The Cat Who Lived High

15

KOKO'S ABNORMAL BEHAVIOR during the preparation of his dinner meant that mischief was hatching in that fine brown head. But Qwilleran had other matters on his mind, such as: what to wear for his dinner engagement at Courtney Hampton's apartment. Amber had specified that dress would be casual. Remembering the clothing salesman's supercilious gibe ("Just in from the country?"), he deliberately chose to wear his cashmere pullover, a garment that would impress anyone who knew the price of sweaters. At the appointed time he walked downstairs to the eighth floor and knocked on Amber's door. When she opened it he caught a glimpse of a room piled high with cardboard cartons and shopping bags.

"How recently did you move in?" he asked as they walked down the hall to the front of the building.

"I've been here two years, but it seems I never get around to unpacking," she said with a humorously hopeless shrug. "Now - let me tell you about Courtney's place, so it won't come as a total shock. He has one of the big old apartments, and he puts on the dog when he entertains, even hiring a woman to cook and a man to serve. But he doesn't have any furniture!" "If the food is good, I'm prepared to eat off the floor," Qwilleran said. "Incidentally, I have yet to see an apartment in this building other than the penthouse and the Art Deco extravaganza on Twelve." "I meant to ask, how did you get along with the Countess?" "Very well. We played Scrabble, and I let her I win a little." "You men are so gallant - when you lose." A pair of topiary trees flanked the entrance to 8-A. "He only puts them out when he's having company," Amber explained as she clanged the door knocker.

"I hope he also takes in the brass knocker when he goes to bed," Qwilleran said. "Someone stole my plastic rubbish container last night." The door was opened by an emaciated grayhaired man in a white duck coat-someone Qwilleran had seen in the lobby, or on the elevator, or possibly in the laundry room. Not far behind him was the host, wearing a coolie suit in black silk and making gestures of Oriental welcome.

"Well, look at you!" Amber exclaimed.

"Just in from the rice paddy?" Qwilleran asked. They entered a large room with dark walls lighted only by candles, Amber remarking, "I see Mrs. Tuttle cut off your electricity again." Courtney reproached her with flared nostrils. "What you see here," he said to Qwilleran, loftily, "is one of the original suites, occupied for sixty years by a bachelor judge. All I did was paint the walls Venetian red. The black walnut woodwork and the hardwood floors are original. I apologize for the lack of furniture. Special-order items take an unconscionably long time." "They're growing the trees," Amber said.

As Qwilleran's eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he realized he was in a room at least fifty feet long and bare enough to be a ballroom. In one comer was a compact seating arrangement: two couches right-angled against the wall, covered with fringed Spanish rugs and heaped with pillows of some ethnic origin. The couches were actually army cots, he later decided. For a cocktail table there was a large square of thick plate glass supported by concrete blocks, and under it was a worn Persian rug, the only floor covering in the room. Three long-stemmed white carnations in a tall crystal vase looked aggressively contemporary. In candlelight the comer was almost glamorous.

"You have a new rug," Amber observed.

"A semi-antique Tabriz, my dear-this month's acquisition from our friend Isabelle." She explained to Qwilleran, "He means Isabelle Wilburton. He's systematically stripping the poor woman's apartment." "I am keeping the poor woman afloat," Courtney said with hauteur. "Last month's acquisition was that painting over the sideboard - American, of course - probably of the Hudson River school. A curator from the art museum is coming here tomorrow to identify it incontrovertibly." The misty landscape in an elaborate gilded frame was hanging above a sideboard composed of two large, wooden packing cases, on which stood a silver teaset. "Would we all like a margarita?" "Qwill doesn't drink," Amber announced.

"Evian?" asked the host.

"Evian will do," Qwilleran said, "if you don't have Squunk water." The other two gave him a brief questioning glance. No one outside of Moose County had ever heard of Squunk water. Then Courtney turned to the white-coated server. "Hopkins, bring us two margaritas and an Evian for the gentleman." The white coat disappeared into the gloom at the far end of the room, and the host went on. "Originally the suite consisted of this drawing room plus a large bedroom totally without closets plus a huge bathroom. Where did they hang their clothes in 1901? And what did they do in the bathroom that required so much space? Fortunately the judge added closets and a kitchenette." Amber said to Qwilleran, "You should see Court's previous apartment. It was like a cell at Leavenworth." "Courtney!" he corrected her with a frown.

The drinks and a silver bowl of macadamia nuts were served by Hopkins, moving as if in a trance.

Qwilleran asked, "How was your card game Wednesday night?" "Not too excruciating, although I could manage nicely without the camomile tea and caraway seed cake. The Countess was my partner. Considering that she acts like a ghost of the 1920s, she's a killer at the bridge table." "Who else was there?" Amber asked.

