“Hanson.” Herb pressed a few computer keys. “She’s gone for the day. Speaking of which, I need to leave early.”
“Big plans?”
Herb gave me a grin that was positively wicked. I understood.
“Ah, those kind of plans. That requires leaving early?”
“In this instance, yes.”
“Okay then, Romeo. We can get rolling on Andrews tomorrow.”
“Good. You know” – Herb eyed the cat – “I drive by the Chicago River on the way home.”
“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll let him live for the time being.”
Herb said good night and left my office.
“Just me and you, Mr. Friskers.”
At the mention of his name, the cat awoke and commenced howling.
I tried to ignore him, and attempted to finish up a report on a suicide from last week. After struggling through that, I went through my in-box and played pass-along with some current homicides that seemed open and shut.
My position in the Chicago Police Department allowed me more wiggle room than many of my contemporaries. As far as I knew, I was one of the only lieutenants in the Detective Division – the title had been mostly phased out around the time Homicide morphed into Violent Crimes. There are lieutenant inspectors, who are one silver bar below captain, but those are supervisory positions and I had no desire to give up investigative work. My rank allows me to skip morning roll call, operate in other districts without jurisdictional issues, give commands when needed, and pick and choose my cases.
It took over twenty years to gain this autonomy, and I enjoyed it. Which is probably why no one in the office knocked on my door to complain about the cat noise. Rank has its privileges.
In the midst of filing, my cell rang. Latham.
“Hi, Latham. Back in town?”
“I’m back, Jack. What are you wearing?”
I smiled. “A plaid flannel shirt and overalls.”
“Stop it – I’m getting turned on. Might I request the honor of your presence tonight for dinner?”
“I’ll have to check with my boyfriend first.”
“Screw him.”
“I was planning on it. Is six o’clock okay?”
“It’s perfect. I was thinking someplace nice.”
“Heels-and-a-dress nice?”
“Ooh, I like that even more than the overalls.”
“Does this have anything to do with that important question you mentioned on my answering machine?”
“Maybe, maybe so. Are you beating the confession out of some criminal right now?”
“That’s a cat. Long story. I’ll tell you when you pick me up.”
“Great. I’ll be the guy knocking on your door with flowers. See you soon.”
He hung up, leaving me sitting there with a dopey grin on my face. I was glad Latham was back home, and not just because I hadn’t had sex in three weeks. Latham made me feel special. He was funny, considerate, attractive, successful, romantic, and in love with me. What wasn’t to like?
Though, I had to admit, part of me kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had to have something wrong with him. But so far, the annoyances were only minor. Snoring. Back hair. Leaving the toilet seat up. A juvenile affection for bad horror movies and ’80s pop songs.
He probably had wives in four other states. Or his mummified mother tied to a rocking chair in the attic.
Speaking of mothers…
I called Florida, but the Do Not Disturb was still on her room phone. I spoke with a nurse, and Mom’s condition had improved, though she still seemed mad as hell. I asked the nurse to pass on an “I love you, Mom,” and hung up, spirits dampened.
“I won’t bend,” I told Mr. Friskers. “She needs my help.”
He howled, which I took to be agreement.
With only two hours to make myself gorgeous before my guy showed up, I decided to call it a day. On the way home, I stopped at a pet supply superstore and bought the essentials: litter box, litter, cat food, and a mouse toy stuffed with catnip. I asked an employee if they had muzzles for cats, but she looked so disgusted I’d even suggest such a thing that I left without getting an answer.
My apartment was where I’d left it, and it took two trips to bring everything up from my car. I kept the air-conditioning off to save money, which meant my place was roughly the same temperature as hell, but more humid.
The city of Chicago paid me a respectable wage for my services, but Mom’s condo payment took a big bite. I had a private arrangement with her bank; she’d get a token monthly bill, easily covered by her pension and Social Security, and I took care of the lion’s share.
In my quest to pinch pennies, I’d turned my apartment into a greenhouse. It was so hot I had wild orchids sprouting on the sofa. I set the air to tundra and took a cold shower, but the water never got any cooler than lukewarm. Wrapped in a terry cloth bathrobe, I attended to the Mr. Friskers situation.
My skiing days long behind me, I did own a pair of black leather gloves that would offer me some protection. I slipped them on, ready for battle.
Mr. Friskers sat patiently in the carrier, probably plotting the downfall of the United States. I opened the door latch, but he made no attempt to howl or attack.
Perhaps he’d worn himself out.
I took two bowls from the clean side of the sink and poured water into one. The other I filled with some of the dry cat food I’d purchased. I set the bowls on the floor in front of him.
Mr. Friskers walked out of the carrier, sniffed the food, and gave me a look of utter disappointment.
“Your cream-from-the-bottle days are over, buddy. And come to think of it-”
I reached down and grabbed him by the diaper. He morphed into the Tasmanian Devil, whirling and clawing and spitting and hissing, catching me a good one on the right forearm. But I proved to be the stronger mammal, and managed to pull off the tabs and remove the diaper before losing too much blood.
The aroma was heady. When the dizziness passed, I wrapped the diaper in a plastic garbage bag, then wrapped that garbage bag in another garbage bag, and walked it out into my hallway, depositing the package down the garbage chute.
When I returned, the cat was lapping at the water dish. Without the diaper, he looked less demonic, and more like a plain old cat. After slaking his thirst, he again sniffed at the food dish. He gave me a look that on a human would have counted as a sneer.
“This guy likes it,” I told him, pointing to the cat on the bag of food.
He seemed to consider it, then began to eat.
Now for phase two.
I set the cat box on the floor and read the instructions on the back of the kitty litter bag. Simple enough. I tore the corner and filled the box, getting a noseful of sweet, perfumey dust.
Mr. Friskers looked up from the food dish, cocking his head at me.
“Okay. Time for your first lesson.”
I picked him up gently, and he allowed it, going limp in my hands. But when I tried to set him down in the cat box, he dervished on me, twisting and screaming and kicking up a spray of litter. I had to let go of him, for fear of losing an eye, and he bounded out of the kitchen and down the hall.
I spit out some kitty litter. The bag hadn’t lied; the granules clumped like magic.
“We’ll get to lesson two later,” I called after the cat.
I picked some litter out of my damp hair and attended to my makeup. For work, I made do with a light coat of powder, some eyeliner, and a slash of lipstick. Tonight I went all out – base and mascara and eye shadow and lipliner and a touch of color on my cheeks and a final brush of translucent powder with highlighting bits of glitter in it.
Satisfied I looked as good as I could with my bone structure, I went into the bedroom to pick out special occasion underwear. I put on black satin French-cut panties and my only good bra, a cleavage-enhancer that Latham had only seen me in twice before.