Cat on a Cold Tin Roof

by Mike Resnick

  I couldn’t question Velma. The second she saw me she’d call the cops and have me arrested for trespassing or harassment.

  I could talk to Ziggy and the Goniff again, but I’d just spoken to them that morning. Same with Reuben.

  I could make the rounds of the top jewelers, but I’d feel silly as hell asking them if they’d attached ten million dollars’ worth of diamonds to a cat collar.

  So what, I wondered, could I do that wasn’t 100 percent useless or idiotic?

  I thought about it for a few minutes and came up with a notion that was perhaps only 98 percent idiotic.

  I swiveled the chair until it was facing my typewriter, stuck a sheet of paper in it, and began typing:

  Will the party that found my mackerel tabby cat and turned it in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a gift for finding her.

  I closed by putting in my home phone number—just in case someone was being exceptionally careful, I didn’t want them to figure out they were calling a detective. Then I stared at it for a couple of minutes and decided it lacked a little something.

  Finally I folded the paper, stuck it in my lapel pocket, closed up the office, and drove home, which took all of fifteen minutes, and found that the mail wasn’t any more interesting there than at the office.

  “Why aren’t you out tracking criminals?” said a familiar voice, and I turned to find myself facing Mrs. Cominsky.

  I was about to give her a sarcastic answer when I suddenly realized that she might be just what I needed.

  “How would you like to help me on a case, Mrs. Cominsky?” I said.

  “Are you after a killer or a rapist?” she asked enthusiastically.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m after either a killer or a good Samaritan.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” she demanded suspiciously.

  I shook my head. “Not at all. If I can prove it’s a killer, then I’ll turn it over to the cops. But I’ve got to talk to him or her first.”

  “Well, come on in,” she said, suddenly businesslike. “No sense doing this in a freezing foyer.” I walked through the inner door to the staircase. “My place or yours?”

  “Mine, I think,” I said. “We have your reputation to consider.”

  I led the way up to the second-floor landing, unlocked my door, and stood aside while she entered first. Marlowe looked up, said, Oh, it’s you, yawned, and went back to sleep.

  “All right, Mr. Paxton,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “Someone turned a cat in to an animal shelter the other day,” I said. “And it’s essential that I find him.”

  She frowned. “That damned cat again?” she said. “Someone’s really paying you to find it?” She shook her head, half in disbelief, half in contempt for my employer.

  “It’s been found,” I said.

  “So what is all this about?” she demanded.

  “I need to find who turned it in to the shelter.”

  “Ah! The thief!”

  “Maybe,” I said. “If it’s the person who stole it, we could be looking at a murderer. But if it’s just some guy who found it and brought it to the shelter, then like I said, it’s a Samaritan.”

  “Why some guy?” she asked in a way that implied that I was a male chauvinist pig, which I probably am from time to time. “Why not a woman?”

  “Because the lady at the shelter told me it was a guy,” I answered.

  “Okay, some guy gave the cat to the shelter, and maybe he’s a killer, and maybe he’s just a good Christian,” said Mrs. Cominsky. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “I wrote an ad as if I was the owner, hoping he’d make contact with me. But I think it could be a little better, or at least a little more sincere. I was hoping that if I show it to you that you might make a suggestion or two.”

  “Ah!” she said happily, now that we were getting down to business. “Let me see it!”

  I pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and handed it to her. She studied it for a moment, a frown of either concentration or disapproval written large across her face.

  “Well?” I asked when she looked up.

  “First of all, the cat needs a name.”

  “Fluffy,” I told her.

  She took a pencil out of a pocket and scribbled the name down on the paper.

  “And she’s not your mackerel tabby,” she said. “She’s your beloved mackerel tabby.”

  “Okay,” I said, as she wrote it down. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He turned her in, not it. Beloved cats are never its.” She scribbled again. “Also, he didn’t find her; he saved her. And maybe a heartfelt gift, rather than just a gift. You don’t want to say a valuable gift or you’ll get three hundred jerks calling and pretending they turned the cat in.”

  She finished writing and handed it back to me:

  Will the party who found my beloved mackerel tabby cat Fluffy and turned her in to the Wilkinson Animal Shelter two days ago please contact me? I want to thank you in person and present you with a heartfelt gift for saving her.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Better,” I said. “Let’s hope it works.”

  “Now that we’re partners,” she said, “who was killed and what does the cat have to do with it?”

  “The police have asked me not to divulge the name of the deceased to anyone,” I lied. “And the cat may have nothing at all to do with it.”

  She frowned again. “Why would a killer take a victim’s cat with him? It’s not as if the damned thing could testify to what it saw.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it scratched him, maybe he got some DNA on it.”

  She shook her head. “Then why turn it in to a shelter?”

  “If I had all the answers I’d know who he was and he’d be in jail or totally off the hook,” I said.

  “Let’s put our heads together and see what we can reason out.”

  “Not this second,” I said apologetically. “I can tell Marlowe needs a walk. Can’t have him messing the rug,” I said as I grabbed his leash and put it on him.