"Winnie Wingfoot and that pushy Randy Jupiter. He probably bribed Ferdie to include him," Courtney said with a curled lip.

"I think Randy has a lot of personality," Amber said in his defense.

"Too much personality. I don't trust that kind. And he jogs." "You're such a snob, Court." "Courtney, please!" "At least Randy is friendly and alive," she persisted. "Most of the people in this building are half dead." The host said, "That reminds me, guess who died today?" "Okay, twenty questions," Amber said. "Was it a man?" "No." "Then it was a woman. Did she wear a hearing aid?" "No." "Was she in her eighties?" "No." "In her seventies?" "No. You'll never guess, Amber." "Did she live on Seven?" "No." "Did she break her hip last year?" "Give up, Amber. Give up! You'll never guess," said Courtney. "According to Madame Defarge - who sits behind her bulletproof window, knitting and counting bodies - it was Elpidia that they carried out." "What!" cried Amber.

"Who's Elpidia?" Qwilleran asked.

"The Countess's personal maid," she said.

"What happened, Courtney?" "They say it was food poisoning, but I think it was an O.D. Being personal maid to the Countess would drive anyone to pills." Qwilleran said, "I never saw the maid or the housekeeper." "The maid was kind of weird, but the housekeeper's nice," Amber informed him. "She's Ferdie's mother. She has her own apartment on Two, but Ferdie lives in." "She commutes daily to Twelve, where she bakes her famous caraway seed cake," Courtney added. "Incidentally, I've asked Winnie to drop in for a drink before she goes out for the evening... Have you met Winnie, Qwill? May I call you Qwill?" "By all means... I haven't met Ms. Wingfoot but I've seen her. A beautiful girl!" "When I look at Winnie," Amber said, "I want to go home and take an O.D. myself." The door knocker resounded, and Qwilleran's pulse quickened. He smoothed his moustache and jumped to his feet as Hopkins admitted the satin-clad model. She glided into the room, glittering and dragging a fur jacket.

"Winnie, my angel," said the host, "this is Qwill Qwilleran, who is going to buy the Casablanca." "Not true," said Qwilleran, taking the hand that was extended languidly in his direction.

"Our paths have crossed," said Winnie. "In the car park, under inauspicious circumstances. I trust your difficulties were satisfactorily resolved." "Thanks to your prompt assistance, Ms. Wingfoot." "Winifred," she corrected him.

"Would you like a margarita, angel?" the host asked.

"It would pleasure me immensely." She sat on the army cot next to Qwilleran, who was aware of a heady scent and long silky legs.

"The weather turned out to be quite pleasant today," he said, knowing that it was a dumb remark.

"Quite revivifying," she said.

"Did you buy Isabelle's piano?" Courtney asked her. "She told me you were looking at it." "I have it under consideration." "Do you play?" Qwilleran inquired.

"'Yes, rather well," she replied, bestowing a sultry glance on his moustache.

Courtney said, "Mrs. Button died this week, and Madame Defarge says there's going to be a tag sale. I hope it's true. I have my sights on a small Rubens Peale." Hopkins materialized from the dark end of the room with a tray of margaritas.

Amber said, "Isabelle has adopted a cat, and I may have to break down and get one myself. I had another mouse last night." "If you would clean up your apartment, Amberina dear," said Courtney, "you would solve your problem. The little things are incubating in those eighty-four shopping bags... When is the Bessinger estate going to be liquidated, Qwill?" "I have no idea. I'm just subletting while I work on a book about the Casablanca." Courtney explained to Winnie, "Qwill is a noted journalist." "How delicious!" she said.

"I'm hoping to interview old-timers who remember something about the early days. Any recommendations?" "Mrs. Jasper!" said Courtney and Amber in unison. "She did housework in the Casablanca way back when," Amber said, "and she can tell you all kinds of stories." Winnie, upon finishing her drink, uncrossed her incredible legs and rose, saying, "I regret I must wrench myself away from this stimulating group, but I have a dinner date." As the host escorted her to the door, Qwilleran remarked quietly to Amber, "I imagine she has no trouble getting dinner dates." "I'm in the wrong business," she whispered. Courtney lighted candles at the dark end of the room, where planks were laid across columns of concrete blocks to form a long narrow table. "Hopkins, tell Cook we wish to serve now," he said.

The seats were upended orange crates, each with a velvet cushion weighted at the four comers with tassels.

"Watch out for splinters," Amber warned Qwilleran.

