5
The ten-story office building was named after our ex-Mayor Norton Montgomery—no one had bothered to change its name after he went to jail. It was a mundane square brick structure, holding offices for the lawyers, accountants, and bail bondsmen that lived off the town’s court system. The evenly spaced glass windows gave it the look of a ten-story chicken coop facing the park. Henry Cadman, my financial advisor, tax guy, and friend had an office on the fifth floor. The chairs in his waiting room were filled with nervous people waiting to hear about the state of their finances. A serious young woman, June Smithson, sat at a desk facing the group. She reminded me of my tenth grade math teacher, and the look on the faces of the waiting group suggested they were about to take an algebra test. She wore a conservative suit with just the right amount of jewelry, but her attempt at respectability was undermined by a whirling dervish of glowing blond hair. The out-of-control explosion rendered the rest of her attire irrelevant. I could see Henry Cadman through the glass door of his office talking seriously to a young couple. He was known to his friends as Doctor Dollar. In a room off to the side, a young fellow sat behind two large computer screens. Benny was the Doctor’s assistant. He was alone. Benny’s computer skills were legendary, but his people skills were nonexistent. We always got along well, perhaps because I appreciated his eccentricities. Who else would compliment him on a yellow tie sporting a grinning clown face? I told June that I wanted to see Benny. I was first on the list to meet with him, and she sent me in.
“Hi, Benny. Nice tie.”
Benny looked up, startled. “Oh, Blue. I’m sorry. I mean. Oh, that. Thanks. But you probably want to see the Doctor.”
“He looks pretty busy, so if I could just leave him a message?”
“Of course, of course.” Benny continued to type instructions on his computer keyboard even as he looked at me.
“There’s a firm I’d like the Doctor to check into when he gets a chance.” Benny’s eyes lit up when I gave him the password to the KittyLuv site. He was rummaging through their inner workings before I even left the office. I suspected he really didn’t need the password.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
I drove through the town on my way home. The evening traffic was light, and nearly nonexistent once I turned onto Machinist’s Drive. I thought of the Drive as my own personal two-mile-long driveway, as I seldom passed anyone along the road. I crossed the narrow bridge over Hammer Creek, passed by factories that the road was built to serve but had since closed down. Iron, Inc. was running at half speed. Pharm-a-Lot still ran a pretty good business, but that was because it dealt in drugs, an industry that thrived. I passed a hulk that was slowly being absorbed by the ever-present barberry bushes and fast-growing maples. The asphalt plant next to the Arms had closed down last month; the air that blew into my apartment no longer smelled like a highway on a hot summer day. I pulled in beside the Gold Hill Arms. The Arms had begun as an elegant hotel that served the owners of the industries. It was a sturdy six-story brick building with a marble entrance and an elaborately carved frieze over the double doors. But time and a changing world had taken a toll, and the Arms was showing signs of middle age.
I parked in a spot next to the rusting van. The final two tires had gone flat, and it was slowly sinking into the soft earth. Now the Arms served as a home for transients, misfits, druggies, and deadbeats—those who were hiding from the law, breaking the law, or looking for a way to break the law. The Arms was home for those who were afraid of life, thosewho wished to remain invisible, and those who were trying to become invisible. The motto of the Gold Hill Arms should be carved in the marble floor of the lobby: “Out of sight—Out of mind.”
I don’t know why I live here—maybe it’s just the observer in me. I only want to watch and listen, but an observer also needs to be invisible. I’d spent enough of my life in the spotlight, and that didn’t work out so well.
Javier was our super, custodian, handyman, and doorman. He lived on the ground floor. He had converted a meeting room adjacent to the lobby into an apartment. He usually left his door open, and anyone coming through could see him settled in front of his wide-screen television set. This satisfied his duties as a doorman. As I walked through he looked up from the TV and waved.
It was a hot August night, the air was still, and my apartment was steaming. I mixed a martini and climbed out the window to the deck chair on the fire escape. The ground dropped off behind the Arms, which allowed a long view to the south. In the distance lay the railroad yards, a great expanse of tracks where locomotives used to push boxcars around, sorting out those that would sit idle from those that were linked up for trips back to the West. There was only one pusher engine still working, and most of the freight cars that remained hadn’t moved in years. At the far end of the tracks I could see the lights from South Station, our main rail link to New York City. The few buildings along the edge of the tracks were dark. Only in one large stone factory did I see a glimmer of light.
6
Tuesday afternoon, sunny again, hot again, and the air was still. The sky was clear and blue—an August blue tempered by heat waves. The town was steaming, but the Park was blessed by the shadow of one cumulus cloud that sat overhead. Mother Nature was looking after Number Six. I strolled across the grass, taking advantage of the shade, and sat down on the bench next to him. He wasn’t very talkative today.
I was running through plans to scope out the KittyLuv office. I could put on a tie, find a Watchtower pamphlet and become a Jehovah’s Witness. But they travel in pairs, and I wasn’t sure Number Six would make the grade. Maybe go in to read the gas meter, or I could conduct a poll. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about your staff—like who’s sleeping with whom?” Maybe I’ll just go in and ask for a massage—isn’t that what KittyLuv really means? Or I could ask Hades, god of the underworld, if I could borrow his helmet, the helmet of invisibility. He never uses it anyway; it always seems to end up on someone else’s head. Hermes, Athena, and Perseus used it, and it worked for them. I could slip it on, just mosey into KittyLuv and look around. I’ll bet Number Six knows where to find Hades.
Something rubbed against my leg. “Go away, pussycat. Got no food.”
I suppose I could go over and ask if I could help, or donate something, or volunteer for a trip to Africa to pet a kitten.
“Okay, I’ll give you a scratch. But that’s all, or . . .” I looked down at the cat who had decided my leg was the object of his desires. “You could help me.” I picked him up; he didn’t object. He thought there might be some food in the exchange. He was wearing a collar, which suggested he had wandered away from home. “Come on, pussycat. We’re going for a walk. This looks like a job for KittyLuv.”
Number Six finally spoke. “Name’s Cat-Meow.”
“Cat-Meow?”
“What’d I say?”
“Can I borrow your Cat-Meow?” I asked Number Six.
“He’s not my cat,” Six growled in return.
“How do you know his name is Cat-Meow?”
“Ask him.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I put on my sunglasses—my idea of a disguise. I cradled Cat-Meow in my arms and started down the hill. He purred happily.
Number Six called out after with his gruff voice. “Watch out for that fucker!”
I stopped. “What fucker?”
Six pointed. The long town car was waiting by the curb. The tall sandy-haired, handsome chap in full chauffeur’s uniform—brass