  “The carpet, damn it!” she snapped.

  “Back soon,” I said as I opened the door and tugged Marlowe, who was still nine-tenths asleep, down the stairs and out the door.

  It was still light out, and I walked Marlowe almost two blocks past Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias in the hope that Mrs. Cominsky would get tired of waiting for me, but she’d had an evangelistic look about her face as I left that said, You’re Nick, I’m Nora, that’s Asta, and we’re going to solve a murder that’s stumped the police.

  Even Marlowe, who never feels anything, was getting uncomfortably cold, and finally I began walking him back to the apartment. I became aware that a car was following us very slowly the final half block. I figured it was just because of some icy patches on the street, but then I remembered I’d just driven on the same street maybe half an hour ago, and the traction was fine, so I stopped and turned to look at it.

  It was a BMW, and the driver had coal-black hair, dark eyes, a black mustache, and a deep tan, either natural or from the sun.

  Suddenly he smiled, pointed his finger at me, and fired an imaginary shot between my eyes.

  “Marlowe,” I said as he raced off, “I think I’ve just seen my first Bolivian.”

  10.

  “Now this is a real dinner!” enthused Sorrentino as we were eating at Carrabba’s. “Reminds me of the old country!”

  “Come on, Val,” I said. “When were you in the old country?”

  “Three, four years ago,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, their shrimp scampi doesn’t compare to this.” He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know why all Italians talk about the old country. If it was so damned good, we wouldn’t have come here, would we?”

  “I don’t know where the hell the Paxtons came from
,” I said. “If they didn’t change the name at Ellis Island, I suspect we were British peasants.”

  “How many generations ago?”

  “Beats the hell out of me,” I replied.

  “You never asked?” he said, surprised.

  I shook my head. “It never interested me. Wherever we came from a century or two ago, I’m not going back.”

  “A man’s gotta know where he came from,” said Sorrentino.

  “I’m more concerned with where I’m going.” I took a swallow of my beer. “And who’s trying to stop me.”

  He stared at me and frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m pretty sure I saw one of the Bolivians a couple of hours ago, when I was walking my dog.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Just driving his car, at maybe five miles an hour, pacing me as I walked.”

  “Could have been anyone,” said Sorrentino.

  “Could have,” I said.

  “But you don’t think so?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, why?”

  I aimed my finger at him and fired an imaginary shot.

  “He did that?” asked Sorrentino.

  “Right,” I said.

  He frowned. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “It made perfect sense to me,” I said. “He’s warning me off the case.”

  He shook his head vigorously. “If he knows where you live, he knows you’re private, and that means you’re not after the killer, you’re after the money. Why the hell would he warn you off? He ought to be explaining to you that he’ll ride shotgun while you hunt for it and let you keep one-third of it. Of course, if you agreed and found it, he’d kill you, but why threaten you before you find it?”

  “I think he was just letting me know he’s here, and that he and his friends are going to be mighty pissed off if I find the money and don’t offer to share with them, maybe ninety-ten in their favor.”

  “Maybe,” he said, unconvinced. “But if he’s keeping an eye on you, why didn’t he follow you to the restaurant?”

  “There are three of them. Maybe one of the others did. All I was looking for in my rearview was his BMW.”

  “Makes sense,” he said.

  I finished my veal parmesan, washed it down with the rest of the beer, considered having my first smoke of the day, couldn’t see an ashtray anywhere in the place, suddenly remembered that you can’t smoke in restaurants in Cincinnati, and settled for watching Sorrentino finish his shrimp.

  “So what’s our next move, Mr. Detective?” he said when he was done eating.

  “I’ve been thinking about it,” I said. I checked my watch. “Quarter after seven. I think I can start in a few minutes.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m going to take my dog for a walk.”

  He stared at me. “Enough with the jokes.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing, Eli?” he demanded.

  “Laying the groundwork,” I said.

  Suddenly his face lit up. “This has something to do with the Bolivian who spotted you!”

  “Right,” I said.

  “You want him to see you again, and that’s why you’re walking the dog. OK, I got that much. But then what? You’re sure as hell not looking to get into a shootout with him. Hell, he might have both his stablemates with him.”

  “I leave the shootouts to John Wayne and Clint Eastwood,” I said. “Once I know he’s following me, I’m going to walk to my car, toss Marlowe in it—”

  “Marlowe?” he interrupted me.

  “My dog. Then I’m going to drive downtown.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then I’m going to report him to the cops, who are looking for him anyway.”

  “He’ll just drive off.”

  I smiled at him. “I don’t think so.”

  “You know something I don’t know,” he said.

  “Hell, if push comes to shove, I probably know three or four things you don’t know.”

  “Just the same, I’d better ride shotgun.”

  “I told you: I don’t want a shootout,” I said. “Val, I know what I’m doing. If he didn’t shoot me when he saw me walking Marlowe before, he’s not going to shoot me now. He’s just keeping an eye on me, and maybe trying to make sure I know he’s willing to shoot me under the right circumstances . . . but those circumstances aren’t tonight.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “I’m sure.”

