“Henry wouldn’t do that, do you think?”
“He has no use for it and he made that plain, but I don’t know what he meant. He’s hardly speaking to me, so I didn’t have a chance to press him on the point. He wants to be rid of the poor thing for sure.”
“You don’t think he’d have the cat put down, do you?”
“The mood he’s in, he’s capable of anything. He refuses to have it here. Especially after all the pain and suffering Nell’s been through.”
“Couldn’t the vet find a home for it?”
“That remains to be seen. Henry has no patience. He called Lewis, and Lewis said the same thing he’s been saying all along: take the cat to the pound and put an end to it. Henry says whatever happens, it’s my fault for not asking in advance. He knew a fellow bitten by a stray who was stricken with cat scratch fever. His arm swelled up to three times its normal size. He was in the hospital for a week. Henry says why take the risk? Fleas and god knows what diseases. He says the cat’s fate is on my head.”
“Henry said that?”
“Words to that effect. I thought I was doing a good deed, but there’s no predicting Henry. He can be hard-nosed.”
I caught movement and looked up in time to see Henry’s station wagon ease along the drive. He paused while the automatic door went up and then pulled into the garage. I heard the car door slam and he appeared a moment later, hauling the carrier, which was clearly lighter and most decidedly empty.
Stony-faced, he came into the kitchen and set the carrier to one side. “That takes care of that,” he said, and then looked over at me, his tone shifting from cranky to something more pleasant. “You’re home early.”
I murmured a response, realizing that I was sorely disappointed with the man. He was in no way obliged to keep the cat simply because William had taken it upon himself to transport it across country. Henry had never expressed any interest in animals and I’d never known him to mention a pet. Still, I counted on him to do the right thing, even if he wanted to be a grouch about it.
He turned to William. “You owe me fifty dollars.”
William wasn’t going to argue. He was already chastened by Henry’s anger and repentant at having caused such an uproar. He had to feel worse about the cat than I did. He took out his wallet and counted off the bills, which he handed to Henry. “May I ask what this is for?”
Henry said, “The vet has to put the cat to sleep and that’s what it costs.”
Both William and I said “Oh” in tones of regret and bewilderment.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, looking from my face to William’s.
I said, “If I’d known you were going to have it put down, I’d have taken it myself.”
“What are you talking about? She’s not killing the cat. She’s cleaning his teeth and he has to be sedated. I’m to pick him up at five.”
I said, “Really? Well, that’s great!”
He seemed to be feeling self-conscious as he went on. “The vet says he’s a Japanese bobtail, which is a rare breed. As a matter of fact, this is the first one she’s seen in her entire career. Bobtails are active and very intelligent, easily trained to a leash. And talkative, she said, which I’d noticed myself. Two people in the waiting room spotted him and volunteered to take him off my hands that very minute, but I didn’t like their looks. One had a yappy dog the cat took an instant dislike to, and the other was a young woman who looked irresponsible to me. She had pierced ears and peroxided hair that stood up in spikes all over her head. I told the vet I wouldn’t dream of putting the cat in the care of someone like that.”
“Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, patting myself on the chest with relief. “So he’s a male?”
“He was male. Apparently, he was neutered some time ago. The vet says neutering tempers aggression and will keep him from spraying and getting into fights with other cats. She also pointed out he has what they call heterochromia, meaning his eyes are different colors. One is blue and the other is a golden green. Odd-eyed kittens are more expensive than the ordinary ones.”
William stirred, wanting to ask a question without generating any more ire on Henry’s part. “Have you thought about a name?”
“Of course. The cat’s name is Ed.”
William blinked and said, “Good choice.”
I said, “Excellent.”
6
PETE WOLINSKY
May 1988, Five Months Earlier
Pete ignored the phone when it rang, letting his answering machine pick up while he sorted through the mail that had piled up over the past week. Idly, he tuned in to his outgoing message, thinking as he always did that his recorded voice sounded manly, mature, and trustworthy.
“Able and Wolinsky. We’re currently out of the office, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we return. We value your business and look forward to serving you with efficiency and discretion.”
There was actually no Able. Pete had adopted a mythical partner so his agency name would appear first in the listings for private investigators.
The caller didn’t need to identify himself since he rang up six to eight times a day. “Listen, you son of a bitch. I know you’re there, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. If you don’t pay what you owe, I’ll come over there with a meat cleaver and chop off your shriveled dick . . .”
Pete listened with amusement. Synchronicity being what it was, it was Barnaby on the line again, calling on behalf of Ajax Financial Recovery Associates, whose officious written demands were spelled out in the letter he held in his hand while the goober from the self-same company spewed venom. In truth, the dunning notices were almost as bad as the daily calls and both were getting on his nerves—abusive tirades generated by clowns who weren’t qualified for real jobs. What kind of fool spent his days in a cubicle badgering gainfully employed citizens about debts that might or might not be owed? Most debt collectors were rude, obnoxious, devious, and unprincipled. He filtered their calls, deleting a message the minute the caller announced his purpose. If he was careless and picked up the line, allowing one of his creditors to get through, he’d blast him with a handheld siren that would render a fellow deaf for the better part of an hour. He made an exception for Barnaby, whose threats were more vicious and imaginative than most. As soon as he’d recorded another week’s worth of diatribes, he’d file a complaint with the FTC.
He tossed the Ajax letter into the trash along with the other overdue notices, a summons, two default judgments, and the threat of a lawsuit. The only envelope left contained a preapproved credit card offer, which made him laugh aloud. Those assholes never gave up. He adjusted his glasses, leaning close to the application as he took a few minutes to fill in the particulars. He used his own name with an X as his middle initial. The rest of the personal information—employment, bank accounts—he invented on the spot, wondering if the company would actually be foolish enough to issue him a card.
It didn’t bother him so much that he was broke. It was the unpleasantness he objected to, having to suffer the screaming and insults, being interrogated about his intentions, which forced him to make up excuses or, worse yet, tell outright lies. He didn’t enjoy the dishonesty, but what choice did he have? Business was slow and had been for the past year and a half. The rent on his small office was three months in arrears. He avoided the premises when possible because his landlady was likely to pop up without warning, angling for payment. She insisted on cash, refusing to accept Pete’s checks after the third one was returned for insufficient funds.