For a table centerpiece white carnations were arranged with weeds from the parking lot. Pewter service plates and goblets were set on the bare boards, and there were four tall pewter candlesticks.

"Where did you steal these?" Amber asked, and Courtney reproved her with a withering glance.

The soup course was cream of watercress, followed by crabcakes with shitake mushrooms, baby beets in an orange glaze, and wild rice. A salad of artichoke hearts and sprouts was served on Lalique plates as a separate course, and the meal ended with a chocolate souffl‚. Not bad, Qwilleran thought, for a crate-and-block environment.

Amber said to him, "Every year on the Fourth of July Courtney gives a party on the roof with picnic baskets full of chicken and wine and cherry tarts. The roof is a super place to watch the fireworks." "How do you get up there?" "There's a stairway from Fourteen. The door says No Admittance, but it's never locked. It's a nice place to sun in the summer." Qwilleran said, "As an expert on the Casablanca scene, perhaps you could answer some questions, Courtney.

How come Rupert never seems to do any work? He just hangs around." " Actually he's a security guard," said the host, " and he has an arsenal under that ill-fitting jacket." "How about this guy Yazbro on Four?" "He's a furniture mover with one claim to fame: Ross's body landed on his car, and he got his name in the paper.

Sha!l we have coffee in the lounge area? And would we all like to hear some Noel Coward?" He moved toward a stack of strawberry crates containing cassettes and compact discs.

"Play the tape of your own show, Courtney," said Amber. She turned to Qwilleran. "He's producing an original musical called The Casablanca Cathouse, and the opening number is a blast!" "I'm doing the book and lyrics, but I haven't found a composer yet," said the impresario. "Keestra is doing the choreography. You may have heard, Qwill, about Keestra Hedrog and her Gut Dancers. She lives in 14-B." "Are they belly dancers? I've heard some strange bumps coming through the wall." "They're non-disciplinary, non-motivational interpreters of basic sensibilities," Courtney explained patronizingly.

"Play the opening number, Court," Amber urged.

"Courtney!" he rebuked her. "You'll have to imagine the music." The tape started to unreel, and his voice, with an affected British accent, announced, "Presenting a musical in two acts by Courtney Hampton. The Casablanca Cathouse - Act one, Scene one." The lyrics followed: There's a spot that has been libeled as an odious address Because it's old and battered and the lobby is a mess.

True...

The roof may leak, the hallways reek, The elevators fail to rise, the ceilings drop before your eyes, But it's really not as squalid as you'd guess.

The window sills may start to rot, the taps run dry (both cold and hot), And occasionally the kitchen sink develops a peculiar stink, But it's really not as nasty as you think.

Yes...

The Casablanca Cathouse is a marvelous place to live, Tenants getting more exclusive all the time!

The strippers from the Bijou were evicted the first night.

We've lost the drunken deadbeats who had that bloody fight.

There's a madam on Eleven, but she seems a bit all right, And the window washer fell and gave up crime.

Yes...

The Casablanca Cathouse is a MARVELOUS place to live!

The mice are getting smaller every year.

We're just a tad Bohemian with a decadent kind of chic.

We pass each other in the halls and never, never speak.

Whenever we get mugged, we simply turn the other cheek.

To be normal, good, or rational is queer.

Oh...

We've got intriguing clutches of folks with canes and crutches, And lonely wraiths and elderly voyeurs, And male and female flashers and flocks of aging mashers, And gorgeous broads in diamonds and furs.

Yes...

The Casablanca Cathouse is a MA-A-ARVELOUS place to live!

All others by comparison seem dead.

It has a reputation as a seedy sort of spot.

No one runs for Congress, and no one owns a yacht, But things are getting better since Poor Old Gus was shot, And the helicopter's always overhead!

There was a long pause, Courtney pressed a button, and he and Amber looked expectantly at their guest. "It'll never play Broadway," Qwilleran said, "but you might do a season on the Casablanca roof." "The plot," the author explained, "is based on the Bessinger murder." Qwilleran was staring into space. He cupped a hand around his moustache. He jumped to his feet. "I've got to get upstairs! Excuse me," he blurted, heading for the door. "Great evening! Great dinnerl" He was out in the hall when he finished his explanation, and he ran upstairs to Fourteen. A tremor on his upper lip warned him of trouble.

As he unlocked the door to 14-A, he heard water running and splashing. He dashed down the bedroom hall, flipping wall switches as he went. When he reached the master bedroom he found the floor wet. The Waterbed! he thought... No, the gushing and splashing came from the bath- room. He turned on the light. The floor was flooded! The washbowl was overflowing; the faucet was running full force; and there on the toilet tank sat Koko, surveying his achievement.