Cat in the Dark

by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

  Dulcie didn't follow him. Probably she'd stay in there all night, lapping up the attention.

  Stretching out beside a warm chimney, he dozed intermittently and irritably. His view from the roof was directly in through the gallery's wide windows and open front door, where the crowd had gathered around a white-clothed table as a tuxedoed waiter served champagne. It was more than an hour before Dulcie came trotting out between a tangle of elegantly clad ankles, scanned the rooftops, and saw him looking over. Lifting her tail like a happy flag, she crossed the street and swarmed up the vine to join him.

  "You didn't have to be so surly. You knew we'd be petted. Cats in a public place always get petted."

  "Petted? Mauled is the word. You said no one would notice us."

  She settled down beside him, her belly against the warm shingles. "You missed some good party food."

  "I'll have my share in the alley."

  "Suit yourself. I had duck liver canapes from the hand of my favorite movie star." She sighed deeply. "He might be sixty-some, but he's some macho hombre."

  "Big deal. So some Hollywood biggie feeds you duck liver like a zoo animal."

  "Not at all. He was very polite and cordial. And he's not from Hollywood; you know very well that he lives in Molena Point. What a nice man. He treated me like a celebrity-he told me I have beautiful eyes." And she gave him a clear green glance, bright and provocative.

  Joe turned away crossly. "So where are Charlie and Clyde? Fashionably late is one thing. Charlie's going to miss her own party."

  "They'll show. Clyde told Wilma he'd keep Charlie away until there was a real mob, until she could make a big entrance."

  "This is a mob. And Charlie isn't the kind for a big entrance."

  "She will be, tonight."

  Joe snorted.

  "It's her party. Why not a grand entrance?"

  "Females. Everything for show."

  "I've seen you make a big entrance-stroll into the living room when Clyde has company. Wait until conversation's in full swing, then swagger in so everyone stops talking. Starts calling to you, kitty kitty kitty, and making little lovey noises."

  "That is a totally different matter. That is done for a specific purpose."

  Dulcie cut her eyes at him, and smiled.

  The game was to get the crowd's attention and then, when they were all calling and making a fuss, to pick out the person who remained withdrawn and quiet. Who did not want to pet the kitty.

  Immediately one made a beeline for the cat hater. A jump into their lap, a persistent rubbing and kneading and waving your tail in their face, and the result was most rewarding. If your victim had a really severe case of ailurophobia, the effect was spectacular.

  When the routine worked really well, when you had picked the right mark, your victim would turn as white as skimmed milk. If you could drool and rub your face against theirs, that was even better. There was nothing half as satisfying as a nice evening of ailurophobe harassment. Such little moments were to be treasured-such fleeting pleasures in life made up for all the millions of human rebuffs, for centuries of shabby human slights and maltreatment.

  "Here they come," Dulcie said, pressing forward over the roof gutter, her ears pricked, the tip of her tail twitching with excitement.

  Clyde pulled up directly in front of the gallery, his yellow '29 Chevy convertible commanding immediate attention. This was the car's maiden appearance. The top was down, and the machine was dazzling. He had completely overhauled the vintage model, had given it mirror-bright metal detailing, pearly, canary-toned paint, pale yellow leather upholstery, and of course the engine purred like a world-champion Siamese. The car's creamy tones set off Charlie's flaming hair to perfection.

  Her red, curling mane hung loose across her shoulders over a dark tank top, and as Clyde handed her out, her flowered India skirt swirled around her ankles in shades of red, pink, and orange. The cats had never seen Charlie in high-heeled sandals, had never seen her in a skirt.

  "Wow," Joe said, hanging over the roof, ogling.

  "Oh, my," Dulcie said. "She's beautiful."

  Tonight they saw none of Charlie's usual shyness. She looked totally wired, her cheeks flaming as she took Clyde's hand and stepped to the curb.

  Clyde's chivalry prompted them to stare, too, as he gave Charlie his arm and escorted her into the gallery. Clyde himself looked elegant, scrubbed and shaven and sharply turned out in a black sport coat over a white turtleneck and a good-looking pair of jeans. For Clyde, this was formal attire.

