The Cat Who Lived High

9

WHETHER THE TIRES of the Purple Plum were slashed or the valves were loosened, it made no difference to Qwilleran.

In high dudgeon he strode toward the building entrance. Halfway there he stopped and considered: If he left the scene, someone could pull into the lot and turn into his legal parking space. He returned to #28 and stood between the yellow lines - or lines that had been yellow once upon a time. He took up his position with a belligerent stance and folded arms and fierce expression made more intimidating by his rambunctious moustache.

The first car to pull into the lot was a BMW. Hmmm, Qwilleran murmured to himself. What was a BMW doing in the Casablanca parking lot? The driver parked several slots away and walked slowly toward the building entrance. It was a woman. She walked seductively. She was dressed exquisitely. She was the vision he had seen in the lobby the night before.

"Excuse me, miss," he said in his richest, most mellifluent tones. "Are you going into the building?" He was glad he was wearing a suit and tie.

"That was my intention," she replied in a silky voice.

He had no time for pleasurable reactions. "Kindly do me a favor," he asked. "Tell Mrs. Tuttle to send Rupert out here. Someone has slashed my tires." He gestured toward the dejected vehicle slumped in the adjoining slot.

"Who would have the temerity to perpetrate such a reprehensible act?" she replied.

Qwilleran thought, She's not real; she's a robot; she's programmed; she's from outer space. Calmly he said, "I was parked in his - or her - space because my own was occupied by someone else, and I suppose he - or she - resented it. Have you had any trouble like that?" "Fortunately I seem immune to hostility," she replied. "I shall be happy to send the custodian to your assistance." "Watch out for the puddles," he advised. "They're a foot deep." She gave him a languid smile and walked to- ward the building. In a state of transfixion Qwilleran watched her go, breathing lustily into his moustache.

When Rupert arrived a few minutes later, it was determined that the tires were not slashed. Someone had tampered with the valves, and Rupert knew a garage that would come right over with portable airtanks.

"Who pays for #27?" Qwilleran demanded.

"I dunno." "Well, as soon as the tires are inflated, I'm going to move my car into my own slot and leave it there for the rest of the winter. I'll walk, or take the bus... By the way, who is the woman who drives the BMW?" "Winnie Wingfoot," said Rupert. "She's a model. Lives on Ten." "Is that her real name?" "I dunno. I guess so." If Qwilleran entertained any thoughts of revenge against the reprehensible perpetrator, they were mollified by thoughts of Winnie Wingfoot. He floated up to Fourteen on Old Red, changed absentmindedly into red pajamas instead of his gray warm-up suit, and fed the cats twice. For his own dinner he phoned for pizza.

"Casablanca? What floor?" asked the order taker.

"Fourteen." "We don't deliver in that building any higher than Three." "Send it over. I'll meet the delivery man at the front door," Qwilleran said.

He walked down to the main floor for the sake of the exercise and encountered the jogger between Eleven and Ten. The man was running up the stairs. Between aerobic gasps he explained, "Too muddy... round the... vacant lots." Then he added, "You going... to bed early?" Only then did Qwilleran realize his Freudian slip. He returned to the penthouse and changed from red pajamas into gray warm-ups.

In the lobby a white-haired man was taking his constitutional by walking briskly the length of the hallway and back, swinging his arms and taking exaggerated strides. A few stragglers were picking up their mail. The Asian woman was coming in with her two children, and Amber was on her way out.

"I've been trying to get you on the phone," she said. "Courtney wants me to bring you to dinner at his place Saturday night. You remember - the Kipper & Fine salesman." "What's the occasion?" "Nothing. He just likes to show off. He can be a nerd sometimes, but the food's always good- - better than I cook - and he knows all the gossip." "I accept," said Qwilleran without further deliberation.

"Cocktails at six. Come as you are," she said. "Are you waiting for someone?" "The pizza man. By the way, Amber, I'm ashamed to admit I don't know your last name." She said something like "Cowbell." "Spell it." "K-o-w-b-e-l. Here comes your pizza, Qwill. Gotta dash. I'm late." The pizza was good - better than any he had found in Moose County, he had to admit. He gave the Siamese a taste of the cheese and a nibble of the pepperoni. Then he pushbuttoned a pot of coffee and carried it into the library. He intended to study his Scrabble - particularly the scoring rules and the value of the various letters - in preparation for his forthcoming joust with the Countess. He unfolded the board and deployed the tiles on the teakwood-and-chrome card table, then started building crosswords, playing for premium squares as well as high-value words. Koko was on hand, watching the process in his nearsighted way. Abruptly the cat lifted his head and listened. A minute or so later, there was a knock at the apartment door.

