by Clea Simon
‘You have?’ Care may have been caught off guard, but she knows better than to volunteer information.
‘Uh-huh.’ The woman crosses her arms, tucking her bag beneath them. This has the effect of pushing her breasts up, but the dimpled flesh suggests she does it more for warmth. ‘They took my Billy, last time I went inside.’ She turns away, blinking. ‘Truancy, they said.’
‘Here.’ Care reaches into her pack. ‘Would you like an apple?’
She’s pulled the other fruit from the bag. Another bribe she didn’t get to use. The woman forces a smile and shakes her head. Then she speaks. ‘What the hell,’ she says. ‘Thanks, kid. I’ll take half.’
Care breaks the apple and hands the woman the bigger piece. They eat in companionable silence, finishing it down to the core.
‘So, this Tick.’ The woman licks her fingers, looks at them as if more apple might be hiding in between. ‘He your boy?’
Care shakes her head. ‘My friend,’ she says. ‘I was looking after him, only …’
‘Yeah,’ the woman responds, when it becomes clear that Care isn’t going to say more. She peers down the alley, as if uniformed officials waited, just out of sight. ‘They’re like that. Said I couldn’t care for Billy properly, as if they could.’
‘Mmm.’ One wordless syllable conveys it all: sympathy, support. The woman takes a small flask from the bag. Drinks and then offers it to the girl.
‘No, thanks.’ Care watches as her companion tucks the bottle away. ‘Do you know where they took him?’
A shake of the head. ‘I can tell you they don’t stay here, though. Not the young ones.’ She looks toward the building, the empty yard now darkened with shadow. ‘Process them and then move them out. They say some go to families, still—’
‘That’s how we met,’ Care interrupts, the force of memory overcoming her reticence. ‘We were in a foster together, and we ran away.’
The woman nods, her greasy curls bobbing. Care doesn’t have to explain. ‘Hey, there’s someone else I’m looking for.’ Care tilts her head. It’s a gesture I recognize. The stranger does too. She waits for the question. ‘Dingo?’ Care asks. ‘Paul Dingett?’
A pause, and then the blonde lifts her chin, questioning. ‘Is he a friend, too?’
‘No,’ says Care, and then realizes her mistake. ‘I mean, I don’t really know him.’
The woman eyes her, cautious. Asking about someone she doesn’t really know.
‘It’s about a job,’ says Care. The truth gives weight to her words. Enough so that the woman nods.
‘You from the bureau then?’ Her make-up masks any emotion.
‘The bureau?’ Care keeps her voice level. She’s not sure what question the blonde is really asking. Mirroring the words back is the smart move.
‘You know.’ The woman wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Looks down at the lipstick smear she has made. ‘The Dunstan. Where they keep the papers and all.’
‘No,’ says Care. It costs her, but it’s true. ‘You think someone there might know where he is?’
A shrug. ‘You said a job, not me.’ She licks her lips, as if the taste makes her remember, and begins to rummage through her bag. ‘But that’s where they’re all divvied up, like so many playing cards, they say. More souls are bought and sold out of that old tomb—’
‘I know it,’ Care barks, cutting her off with a tone that causes the other woman to flinch. She eyes the girl, waiting for an explanation. None comes.
‘You have family in the system,’ she says at last, her dark eyes looking for a response. ‘Someone who went in.’
‘Something like that,’ answers the girl, her voice low. Now it is my turn to appraise her. The girl has no family. No brothers who would have been sent to such a place. Even Tick is only an adoptive charge, an acquaintance of months before she went on her own, leaving behind the foster home where she was placed on her parents’ death.
The woman gives her a look I can’t decipher. A question in her eyes. In response, Care juts her jaw out. She’s not giving any more.
The woman relents and reaches once more into the bag. ‘I thought you might be a runner for them. They keep some poor souls there, I hear,’ she says at last, fishing out a lipstick. She reapplies it and exhales, her body sagging. ‘Those that can’t do other jobs. They don’t have my Billy, though.’