  "There's the mayor," Dulcie said, "and his wife. And look- the president of the art association."

  Joe didn't know the president of the art association from a rat's posterior. Nor did he care. But he cared about Clyde and Charlie. He watched with almost parental pride as they pushed into the gallery and were mobbed with greetings and well-wishers. Crouched on the edge of the roof, the two cats totally enjoyed Charlie's happy moment. They remained watching as the party spilled out onto the sidewalk among a din of conversation and laughter, and the scents of perfumes and champagne and caviar caressed them on the night breeze.

  But later when two waiters headed away toward Jolly's Deli carrying a stack of nearly empty trays that they had replaced with fresh servings, the cats left the roof, padding along behind them, their attention on those delectable scraps.

  Jolly's Deli catered most of the local affairs, the gallery openings and weddings and the nicest parties. And whatever delicacies were left over, George Jolly set out on paper plates in the alley for the enjoyment of the village cats.

  Of course the old man put out deli scraps several times every day, but party fare was the best. An astute cat, if he checked the Gazette's social page or simply used his nose, could dine as elegantly, in Jolly's alley, as Molena Point's rich and famous.

  And the alley provided more than a free handout. Through frequent use, it had become the city version of a feline hunting path, a communal by-way shared by all the local cats.

  Some people view cats as reclusive loners, but that is not the case. Any cat could tell you that a feline is simply more discerning than a dog, that cats take a subtler view of social interaction.

  When several cats happened into the alley at one time, they did not circle each other snarling like ill-mannered hounds- unless, of course, they were toms on the make. But in a simple social situation, each cat sat down to quietly study his or her peers, communicating in a civilized manner by flick of ear, by narrowing of eyes, by twitching tail, following a perceptive protocol as to who should proceed first, who merited the warmest patch of sunshine or the preferred bench on which to nap.

  The village cats had established in Jolly's alley, as well, a center for feline messages, a handy post office where, through scents left on flowerpot and doorway, one could learn which cats were with kitten or had had their kittens, which ladies were feeling amorous, or if there was a new cat in the village.

  Only in the hierarchy of the supper plate did the biggest and strongest prevail-but George Jolly did not tolerate fights.

  Such social commerce pleased Joe and Dulcie despite the void that separated them from normal cats. After all, every cat was unique. The lack of human language didn't make the other cats imperceptive or unwise; each could enjoy the world in his own way. And, Joe thought, how many cats would want to read the newspaper or use the phone?

  But tonight they had the alley to themselves, the little brick-paved retreat was their own small corner of civilized ambiance, softly lit by the wrought-iron lamps at either end of the lane, perfumed by the jasmine vine that concealed Jolly's garbage cans.

  The two waiters had disappeared inside, but George Jolly must have been watching for visitors, because as the cats flopped down to roll on the warm bricks, the back door opened and the old man was there, his white apron extending wide over his ample stomach as he knelt to place a paper plate before them, a little snack of smoked salmon and chopped egg and Beluga caviar.

  They approached the offer
ing purring, Dulcie waving her tail, and George Jolly stood smiling and nodding. Jolly loved providing these little repasts-he took a deep delight in the cats' pleasure.

  Kneeling for a moment to stroke them, he soon rose again and turned away to his kitchen like any good chef, allowing his guests privacy in which to enjoy their meal. They were crouched over the plate nibbling at the caviar when, above them, a dark shadow leaped across the sky from roof to roof, and the black torn paced the shingles looking down at them-observing the loaded deli plate.

  Dropping to an awning and then to the bricks, he swaggered toward them snarling a challenge deep in his throat, a growl of greed and dominance.

  Dulcie screamed at him and crouched to slash; Joe flew at him, raking. At the same moment, the back door flew open and George Jolly ran out swinging a saucepan.

  "No fighting! You cats don't fight here! You cats behave in my alley!"

  Joe and Dulcie backed away glancing at each other, but Azrael stood his ground, snarling and spitting at Jolly.