  “So what do I do while you’re pulling off whatever the hell it is you’re pulling off?”

  “Meet me at police headquarters.” I told him how to get there, then checked my watch again and did the math. “Meet me there in an hour.”

  “At the police station?” he said, frowning.

  I nodded. “Just walk in the door. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  The waiter came by with the check, and Sorrentino grabbed it before I could (not that I tried very hard).

  “I make a lot more money busting heads than you do saving ’em,” he said. “I’m paying for any meals we eat together until we find the money or give up looking for it.”

  I decided to not even pretend to protest.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Eli,” he said as the waiter made change. “Keep it, son,” he said, waving the fortyish waiter off. “How long do I wait if you’re not there?”

  “If I’m not there by eleven, go to bed and get some sleep, because it means our Bolivian friend wasn’t as interested in me as we think.”

  We got up and walked to the door.

  “Take care of yourself,” he said, walking off to his car.

  I went over to the Ford, started it up, and headed the four miles home. Marlowe wasn’t thrilled to see me, and he was even less thrilled to be dragged out into the cold, especially since we were being visited with a freezing drizzle.

  I walked him to his favorite urinal—Mrs. Garabaldi’s petunias—but she must have been busy watching television, because for a change there was no cursing. I looked around, hoping to see a car tracking me, but there was no traffic on the street.

  “Show up, damn it!” I muttered. “I’m freezing my ass off.”

  So was Marlowe, who tried to pull me back to the apartment. He turned to growl his displeasure at me, got tangled in the leash, and as I squatted down to unwrap him I spotted it, parked about twenty yards away. Same BMW as before, and I could see now that it had a man—doubtless my Bolivian, or one of his partners, seated behind the wheel, just keeping a watchful eye on me.

  Marlowe saw the front door to the apartment and began tugging for all he was worth.

  “Hey, pal,” I said, pulling him toward the car. “Wanna go for a ride?”

  He gave me a look that said, Are you crazy? and pulled back as hard as he could. Finally I just leaned over, picked him up, and tossed him onto the backseat, then walked around to the driver’s side, opened the door, and got in. I could see that the BMW had started its motor—I couldn’t hear it, and the lights weren’t on yet, but I could see vapor coming out of its tailpipe. I started the car, gave it a moment to warm up, mostly so the BMW, which was facing the wrong direction, had time to turn around in an alley.

  I checked my watch. Just a few minutes from eight o’clock. Yeah, I’d be right on schedule. I turned left, the BMW followed me, I turned right a few blocks later, he did the same, and I gradually made my way downtown. When I was within a mile I turned on the radio to hear the latest sports news and to confirm that I’d made the right decision. There was a bit about an upcoming middleweight title fight, some shortstop was going public about being disrespected since he’d only been offered seventy million to sign for three years, and then came what I was waiting for: there was a huge rally for the Bengals at Paul Brown Stadium starting at eight-thirty, and traffic was stop and go, the rain was coming down a little harder, visibility could have been better, and even as I was listening and approaching th
e stadium I got caught in the stop-and-go traffic I was hearing about.

  I stopped, fourth in line, at a red light at the corner of 6th and Vine. My passenger’s door opened and Jim Simmons climbed in.

  “Glad you got my message,” I said.

  “I wish to hell you’d learn to use a cell phone,” he said bitterly. “I’ve been standing out here in this shit for half an hour waiting for you to show up. There must be ten thousand cars here. It’s almost as bad as game day, and that wind!” He shuddered, then damned near jumped through the roof when Marlowe barked at him.

  “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

  “Marlowe.”

  “Seriously, Eli.”

  “Seriously. He’s my dog. That’s his name.”

  “And you brought him along for protection?” he said sardonically.

  “I brought him along because I was afraid if I went into the apartment to put him away they’d think I wasn’t coming back out and maybe go home for the night.”

  “Then he is following you?”

  “The blue BMW right behind me,” I said.

  “Okay, we’re in business.” Simmons pulled out his cell phone. “Hello, Bill? It’s working. We’re at 6th and Vine. Fifth car at the light is a BMW, almost certainly rented, and the license plate is”—he read off the number. “Send a couple of traffic cops over to give him a ticket, have him get out of the car while they act as if they’re about to inspect it, and the second he’s out, cuff him.” He paused. “The car? All right, get a third man to drive it to the station. This guy may be a killer. Even with cuffs on him, I want at least two cops with him. Right.”

  He put the cell phone away. “Okay, Eli,” he said. “Unless you’ve got an overwhelming urge to listen to the players taking turns predicting that they’ll beat the Steelers on Sunday, turn north and let’s get over to the station.”

  We arrived about ten minutes later. The traffic had thinned as we got a mile north of the Ohio River, which ran by both stadiums. I parked in the police lot, and Jim and I entered just as they were leading the Bolivian to a holding cell.

  He turned and saw me enter. I flashed him a smile, then pointed my finger at him and fired it.

  If looks could kill, I’d have been dead two seconds later.