Part 1 (2/2)
”Greedy gut,” I told him, and poured him another saucer of ginger ale. He thanked me with a polite wait, then started lapping it.
But he had interrupted my pleasantly nasty chain of thought. What the devil could I do about Pete?
You can't give away a cat the way you can a dog; they won't stand for it. Sometimes they go with the house, but not in Pete's case; to him I had been the one stable thing in a changing world ever since he was taken from his mother nine years earlier... I had even managed to keep him near me in the Army and that takes real w.a.n.gling.
He was in good health and likely to stay that way even though he was held together with scar tissue. If he could just correct a tendency to lead with his right he would be winning battles and siring kittens for another five years at least.
I could pay to have him kept in a kennel until he died (unthinkable!) or I could have him chloroformed (equally unthinkable)-or I could abandon him. That is what it boils down to with a cat: you either carry out the Chinese obligation you have a.s.sumed-or you abandon the poor thing, let him go wild, destroy its faith in the eternal rightness.
The way Belle had destroyed mine.
So, Danny Boy, you might as well forget it. Your own life may have gone as sour as dill pickles; that did not excuse you in the slightest from your obligation to carry out your contract to this super-spoiled cat.
Just as I reached that philosophical truth Pete sneezed; the bubbles had gone up his nose. ”Gesundheit,” I answered, ”and quit trying to drink it so fast.”
Pete ignored me. His table manners averaged better than mine and he knew it. Our waiter had been hanging around the cash register, talking with the cas.h.i.+er. It was the after-lunch slump and the only other customers were at the bar. The waiter looked up when I said ”Gesundheit,” and spoke to the cas.h.i.+er. They both looked our way, then the cas.h.i.+er lifted the flap gate in the bar and headed toward us.
I said quietly, ”MPs, Pete.”
He glanced around and ducked down into the bag; I pushed the top together. The cas.h.i.+er came over and leaned on my table, giving the seats on both sides of the booth a quick double-O. ”Sony, friend,” he said flatly, ”but you'll have to get that cat out of here.”
”What cat?”
”The one you were feeding out of that saucer.”
”I don't see any cat.”
This time he bent down and looked under the table. ”You've got him in that bag,” he accused.
”Bag? Cat?” I said wonderingly. ”My friend, I think you've come down with an acute figure of speech.”
”Huh? Don't give me any fancy language. You've got a cat in that bag. Open it up.”
”Do you have a search warrant?”
”What? Don't be silly.”
”You're the one talking silly, demanding to see the inside of my bag without a search warrant. Fourth Amendment-and the war has been over for years. Now that we've settled that, please tell my waiter to make it the same all around-or fetch it yourself.”
He looked pained. ”Brother, this isn't anything personal, but I've got a license to consider. 'No dogs, no cats-it says so right up there on the wall. We aim to run a sanitary establishment.”
”Then your aim is poor.” I picked up my gla.s.s. ”See the lipstick marks? You ought to be checking your dishwasher, not searching your customers.”
”I don't see no lipstick.”
”I wiped most of it off. But let's take it down to the Board of Health and get the bacteria count checked.”
He sighed. ”You got a badge?”
”No.”
”Then we're even. I don't search your bag and you don't take me down to the Board of Health. Now if you want another drink, step up to the bar and have it... on the house. But not here.” He turned and headed up front.
I shrugged. ”We were just leaving anyhow.”
As I started to pa.s.s the cas.h.i.+er's desk on my way out he looked up. ”No hard feelings?”
”Nope. But I was planning to bring my horse in here for a drink later. Now I won't.”
”Suit yourself. The ordinance doesn't say a word about horses. But just one more thing-does that cat really drink ginger ale?”
”Fourth Amendment, remember?”
”I don't want to see the animal; I just want to know.”
”Well,” I admitted, ”he prefers it with a dash of bitters, but he'll drink it straight if he has to.”
”It'll ruin his kidneys. Look here a moment, friend.”
”At what?”
”Lean back so that your head is close to where mine is. Now look up at the ceiling over each booth... the mirrors up in the decorations. I knew there was a cat there-because I saw it.”
I leaned back and looked. The ceiling of the joint had a lot of junky decoration, including many mirrors; I saw now that a number of them, camouflaged by the design, were so angled as to permit the cas.h.i.+er to use them as periscopes without leaving his station. ”We need that,” he said apologetically. ”You'd be shocked at what goes on in those booths... if we didn't keep an eye on 'em. It's a sad world.”
”Amen, brother.” I went on out Once outside, I opened the bag and carried it by one handle; Pete stuck his head out. ”You heard what the man said, Pete. 'It's a sad world.' Worse than sad when two friends can't have a quiet drink together without being spied on. That settles it.”
”Now?” asked Pete.
”If you say so. If we're going to do it, there's no point in stalling.”
”Now!”Pete answered emphatically.
”Unanimous. It's right across the street.”
The receptionist at the Mutual a.s.surance Company was a fine example of the beauty of functional design. In spite of being streamlined for about Mach Four, she displayed frontal-mounted radar housings and everything else needed for her basic mission. I reminded myself that she would be Whistler's Mother by the time I was out and told her that I wanted to see a salesman.
”Please be seated. I will see if one of our client executives is free.” Before I could sit down she added, ”Our Mr. Powell will see you. This way, please.”
Our Powell occupied an office which made me think that Mutual did pretty well for itself. He shook hands moistly, sat me down, offered me a cigarette, and attempted to take my bag. I hung onto it. ”Now, sir, how can we serve you?”
”I want the Long Sleep.”
His eyebrows went up and his manner became more respectful. No doubt Mutual would write you a camera floater for seven bucks, but the Long Sleep let them get their pattypaws on all of a client's a.s.sets. ”A very wise decision,” he said reverently. ”I wish I were free to take it myself. But... family responsibilities, you know.” He reached out and picked up a form. ”Sleep clients are usually in a hurry. Let me save you time and bother by filling this out for you... and we'll arrange for your physical examination at once.”
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