  "Stop that, you black beast. Don't you challenge me!" Jolly hefted the pan. "You eat nice or I don't feed you. I take the plate away." He looked hard at the three of them. "I don't put out my best imported for you to act like street rabble-you are Molena Point cats, not alley bums.

  "Except you," Jolly said, glaring at Azrael. "I don't know you, you black monster. Well, wherever you come from, you snarl again, you get a smack in the muzzle."

  George Jolly could never have guessed the true effect of his words. He had no idea that the three cats understood him, he knew only that his tone would frighten and perhaps shame them. He glared hard at Azrael-Azrael blazed back at him, his amber eyes sparking rage, and he began to stalk the old man, crouching as if he would spring straight into Jolly's face.

  "Don't you threaten me," Jolly snapped, swinging the saucepan. "You learn some manners or you'll be snarling at the dogcatcher." He stood glaring until Azrael backed away switching his tail, his head high, and turned and swaggered off up the alley-until the formidable Death Angel vanished into the night.

  Joe and Dulcie did not see Azrael again until some hours later as they prowled the rooftops. Pale clouds had gathered across the moon, and there was no sound; the bats had gone to roost or perch or whatever bats did hanging upside down in their pokey little niches beneath the eaves. Who knew why bats would hunt one night and not the next? Presumably, Joe thought, it had to do with how bright the sky-yet why would bats care, when they hunted by radar? On the roofs around them, the shadows were marbled by moonlight. Above them they heard a barn owl call, sending shivers. Even Joe Grey respected the claws and beak of the barn owl.

  When the clouds parted and the full moon brightened the rooftops, across the moon's face the owl came winging. He swooped low and silent. The cats crouched to run. Screaming a booming cry, he dove, heading for the shadows beyond them.

  They heard the boom of his wings beating against the roof, and heard screaming-the owl's scream and a cat's scream, then the frantic flurrying of feathers, the thud of bodies…

  The owl exploded into the sky and was gone.

  And in the moon's gleam the black cat sauntered out swaggering and spitting feathers.

  Unaware of them, he slipped along seeming none the worse for his encounter. Pausing as before at each window and skylight, looking in, he lingered at a thin dormer window. He reared suddenly, clawing at the frame.

  A wrenching creak slashed the night as the casement banged open.

  Below on the street the cats heard footsteps, and when they fled over the roofs to look, they saw Azrael's human partner pacing, peering impatiently in through a glass door below a liquor store sign, his gray hair tangled around the collar of his wrinkled leather jacket, his boots, when he fidgeted, chuffing softly on the concrete.

  The instant the door opened from inside, the old man slipped in. The cats, dropping down onto the hanging sign then to the sidewalk, crouched beneath a car where they could see through the plate glass.

  Within, a faint, swinging light shone as the old man shielded his flashlight behind his hand, directing its beam along rows of bottles where Azrael paced, his tail lashing against the rich labels.

  At the cash register, the old man bent over the lock and inserted a metal pick, his thin face lined and intent.

  Within minutes he had the drawer open and was snatching out stacks of bills. Cleaning out the shallow tray, he lifted it, spilling loose change onto the floor as he grabbed at the larger bills that lay beneath; the night was so still they heard every coin drop.

  "Why do shopkeepers do that?" Dulcie whispered. "Why do they leave money in the register?"

  "Because the village has never had that much trouble. Don't you wonder if this old boy knew that-if he knew what an easy mark Molena Point is? Yet he has to be a stranger-I'd remember that old man."

  They watched him stuff wads of bills into his pockets while, behind him, Azrael wound back and forth along the liquor shelf smiling and rubbing against the bottles.

  "Cut the purring!" the old man snapped. "You sound like a spavined outboard. And don't leave cat hair stuck to everything."

  "I never leave cat hair. Have you ever seen me shed?"

  "Of course you shed. Everything I own is covered with black fur."

  Azrael leaned from the shelf, peering over his partner's shoulder. "Get those tens-they can't trace tens so easy."

  "Who's going to trace anything? No one marks their money in this burg. You're talking like some big-assed bank artist."

  "How do you know they don't?"

  "Don't be so paranoid."