She falls silent then, retreating into her own sorrow. From her ready first response, I had thought she would say more. But pain – fading bruises show still on her bare arms – and, perhaps, the substances taken to dull it have pulled her back from any awareness of companionship, or the obligation of a gift.
After an extended silence, I decide to act. I jump down from my perch and walk toward Care, in full view of the other woman.
‘What?’ The blonde steps back, but I ignore her. The girl may be surprised – I’ve noticed her start ever so slightly, and then smile – but she is not displeased.
‘Blackie,’ she says as she squats, holding out her arms. It’s not my way, not how I would prefer to collect information. But there’s more at stake here than my curiosity, and so I jump into her arms and rub my face against hers. The woman beside us coos, her reaction almost involuntary. Me, I’m interested in what Care didn’t say. From her scent, I pick up that she has had a slight shock, more than my appearance would warrant, one that she hid. A fresh coat of sweat – as if from a blow – is already drying in the cool of the fading day, and from the way she holds me, I sense that whatever triggered that moment of discomfort also aroused an awareness of loneliness and loss. I lean in and purr. I am not a machine.
Nor is Care. ‘This is my cat,’ she says. Unnecessary, but her words serve to bridge the gap created by her rebuke. ‘I’m Care,’ she continues, when the woman doesn’t respond. ‘You know, I can find your boy for you. That’s what I do. Investigate.’ She pauses, waiting to see if the woman understands the word. Her would-be trade.
‘Yeah, I heard about you.’ A flicker of a smile tweaks the edges of that painted mouth. ‘You were with the old man.’
Care nods once. She’s proud, but she has the sense to wait. It is a form of interrogation, to see what the woman offers. To hear what exactly the stranger has heard.
‘Maybe I’d hire you. I make decent coin, you know.’ The woman says it like a dare. Like she expects an argument, but Care holds back. She has entered a negotiation, and waits to let the client make her own decision. ‘Only, I’ve got something else going on. My own lead on things. And you can’t find your own friend, can you?’
The challenge is unmistakable.
‘I will.’ Even my ears can catch no quaver of doubt. ‘And then I’ll look for your Billy, if your lead doesn’t work out. That is, if you want.’
‘Maybe,’ says the woman. ‘Maybe I will.’
The girl shifts and I resist the urge to hold on with my claws as she extends her hand.
‘I’m Gina,’ says the woman as she takes it. ‘Good luck.’
Care watches as the woman makes her way back to the other end of the alley, ever more unsteady after the drink, on those ridiculous heels. She releases me to jump down, and I wonder if she’ll pursue her, the unspoken questions clear on her pale face. But before she can decide to do so a car pulls up – it would be white, were it not for the rime of dirt or the streak of rust dulled to brown – and Gina is gone.
I, for one, am grateful. This detour served no purpose for either warmth or food, and I am glad to see how the big woman’s departure seems to free Care. Straightening her spine, she runs a hand over the ridiculous mop of hair and looks around. I follow her lead and stretch, extending first one claw and then another out to catch the last of the fading light.
‘Oh, Blackie!’ She laughs at my contortions, seeing in them, perhaps, the echo of her own. While the warmth in the girl’s voice is flattering, I would that she had kept her voice low, her greeting softer. We are small creatures in a dangerous city, and it is not wise to advertise our prese
nce.
‘I should have known you’d follow me.’ Care’s voice has fallen to a more moderate level, and I let her approach. I do not care to be lifted again – on the street, I rely on my ability to run and turn and jump – and she seems to understand, crouching to stroke my sleek black back. ‘Sometimes I think …’ She pauses, and I look at her. Meet her gaze with my own. ‘You must miss him, too,’ she says.
