The Nine Lives of Catseye Gomez

by Simon Hawke

  "Interesting lady," I said, in an offhand tone.

  "B.J.? She's a pain in the ass. But I guess she's okay, for a reporter. If you tell her 'off the record,' it stays off the record. She's a straight shooter. Not too many of those around anymore."

  "Never were," I said.

  Leventhal switched on the stereo and pushed a disc into the player. Not unreasonably, perhaps, I expected to hear music. Silly me. Instead, what issued from the speakers was a deafening, throaty, "Thraghhhhh!"

  I arched my back and felt my fur bristling. "What the hell is that?"

  Leventhal grinned at me. "Chevy 454 V-8," he said, "with racing cams and blower."

  I frowned. "An internal combustion engine?" I willed myself to relax and retracted my claws. I didn't want to ruin his upholstery.

  "Great, huh? It's music to my ears, Cat. Thaumaturgically powered vehicles don't pollute the air, but when it comes right down to it, they just ain't got no soul. This," he said, pointing at the player, "this is what a car oughtta sound like!"

  I shook my head. "If you say so. If you ask me, it sounds like somebody torturing a jackhammer."

  He grimaced and turned the volume down low. "Some people have no appreciation for the finer things in life. Me, I'd give my left nut for a fully restored Corvette Stingray and the juice to make it go. I've got an engine out of one sitting in my living room at home. All chromed and polished. Beautiful. It's like'a fuckin' sculpture. But even if I could manage to put one all together and score some gas for it, I'd get my act shot down before I went three blocks." He shook his head and sighed. "Guess I was just born too late, that's all."

  Another one, I thought. I didn't think I'd ever understand this nostalgic longing so many humans seem to have for the past. I've never met an animal who felt that way. Animals live in the present. We deal with life as it happens, just one day at a time. That always seemed to make sense to me. Humans, on the other hand, rarely seem to live in the present. They're either preoccupied with thoughts about the past, or with making plans for the future. As a result, they often don't seem to enjoy today. Perhaps that explained their preoccupation with time. Time slips away from them.

  "What's a baghwan?" I asked, quickly changing the subject, because I really didn't want to get into a discussion about "the good old days." From everything I'd read, I couldn't see what was so damned good about them.

  "Baghwan's not a what, it's a who," said Leventhal. "Though a few people might argue that point," he added, with a smile.

  "Okay," I said. "Then who is Baghwan?"

  "His real name's Brace Young," Leventhal replied, as he drove, "but most people know him by his street name, Baghwan. I'm not sure what the hell it means. It has to do with East Indian religion or philosophy or something. But it seems like he's studied just about everything at one time or another. Guy's a walking encyclopedia of obscure knowledge. History, philosophy, theology, psychology, you name it, he knows something about it. He also knows where all the bodies are buried when it conies to the street scene in this town. He deals in information. Specializes in connections."

  "You mean he's sort of a go-between?" I asked.

  "Among other things," said Leventhal, nodding.

  "And you use him as a source?"

  "Every now and then," said Leventhal. "Generally speaking, the Baghwan won't talk to cops. That is, he'll talk to 'em, be polite and all, but he won't give 'em anything."

  "But he talks to you?"

  "Because I play straight with him," Leventhal replied. "I never ask him to sell anybody out and I never hassle him or any of his friends. And if he scratches my back, I always try to return the favor. That's something the guys who go by the book never understand. They come on with this big authority trip and expect to get something for nothing. Or else they'll flash a couple of bills and expect a guy to roll over and be their stoolie. Sometimes it works out that way, but only with sleazy small-timers, not guys like Baghwan. If you're a scuzzball, you'll sell out your own mother for a lousy buck, but most people have their pride and you gotta respect that. If I slip the Baghwan a few bucks, it's understood that it's to meet expenses, period. It's a business transaction, pure and simple, and it's a door that swings both ways. Most cops don't understand that, or else they don't want to understand it. They think a badge makes them superior and entitles them to throw their weight around."

  "And you don't?"