  "It's you that's paranoid-getting jumpy because I purr and grousing about cat hair."

  The old man smoothed his thin gloves where they had wrinkled over his fingers and closed the register, and the two slipped out the front door.

  "Don't forget to lock it," the cat hissed.

  "Don't be so damn bossy."

  "Don't get smart with me, old man. You'll be running this party alone."

  The man and cat stiffened as, half a block away, a prowling police car turned into the street. As it shone its light along the storefronts in routine inspection, the two burglars slid through the shadows into the alley, were gone as completely as if they had never been there.

  The patrol car didn't slow. The moment it had passed, the two appeared again, heading up Ocean. As they moved away, Joe and Dulcie followed, slipping along beneath the parked cars. Joe was determined to stay with them tonight, to see where they went to ground. Dulcie didn't like this, but she was unwilling to stay behind.

  The two burglars proceeded up Ocean for four blocks, then turned down toward the Fish Shack. The old man paused before entering. "You want the cod or the shrimp?"

  "The shrimp-what these stateside yokels pass off as shrimp. Poor substitute for what we get at home."

  "You're not at home, so stop bitching." The little man disappeared inside. The cat turned away to the curb where he sniffed at the messages left by passing four-legged citizens. If he scented Joe and Dulcie over the smell of other cats and dogs and fish and axle grease, he gave no indication. His partner returned dangling a white paper bag liberally splotched with grease.

  "No shrimp. You'll have to eat fish and chips."

  "Couldn't you have gotten crab?"

  "Didn't think to ask. Let's get on, before the law comes back." And off they went, man and cat walking side by side bickering companionably, two swaggering lowlifes with the cocky walk of drunks leaving a cheap bar.

  6

  BEYOND WILMA'S open shutters, the neighborhood was drowned by fog, the cottages and trees hidden in the thick mist, the gnarled branches of the oak tree that ruled her front garden faded as white as if the tree had vanished and only its ghost remained. Standing at the window sipping her morning coffee, she thought that it was the coastal fog, as much as Molena Point's balmy days, that had drawn her back to her childhood village to spend her retirement years. She had always loved the fog, loved its my
stery-had wandered the foggy neighborhoods as a little girl pretending she had slipped into a secret and magical world.

  At dawn this morning, she had taken a long walk along the shore listening to the breakers muffled and hidden within the white vail, then home again to a hot cup of coffee and to prepare breakfast for her company.

  Behind her, the Sunday paper lay scattered comfortably across her Kirman rug, and beside the fire, Clyde sprawled on the velvet loveseat reading the sports page. On the other side of the hearth, lounging in the flowered chaise, Bernine Sage pored over the financial section. Neither had spoken in some time. Clyde's preoccupation was normal; Bernine's silence came across as self-centered and cold.

  She would not ordinarily have invited Bernine to breakfast or for any meal, but this morning she'd had no choice. Bernine had been at her door late last night when she arrived home from the opening. Having fought with her current lover, needing a place to stay, she seemed to think that it was Wilma's responsibility to offer her a bed; she hadn't asked if Wilma had company or if her presence would be inconvenient. "Why I ever moved in with that idiot-what a selfish clod. And not a motel room left. I've called and called. Damn the holidays."

  After getting Bernine settled, Wilma had left a note on the kitchen table hoping Charlie would see it.

  Bernine is in the guest room with you, I'm sorry. She had a fight with her live-in.

  Charlie had seen the note, all right. When Wilma came out at five this morning, the scrap of paper was in the trash, wadded into a tight ball.

  Bernine had dressed for brunch this morning not in jeans like everyone else, but in a pink velvet leisure suit, gold belt, gold lizard sandals, and gold earrings, and had wound her coppery hair into a flawless French twist decorated with gold chains-just a bit much in this house, in this company, Wilma thought, hiding a smile. Her own concession to company for breakfast had been to put on a fresh white sweatshirt over her jeans. And Clyde, of course, was nattily attired in ancient, frayed cut-offs, a faded purple polo shirt with a large ragged hole in the pocket, and grease-stained sandals.