He gave a little laugh. “I thought I’d encourage him.” Gently he put his foot to D.C.‘s rear and pushed him out. As if by magic, D.C. was back in the house before Zeke could close the door.
Patti said, “You can’t make him do anything he doesn’t want to. He’s stubborn, like the rest of the Randalls.”
“He’s got to go,” Zeke said. “We’ve got thirty men waiting on him.”
She took a piece of raw beef from the refrigerator, stepped out of the door, and dangled it. D.C. stared at it curiously from inside the service porch. Did they think he was that naive? Patti, of all people, resorting to a low trick like that.
Patti looked up at Zeke. “Even if we do get him out, he’ll just mope around. He had too big a night last night.”
Thereupon D.C. turned and headed back toward the bedroom. Patti excused herself to help Mike with his homework, and Zeke followed D.C., who dallied on the way, once to take a couple of swipes at last year’s Christmas gift, a catnip mouse whose innards had filtered out and was now only a wrinkled skin. He received Christmas gifts along with the other members of the family, and quite a few cards. During his formative years he played with his gifts by the hour, but now he was above such nonsense. Oh, he would take a swat or two at a present, to let his folks know he was appreciative. But with maturity had come a sense of dignity, of place. Place was very important, and especially difficult to maintain in this family.
Zeke bided his time until D.C. returned to the bedroom, and then Zeke resorted to a scurrilous trick. He detested himself for it but his desperation was such that he couldn’t resist. Casually he maneuvered around D.C., who stretched full length on the bed. D.C. kept his head raised, his gaze trailing Zeke.
When he had gained D.C.‘s rear, Zeke pretended to stare out of the window until D.C. was lulled into a sense of security and lowered his head flat with his body. He closed his eyes and prepared for a night’s rest. Still standing by the window, Zeke removed his shoes, and stealthily approached the cat from behind. He remembered, as he had been taught in the FBI Academy , to watch for squeaky boards that would betray him. His movements were slow and fluid, his breathing’ stilled. In all of his years as an agent he had never been more skillful. In one swiftly executed and brilliant maneuver, he dropped to the bed, and the same instant grabbed D.C.‘s forelegs, locking them in his left hand. Before D.C.’ could react, Zeke pulled him up against his body, so that the cat’s rear legs would be too pinned down for effective action.
With his right hand Zeke attempted to force a waker-upper pill down the cat’s mouth, but D.C. anticipated the move and locked his teeth. “Take this,” Zeke muttered. “Doggone you, take this.” A hind paw tore his shirt and located soft flesh. Zeke stifled an outcry but bravely and doggedly held on. He moved the pill along the clenched teeth until he discovered an opening where they met improperly. He pushed the pill in and closed his hand about D.C.‘s mouth to keep him from spitting it out.
“Heaven help me,” he mumbled to himself, “if Washington finds out I’m doping cats.”
D.C. half choked, and swallowed three times before Zeke released him. Quickly Zeke backed away, which was a wise move since all the savagery of a thousand generations of ancestors lashed out for the jugular vein, or any kind of old artery handy. For a frightened moment, Zeke thought the cat was going to spring for him. But D.C. recognized superior force and stopped where he was. He sat on his haunches a long time, and then the fury slipped out of his eyes and triumph sneaked in. First he assured himself Zeke was watching, and then, only as a cat can, spat out the pill that he had carefully held on his tongue. He spat it with a hair-raising sound effect. He spat it as far as possible, which was well beyond the bed. His expression said, You want tricks, man, I’ll give you tricks.
Zeke sank into the chintz chair, the wind gone from him. He didn’t know quite why all of this had befallen him. There he was at his desk this morning, minding his own business, feeling the high spirit of the early hours, the challenge of another day, the pleasant warmth of a rising sun, the happy thought of a second cup of coffee, and then he had taken the call. If someone else had, he might have been assigned a nice, respectable homicide with a perfectly normal informant.
Along about eleven Patti drifted in. “Want me to loan you a pair of Dad’s pajamas? They’ll be a little big around the middle, and you’ll look like a clown.”
He shook his head. He had better stay up, on the chance that D.C. would change his mind.
“No use to,” she said. “He’s bedded down but good for the night.”
She dropped to the bed beside D.C. and rubbed his neck. He groaned happily in his sleep.
“I had a pinto once,” Zeke said. “Loved to have me do that.”
She smiled, and in no time discovered they had a mutual love for the outdoors. She said, “Dad was in lumber when I was growing up, over in Arizona . I guess I was a dreamy-eyed kid. I remember I used to ride through the Coconino forest on the excuse I was seeing how many different species of birds I could count. But I was always expecting to meet some tall, handsome guy I’d fall for.”
The family had moved to Los Angeles when the work grew too rugged for her father; she had attended the University of California at Los Angeles ; and she had taken up modeling when a girl friend found her a job.
“But I’m not very ambitious. I don’t care about staying in modeling. Time catches up with you too fast. Besides, you get so hungry.”
By now the world outside was quiet, all of the noises having collected themselves and run off. She continued dreamily, “I’ve got just one burning ambition. I want to have two boys like Mike and two girls like Inky. The only trouble is that a man’s necessary, since you can’t order kids yet out of the Sears Roebuck catalogue.”
As she talked, she grew increasingly conscious of the intimacy of the moment Zeke in her room, his long hulk draped over the chintz chair, his head resting against the back. A short time before he had been a stranger, but he was the kind who after a half hour of talk was an old friend.
“Sure you don’t want some pajamas?” she asked, rising.
He said no, and sneezed hard. “You wouldn’t have anything for hay fever, would you?”
14
The next morning Patti overslept, and there was more hubbub than usual. Mike was upset. “I can’t tell the rocket club not to come, can I? We’ve been plannin’ it for a month.”
“Listen, Mike,” Patti’ said, plugging in the electric skillet, “don’t give me trouble.”
“D.C. won’t mind. He likes rockets.” Mike roughed up D.C., who, refreshed by a good night’s sleep, was watching the proceedings from his usual place on the refrigerator, surveying it all with that benevolent attitude he graciously bestowed on humans after wolfing down a tin of cat food.
“Cancel it,” Patti said.
“What’ll I tell ‘em?”
“That I’ve got a migraine.”
“That’d be lying.”
Ingrid spoke up. “Can’t you get it through your skull, Michael Randall, how serious this is, how everything depends on our helping Mr. Kelso?”
She turned to Patti, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to understand him. He would undermine the FBI for an old rocket club.”
She cracked the eggs and dropped them in the skillet Patti had prepared. “Pray for me today, will you, sis?”
“Huh?” said Patti, looking up.
“If I don’t pass geometry, after all I’ve done for that stupid school.” She shrugged. “Oh, well, as I always say, flunk now and avoid the June rush.’
She turned the eggs and continued, “And I’ll simply die if Tommy doesn’t ask me, especially if I hint around.”
“What a drip,” Mike said.
“You pick your friends and I’ll pick mine.” She hurried on. “I’m going over to Bethie’s after school. Okay?”