  "Only when I have to, Cat, only when I have to. In the old days, the Mob had a saying-'Sooner or later, everybody does business with everybody.' If you understand that, it makes it easier to get along with people. That's why I often come up with leads nobody else can get. It's not that I'm such a great detective, it's that I don't treat people like shit just because they dress or look different or follow a lifestyle that's on the fringe. Hell, if I hadn't joined the cops, I'd probably be one of 'em."

  "In a way, you are one of them, aren't you?" I asked. "You seem to understand them."

  Leventhal shook his head. "No, Cat. Maybe I used to be, but not anymore. Just because I understand 'em doesn't make me one of 'em. I'm on the other side. I stopped being one of 'em when I went into the police academy. That's a one-way trip."

  "It must have been important to you, though," I said.

  Leventhal nodded. "Yeah, it was. Still is."

  "Why?"

  "Because, like I told the commissioner, I wanted to catch the bad guys," said Leventhal. "And nobody really gives a shit about the bad guys who prey on the people of the street. Oh, every once in a while, they'll bust one of 'em, because it's easy and maybe they've had the bust handed to 'em on a silver platter, and it's another felony arrest that looks good on your record, but most cops would just as soon bust the victims as the victimizers. They don't really care. A bust is a bust. If you got some sleazeball out there taking young runaways and turning 'em out to work the streets, it's easier to bust the runaways then the creep who turned 'em out. They'll bust some kid for taking his frustration out on a wall with a can of spray paint, just trying to say, 'Hey, I'm here; I exist; I got this to say,' but nobody cares that the kid's living under a bridge and eating outta dumpsters."

  I nodded. That was a part of life I understood only too well. I'd been there.

  "Anyway," said Leventhal, shrugging his shoulders, "I had my share of being rousted when I was a kid on the streets. And I didn't like it anymore than anybody else does. I wondered why they were hassling me when they could be out there doing some good, going after the real creeps, not kids like me, who were only acting creepy because nobody understood and nobody cared and it was a way to make people keep their distance. And then, one day, when I was mouthing off at some cop, a funny thing happened. I thought to myself, you know, if I was in this guy's shoes, I'd fucking know what to do. I'd know how to handle this. I started looking at the situation from his point of view and I realized why he was the way he was. Because he didn't understand. He didn't care. And, in another way, I didn't understand and I didn't care, either. To him, I was just another snot-nosed, wiseass street punk. But to me, he was just another hardass pig on a power trip. I was just as guilty of seeing things only one way as he was. And I thought about it. I thought about it a lot. And I realized that if any of that shit was going to change, somebody had to start changing it. Might as well be me. If I thought I could do it better, then maybe I should walk the walk and not just talk the talk, you know?" He shrugged again. "So I became a cop."

  "And you've been bucking the system ever since," I said.

  Leventhal grinned. "Yeah, well, maybe it's just self-defense. It's a lot harder for a cop to hassle another cop."

  "You're an idealist, Dan," I said. "It's a dying breed."

  "Well, definitely an endangered species, anyway," he replied, with a grin.

  "I keep hearing about this place, Mudd's," I said. "A couple of Susan Jacobs's friends mentioned it on the tape. What is that, a bar?"

  "A coffeehouse," said Leventhal. "They don't serve alcohol, which is why they can stay open
till four a.m., and why a lot of the young street kids can hang out there."

  "Somehow, it doesn't sound like the sort of place Susan Jacobs and her.friends would frequent," I said.

  "You get all kinds of people at Mudd's," said Leventhal. "Artists and adepts, writers, dancers, students and musicians, Rippers, and whoever thinks it's cool to hang around with people like that. It makes for a pretty strange mix. Dee Rose, who owns the place, holds the whole thing together. Place has a lot of history. During the Collapse, it burned down in a firefight between the cops and the street gangs. They say sometimes you can see the ghosts of some of the people who got killed there that night."

  "Can you?" I asked.

  Leventhal shrugged. "I haven't seen 'em, but Dee doesn't say yes, and he doesn't say no. I guess it helps business to have rumors that the place is haunted. Dee's a little strange, anyway. He wanted a place to hang out with his friends and he didn't like any of the other night spots in town. They were all either too slick, or too trendy, or too expensive for his tastes. He wanted something more laid back, more bohemian. So he bought the old building with the aid of a historical preservation grant and reopened Mudd's."

