"You two look beautiful, so sleek and brushed," Sicily cooed, snuggling them against her silver bosom. "This is lovely to have you here-after all, you are the main models, you dear cats. Did Wilma bring you? Where is Wilma?"
Joe wanted to throw up. Dulcie purred extravagantly-she was such a sucker for this stuff. Whenever she visited Sicily, wandering into the gallery, Sicily had a treat for her, a little snack put aside from Molena Point's Pet Gourmet. And Sicily kept a soft sweater for Dulcie to nap on; she had figured out quickly that to Dulcie, pretty garments, silk and velvet and cashmere, were the piece de resistance. Only once, when Dulcie trotted out of the shop dragging a handwoven vicuna scarf, did Sicily fling a cross word at her and run out to retrieve the treasure. Now, fawning and petting them and effectively blocking their escape, she reached behind the desk to fetch a blue velvet cushion and laid it on the blotter. "You two stay right here-just curl up and look pretty-and I'll fix a plate for you." Leaning down, she stared into Joe's eyes, stroking him and scratching behind his ears. "Caviar, Joe Grey? Smoked turkey?"
Joe felt himself weakening.
But as Sicily left them, a big woman in a plum-colored dress descended, pushing her way out of the crowd. "Oh, the two little models. Oh, look how sweet."
Joe growled and raised his paw. Dulcie nudged him.
"Isn't that cute. Look at him put up his paw to shake hands. Just like a little dog."
The lady's male companion had sensibly stepped back from Joe. But the woman reached for him. "Oh, they look just like their portraits. Such dear little cats. Come and pet them, Howard. Look how sweet, the way they're posing here on the desk, so obedient."
She patted Joe on the head like a dog, a gesture guaranteed, under most circumstances, to elicit a bloody stump. He held his temper with heroic effort, but he calmed as she chose a slice of ham from her plate and gave them each a share.
He was beginning to feel more charitable when a woman in a white dress joined them. "Oh, the darling kitties, the kitties in the drawings." And an elderly couple headed their way, practically cooing. A regular crowd was gathering. Joe eyed them sourly. Even the good party food wasn't enough to put up with this. As other guests circled the desk reaching to pet them, Joe lost it. Lashing out at the nearest hand, he leaped past it, hit the floor running, sped out the door and across the street and up a bougainvillea vine. Didn't stop until he was on the roof of Mara's Leather Shop, pacing among the vents.
Dulcie didn't follow him. Probably she'd stay in there all night, lapping up the attention.
Stretching out beside a warm chimney, he dozed intermittently and irritably. His view from the roof was directly in through the gallery's wide windows and open front door, where the crowd had gathered around a white-clothed table as a tuxedoed waiter served champagne. It was more than an hour before Dulcie came trotting out between a tangle of elegantly clad ankles, scanned the rooftops, and saw him looking over. Lifting her tail like a happy flag, she crossed the street and swarmed up the vine to join him.
"You didn't have to be so surly. You knew we'd be petted. Cats in a public place always get petted."
"Petted? Mauled is the word. You said no one would notice us."
She settled down beside him, her belly against the warm shingles. "You missed some good party food."
"I'll have my share in the alley."
"Suit yourself. I had duck liver canapes from the hand of my favorite movie star." She sighed deeply. "He might be sixty-some, but he's some macho hombre."
"Big deal. So some Hollywood biggie feeds you duck liver like a zoo animal."
"Not at all. He was very polite and cordial. And he's not from Hollywood; you know very well that he lives in Molena Point. What a nice man. He treated me like a celebrity-he told me I have beautiful eyes." And she gave him a clear green glance, bright and provocative.
Joe turned away crossly. "So where are Charlie and Clyde? Fashionably late is one thing. Charlie's going to miss her own party."
"They'll show. Clyde told Wilma he'd keep Charlie away until there was a real mob, until she could make a big entrance."
"This is a mob. And Charlie isn't the kind for a big entrance."
"She will be, tonight."
Joe snorted.
"It's her party. Why not a grand entrance?"
"Females. Everything for show."
"I've seen you make a big entrance-stroll into the living room when Clyde has company. Wait until conversation's in full swing, then swagger in so everyone stops talking. Starts calling to you, kitty kitty kitty, and making little lovey noises."
"That is a totally different matter. That is done for a specific purpose."
Dulcie cut her eyes at him, and smiled.
The game was to get the crowd's attention and then, when they were all calling and making a fuss, to pick out the person who remained withdrawn and quiet. Who did not want to pet the kitty.
Immediately one made a beeline for the cat hater. A jump into their lap, a persistent rubbing and kneading and waving your tail in their face, and the result was most rewarding. If your victim had a really severe case of ailurophobia, the effect was spectacular.
When the routine worked really well, when you had picked the right mark, your victim would turn as white as skimmed milk. If you could drool and rub your face against theirs, that was even better. There was nothing half as satisfying as a nice evening of ailurophobe harassment. Such little moments were to be treasured-such fleeting pleasures in life made up for all the millions of human rebuffs, for centuries of shabby human slights and maltreatment.
"Here they come," Dulcie said, pressing forward over the roof gutter, her ears pricked, the tip of her tail twitching with excitement.
Clyde pulled up directly in front of the gallery, his yellow '29 Chevy convertible commanding immediate attention. This was the car's maiden appearance. The top was down, and the machine was dazzling. He had completely overhauled the vintage model, had given it mirror-bright metal detailing, pearly, canary-toned paint, pale yellow leather upholstery, and of course the engine purred like a world-champion Siamese. The car's creamy tones set off Charlie's flaming hair to perfection.
Her red, curling mane hung loose across her shoulders over a dark tank top, and as Clyde handed her out, her flowered India skirt swirled around her ankles in shades of red, pink, and orange. The cats had never seen Charlie in high-heeled sandals, had never seen her in a skirt.
"Wow," Joe said, hanging over the roof, ogling.
"Oh, my," Dulcie said. "She's beautiful."
Tonight they saw none of Charlie's usual shyness. She looked totally wired, her cheeks flaming as she took Clyde's hand and stepped to the curb.
Clyde's chivalry prompted them to stare, too, as he gave Charlie his arm and escorted her into the gallery. Clyde himself looked elegant, scrubbed and shaven and sharply turned out in a black sport coat over a white turtleneck and a good-looking pair of jeans. For Clyde, this was formal attire.
"There's the mayor," Dulcie said, "and his wife. And look- the president of the art association."