I pull away, frustrated by my lack of language. I do not miss the boy she seeks: Tick, or Thomas, as he is sometimes called. He is well named, however he came by that unfortunate sobriquet. Not only because he is small and dependent. A sickly creature who drew predators that we can ill afford. But because he feeds off the girl, I do not trust him. Do not share Care’s conviction that he returned her complete allegiance. The boy was weak, having been taken too young from his kind to comprehend the benefits of cooperation, not to mention the loyalty due an ally. I am aware that she did not see this, but as a cat I lack the flaw of sentiment. Were he a furred creature, he would have fallen prey already. Under the girl’s protection, he had survived only to be taken up by the city, by this system from which they had both previously fled. For her sake, I would that he remain in that system.
I cannot tell her this. Cannot impart the simplest of lessons anymore, but at least my thwarted desire represses my purr. Such involuntary reactions are only part of the indignity I suffer, in this life as a cat. I pull away from her hand and glare, my cool stare meeting hers. If she is hurt – shocked – she does not show it, and that is something. She is learning, this girl, if not as quickly as I would choose.
‘Well,’ she says, standing. ‘Might as well get to work.’
SIX
The girl moves like a cat. She has been taught well. Her mentor was not with her long, not in human form, but he did what he could and among her lessons were those in how to progress unnoticed. How to commingle with her environs, until and unless she should choose otherwise. And now I assume – resume – her tutelage, as best I can. I hang back to observe and find that I am soothed by her progress. By the heedful way she takes in her surroundings, turning her head up to scan above as well as along the street. Waiting before crossing open spaces, alert all the while for signs of others. Signs of life.
She gives away as little of her own presence as she can. Now that the light is nearly gone, even the wider thoroughfares offer shade and the girl makes use of these, darting from one patch of shadow to the next, as silent as she can be. Although she is growing – has grown, even, since I have known her – she remains small for her age, and slender. With minimal caution she can progress undetected by her own kind, and on these streets it is her own kind that presents the danger. The smaller beasts about us, and as night draws near, I hear the scurrying and squeal of many, consider her presence only as a precursor to my own. She is on the move, however, and therefore my hunt is postponed. I may no longer be her teacher, not in this form, in this life. But I will do my best to guide her, in my way.
‘There you are.’ She has come to a halt at a corner, where a brick monolith comes out nearly to the curb. I join her there, rubbing gently against her shin to announce myself without a sound. It’s a large building, almost as oppressive as the hulking mass we have left, and may even be as old. But it does not have the care or usage of that other place. I smell rot and moisture, a mustiness familiar from those folded bills. The wall she has pressed herself against is crumbling, and as she peers around it, her fingers dig into the surface, releasing the faintest fall of red clay – but not the dust that I have smelled. For all the drawbacks of my feline form, I have learned to trust my senses. In particular scent and hearing, which serve better in this failing light.
Care, however, does not have these advantages, and I see her squint as she peers around the wall toward the building opposite, its darkened forecourt enclosed by a tall, iron gate. Almost, she seems to be waiting, although the area appears void of her own kind. If I could ask her, maybe I would, although I have never been the type to inquire when instead I could observe. Instead, I take the air, opening my mouth slightly as if my fangs – still sharp – could draw her knowledge to me. I sniff, I taste. There is – something. Anticipation? I am picking up her own awareness of time. Her heart is beating faster. Her breathing, too. She—
A howl from a nightmare splits the night and I leap, instinct compelling me to safety. But it is too loud. It surrounds me, surrounds us both, and pressed behind her, against the wall, I find I cannot run. I cower, a dumb beast clinging to the hope that my midnight fur will hide me here. The thunderous howl is ceaseless, and soon it is joined by the noise of men. Of feet and the swing and creak of metal. It is deafening, monstrous, and even the flattening of my ears against my head cannot block the sound of men as they flee. Shod in leather or in board, their feet add to the thunder. The wall beside me vibrates, the pavement quakes as they churn down the street, moving swiftly away from the infernal cry. From the howl—
Which stops, as suddenly as it began. I open my eyes and let my ears reassert themselves. I am panting, my heart is racing. And Care has disappeared.
I creep to the edge of the building, vigilant and alert. The herd of men is thinning out, the rumble of their footsteps quieting, but I am wary, waiting for another assault.