  "Let me guess," I said. "It's your favorite hangout."

  Leventhal grinned. "How'd you know?"

  "Just took a shot," I said.

  "Well, I think you'll like the place. You oughtta fit right in."

  "Assuming they let me through the door," I said. "Isn't there some health department regulation about not allowing animals in where they serve food?"

  "Yeah, but when it comes to thaumagenes, it's not really enforced," said Leventhal. "Leastwise, not at Mudd's. Dee says most of the thaumagenes that come in are cleaner than some of his regular customers."

  "I'll be sure to go in the restroom if I have to bring up a hairball," I said.

  "Yeah, well, you probably won't be the only one hackin' in there," Leventhal replied. He pulled in to the curb. "Well, here we are."

  "Good. Where are we?"

  "Sixteenth and Lincoln. We're going in that building over there, right on the corner."

  I glanced toward the tall, glass-fronted office building. "What's in there?"

  "A shitload of overpriced offices, and the studios of KTLK, Denver's K-Talk FM, home of the late night call-in shows and big-time alternative radio."

  "Big-time alternative radio? Isn't that a contradiction in terms?" I asked.

  "Yeah, but don't tell 'em. They're very sincere about it."

  He held the door for me while I trotted across the seat and hopped down onto the sidewalk, then we went up the steps and into the lobby. It was very ritzy. Lots of mirrors, fake marble, and potted plants. Someone had taken a lot of trouble to make the lobby look subdued and elegant, I guess so they could justify the high rents they obviously charged.

  I leaped back and hissed as a floor buffer shot past me and swung wildly to make a wide detour around Leventhal. There wasn't any cord attached to it and it made a sort of swishing, whuffle-whuffle sound as it gyroscoped crazily across the tiled floor, like some animated appliance waltzing to music that no one else could hear.

  "You okay, Cat?" Leventhal asked me.

  "Stupid thing almost ran me over," I said, staring at it malevolently.

  "Hey!" he shouted, pointing at the buffer.

  It stopped and swiveled around, its bristles rotating furiously.

  Leventhal beckoned to it with his forefinger. "C'mere."

  It swished and whuffled up to him.

  He gave it a sound kick and I heard the clang of his steel-toed boot on the buffer's housing as the thing went scuttling backward with a high-pitched, whining sound.

  "You! What the hell do you think you're doing?" A beefy security guard came bustling over from the lobby desk.

  Leventhal flashed his shield.

  "Oh," said the guard, relaxing somewhat, but still staring at Leventhal suspiciously. "You a cop?"

  "No, I'm a Girl Scout," Leventhal replied wryly. "You better have building management get an adept to adjust that thing. It almost ran over my partner."

  The security guard looked down at me and raised his eyebrows. "That's your partner?"

  "Yeah," said Leventhal. "You got a problem with that?"

  "Uh, no sir," the guard replied, a bit taken aback. "Is, uh, there something I can help you with?"

  "Yeah, just point us toward the elevators," Leventhal replied.

  "Certainly, sir. Right that way," said the guard, pointing across the lobby.

  "And get a leash on that thing, before somebody gets hurt," added Leventhal, pointing at the buffer.

  "Uh... right. Yes, sir. I'll speak to building maintenance."

  "You do that."

  I couldn't help chuckling as we made our way to the elevators.

  "What's so funny?" Leventhal asked.

  "Just the way you kicked that buffer," I replied.

  "I hate those damned thaumaturgically animated things," he said, with a scowl. "Computers are bad enough, but it's getting so's you can't get through a single day without tripping over some kind of spell-animated contraption."

  "They're just work-saving devices," I said.

  "They're a pain in the ass, if you ask me," he replied. "That 'work-saving device' just about flattened you."

  "Well, it didn't."

  "Came close enough," said Leventhal. "I don't know about you, Cat, but it bothers me to see machines and things skittering about all by themselves. About half the time, they don't even work right."

