preservation - and a feather in the Klingenschoen cap." "I have to think about that. Offhand, it sounds like a madcap gamble. Have you suggested it to the board of directors?" "I heard the news only half an hour ago, Arch. I'll need more particulars, but see what you think of this: If I spend the winter down there, investigating the possibilities, I can write a weekly column for you on the horrors of city living.