‘Hey, look!’ A figure in the blue uniform of a rozzer turns. A truncheon points toward me. I snarl and back up. Even as my fur rises, expanding my size, I know I am no match for this man, for that nightstick or his hobnailed boots. I bare my fangs and spit. ‘That’s bad luck for you.’
‘Don’t talk about luck,’ his companion growls, eyes darting left and right. ‘Someone’s gotten sloppy, everyone’s saying. Things are getting lost, and one of Gravy’s own crew gone missing. They’ll be looking at us next. And then …’ He gestures toward the shabbily dressed men who have gone before.
‘You’re the one getting spooked now, aren’t you?’ The first man lowers his arm. Pokes his companion with his stick. ‘Thinking above your pay grade. No one goes missing, but the big guys want them to. You know that; you just need a drink. Let’s get this group back to their bins – and this time, you’re buying.’
I watch as they move on, unwilling shepherds to their shabby sheep, but I hug the wall more closely. I am stronger for my size and more lithe than these stumbling, brutish men, but I am small. Only as the last straggler passes, his eyes on that baton, do I dare step out, searching the air for any sign of the girl. Sifting through the dust and sweat and – yes! – I catch her scent and follow, daring the open space to cross the street.
She’s waiting there, in the mouth of an alley. From the shadow within, she watches the gate, which has closed again now that those it contained have been disgorged. She is quiet, as befits a watcher. But she is not calm.
‘That must be it,’ she says, as much to herself as to me, although I have made my presence known to her, rubbing against her shin as she crouches, peering toward the building’s front. Of more interest to me is the gutter she shelters behind. Although it has been repaired recently – the smell of men’s hands still on it – it is old and rusted, and the brick behind it soft with rot. As I lean in, I hear the rustling of small creatures within. The susurration picks up the fading echoes of those marching feet, but they are busy about their own business and do not heed our presence. I take in their perfume, which intrigues me, although I do not believe that is why she has chosen this spot. For her, this alley is a source of cover, but for me it holds more promise. I try my claw on the brick and find it soft as the clay from which it came. If I had time – no, if I had the use of hands – I could easily gain entry.
‘Not in there …’ I pause, but, no, she is not commenting on my situation. Still crouched behind the hanging gutter, she is watching that gate. Clearly, she expected someone in that rush of men. Tick, I realize. The boy. We are at the house of records, the place of which that slovenly woman spoke. The girl had hoped to find him in the rush of bodies that emptied out.
I take in the air, searching for that odd scent – and for other signs. For while Care took down the information the client provided, I was busy cataloguing my own information on the man. A less voluntary and more accurate means of identification. I close my eyes now to make the memory more vivid. He had been sweaty, more so than the short flight of stairs to our office should have brought forth. For humans, with their autonomic systems, this could connote tension or fear. But that laugh … no, that greasy man did not fear the girl. Did not fear me. Excitement, then, which had increased upon finding her alone in the office. And yet there was more propelling him than lust or greed. One such as that would have tried to take what he wanted, seeing the girl as weaker, being smaller than himself. And so …
‘Maybe they don’t let the runners out,’ she says, thinking aloud, her words disrupting my deliberations. ‘They probably wouldn’t, a boy his age.’
It does not matter. Whatever traces I may have discerned have been lost, overrun by the sweat of the men marching past and the dust they raised. Abandoning my post by that softened brick, I lean in, eager to pick up what I can of her reasoning from her body as well as her words. What she is saying has a certain rationale. It is possible that her charge – I hesitate to call him friend – remains in the building, behind those closed gates. It is also possible that he never entered.
Our waiting here is pointless. The light has all but faded. It is the hour of the hunt.
She seems to reach the same conclusion and pulls a sheet of paper from her bag. The contract. Once again, I regret the liabilities of my feline form. I reach to brush my jaw against the paper, but it has been in her bag for hours now and carries only traces of the fruit she gave away.