  "That's because the adepts who cast the spells were sloppy," I replied. "I've seen some pretty sophisticated jobs of thaumaturgic animation myself."

  I thought of Broom, Wyrdrune's familiar, a magically animated kitchen broom which had somehow become impressed with his late mother's personality, and Ramses, the living sculpture created by Lady Rhiannon out of precious stones and metals. However, Broom was the result of a highly sophisticated spell that not even Wyrdrune had understood completely, and Lady Rhiannon, in addition to being Santa Fe's preeminent sculptor, was a highly talented and gifted sorceress. My partner had a point. Most thaumaturgically animated objects one encountered these days were not on the same level, primarily because the adepts who animated them were not very advanced, themselves.

  Magic was no longer secret knowledge and, on at least some level, almost anyone could do it. There were hundreds of books to be found in the thaumaturgy and occult sections of most bookstores, and a dedicated layman who wished to study magic could, theoretically, receive almost as complete an education as a warlock in a graduate study program at a College of Sorcery. However, it was one thing to have access to the knowledge, and it was quite another thing to have the skill and talent to put that knowledge to practical use. Most people who tried their hand at magic and found they had no talent for it usually had sense enough to let well enough alone, because it could be dangerous, but there has never been a shortage of people who have no sense whatsoever, nor was there a shortage of unscrupulous and sloppy hack adepts.

  The Bureau of Thaumaturgy, under the aegis of the International Thaumaturgical Commission, fought a constant battle to regulate the practice of magic, but there was only so much any bureaucracy, no matter how large and powerful, could do. Adepts were licensed and registered, and an unscrupulous or unethical adept could have his or her license lifted, but that didn't solve all the problems. Lately, there had been a move to ban the sale of books and information giving instructions for practical magic use, but that had run into stiff opposition in the legislature, based on the First Amendment.

  In Washington, Congresswoman Brady was seeking to find a way around that little loophole by introducing the "Thaumaturgical Control Bill," which aimed at registering all purchasers of books and other information pertaining to practical magic use and called for a seven-day waiting period on all such purchases, to provide for a background check. It was a controversial bill, but it had a lot of grass-roots support, particularly among people who saw the oppor
tunity to make a fortune in black-market, underground-press publication of thaumaturgy texts. The battle was being fought with bumper stickers proclaiming slogans such as "Magic is alive, trouble is afoot," and "You'll get my book only when you pry my cold, dead fingers from its spine." It was an imperfect world, but at least it was an entertaining one.

  The elevator doors opened and we entered. "Floor, please," said the elevator.

  "Sixteen," said Leventhal.

  The doors closed, but the elevator didn't move. "Floor, please."

  "Sixteen," Leventhal repeated.

  The doors slid open. "Lobby," said the elevator. "Have a nice day."

  Leventhal slammed his fist against the control panel. "Sixteen, you dumb, fuckin’ box!"

  The doors closed and the elevator started to ascend.

  Leventhal shook his head. "I rest my case," he said. He took out a pad and pen and made a note to call the building inspector.

  We arrived at the sixteenth floor without further incident and stepped out. "Have a nice day," said the elevator, as we exited.

  "Up your shaft," Leventhal growled.

  The glass-fronted office enclosure before us was labeled with the call letters of K-Talk, where Susan Jacobs had worked, and beneath it, the name of the broadcasting group that owned the station. The letters were ornately stenciled on the glass in gold. The receptionist, a glossy blond in a dark-blue, well-tailored, Neo-Edwardian suit, looked up as we approached.

  "Good afternoon," she said. "Can I help you?" From a speaker concealed in the ceiling, the program currently on the air could be heard.

  "I'm here to see Mark Michaels," Leventhal said.

  "I see," the receptionist replied, automatically. "And do you have an appointment?"

  Leventhal flashed his shield. "No, but this says I don't need one."

  She seemed unimpressed. "Just a moment, please." She picked up a phone and turned her back to us, speaking softly. I caught the word "policeman," uttered with distaste. She put down the phone after a moment and turned back to us with a smile that was anything but sincere. "Someone will be with you in a moment," she said.