No one had buzzed from the vestibule, so it was obviously a resident, and a fantasy flashed through Qwilleran's mind: It was the beauteous Winnie Wingfoot! Then again, he reflected, it might be Rupert. Nevertheless, he gave. the mirror a quick glance, smoothed his moustache, and finger-combed his hair before opening the door.

A woman was standing there, wearing a fur coat, and it was not Winnie Wingfoot. It was Isabelle, the middle-aged tippler, and she was carrying a bottle. He regarded her without speaking.

"Hello," she said.

"Good evening," he replied coolly.

"Like a drink?" she asked, looking flirtatious and waving the bottle. Her other hand clutched the coat, and he hesitated to guess what she might have under it, if anything.

"No thanks, I'm on the wagon, but thanks for the offer," he said in a monotone intended to discourage her.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

"You must forgive me, but I'm working and I have a deadline." "Don'cha wanna take your mind off your work?" She opened her coat, and Qwilleran's wildest surmise was confirmed.

He said, "You'd better bundle up before you catch cold." Gently he closed the door, hearing a vulgar remark as he did so.

Huffing into his moustache, he returned to the library. "That was Isabelle," he told Koko. "Too bad it wasn't Winnie. She has a better vocabulary." At that moment he felt an uncomfortable desire to talk with Polly Duncan in Moose County, even though the eleven o'clock discount was not yet in effect. He dialed anyway.

"I'm so glad you called, Qwill," she said. I was just thinking about you. How is life in the wicked city?" "You'd be surprised how wicked," he said. "Today someone let the air out of my tires, and tonight a female flasher presented herself at my door." "Oh, no! Qwill, you must have been encouraging her!" "All I did was pick her up off the floor when she fell out of the phone booth. How are things in Moose County?" "I'm starting to pack things to go into storage. Bootsie is helping me by jumping into every carton. He's adorable, but he's a monomaniac about food, Qwill - tries to steal it right off my fork!" "He's growing. He'll get over it. Koko and Yum Yum have gone through all kinds of phases." "How do they like it down there?" "Yum Yum has discovered the waterbed and gets some kind of catly thrill out of it. Koko and I are learning to play Scrabble. I have a Scrabble date with the Countess tomorrow night." "Is she very glamorous?" Polly inquired anxiously.

"Not exactly. She's a gracious hostess but out of touch with reality. I don't know how I'm going to talk real-estate business with her." "Is the Casablanca as wonderful as you thought?" "Yes and no, but I'd like to write a book about its history. I wish you were here, Polly, so we could discuss it." "I wish I were, too. I miss you, Qwill." "There are some interesting restaurants we could explore." "Qwill, something has been worrying me. Sup- pose I move into your apartment - " "Hold it!" he shouted into the phone. "I can't hear you!" There was a prolonged wait during which a helicopter circled overhead. "Okay, Polly. Sorry. What were you saying? A helicopter was hovering over the building and creating pandemonium. The cats hate it!" "What's happening?" she asked. "Who knows? They're up there every night, sometimes shining their searchlight into my window." "Why, that's terrible! Isn't that unconstitutional?" "Now what were you saying about moving into my apartment?" "Suppose I move in, and then the Casablanca project falls through and you decide to come home!" "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Qwilleran said. "Call me if anything interesting happens, or even if it doesn't." "I will, dearest." "A bient“t," he said with feeling.

"A bient“t." Sometimes he wished he could find the words to express what he wanted to say to Polly. Though a professional wordsmith, he was tongue-tied with this woman of whom he was so fond, but she understood. Feeling suddenly bereft of human companionship, he considered calling Amber Kowbel but decided he was not as bereft as all that.

On the Scrabble table Koko was sitting tall in his impudent pose, with ears askew and whiskers tilted. He had been up to some kind of mischief; Qwilleran could read the signals. A brief search revealed a scattering of Scrabble tiles on the floor under the table.

"You joker! You think that's funny!" "Rffifffirrrr," said the cat.

"What's this new noise you're making? It sounds like a Scrabble tile stuck in your throat." Qwilleran stooped to gather up the tiles, and at the same instant Koko jumped from the table with a flip of his tail that struck the man on the cheek, stinging like a whip.

"Please! Watch your tail!" Koko walked stiff-legged from the room, turning once to look scornfully over his shoulder. Koko's scorn had an edge like a knife.

Qwilleran wondered, Did I say something wrong? Is he trying to tell me something?

Compulsively he tried to make a word out of the tiles that Koko had dislodged: H, R, A, S, B, X, and A. On the first try he came up with SOAR, but that was worth only four points. BOAR was good for six. (He was beginning to think in terms of scoring.) HOAR was even better - seven points - but HOAX added up to fourteen. Qwilleran congratulated himself; he was getting the hang of it.

Out in the foyer Koko was warbling his new tune: "Rrrrrrrrrrr!"