up a hot dog from the vendor at the corner covered with mustard and sauerkraut. The Park sloped down to the southeastern edge where the KittyLuv building was located. The only bench that overlooked that corner was inhabited by one of the Park’s semi-permanent residents, a bearded, graying man wearing an ancient, frayed serge suit, so oversized that it masked any evidence of his real shape. He wore a wide gold-and-blue striped tie that was chic in the fifties, and that doubled as a napkin. A strange unidentifiable aroma formed an almost visible cloud that hovered over him and added an exotic flavor to my lunch. Our town’s enforcers of moral cleanliness had tried many times to send him on his way, but he persevered and eventually they gave up. He was categorized on the police blotter as Male Loiterer Number Six, and ‘Number Six’ stuck as his name. He had gained a moment of notoriety when the local paper included him in an article about the decline of our morals, and then they forgot about him. I sat down beside Number Six, and gave him a brief “Hello.” He didn’t say anything, or even look my way; he was concentrating on the scene before him.
KittyLuv was headquartered in a classic nineteenth-century building, an elegant relic from the past. Four stories high but only as wide as a two-car garage. A marble arch framed the large, wooden double door at the entrance, and each of the floors above sported an ornate balcony. A massive American flag waved from a rod jutting out just below the peaked roof. A driveway led alongside the left wall of the building, then sloped down to a parking lot in back. A long black limousine sat at the curb in front of the building; a uniformed chauffeur—two rows of brass buttons, slick gloves, and a cap tilted confidently to one side—leaned against the front fender nursing a cigarette. Must be Samson.
KittyLuv’s staff was returning after their lunch break. Number Six suddenly sat upright, his interest aroused, and stared straight ahead.
I tried again. “Nice day, don’t ya think?”
No answer.
“Nice car,” I tried again, motioning toward the limousine.
Silence.
“Too nice!” Number Six suddenly growled. “Too damn nice!”
We sat for a while watching the people on the sidewalk come and go.
“Give money for kittens and look what they buy. What fucking kitten is that going to help?”
“Their brochure says they do good things.” I held out the brochure that Louella had given me.
“Where’d you get that?” Six finally turned toward me.
“It’s their public face. Apparently they give money to rescue homeless kittens in Africa and find them nice loving places to stay.”
“Yeah! Some cuddly, little, fucking home. Fat chance!”
“There’s pictures, look.” I opened the pamphlet to a picture of an adorable kitten, tenderly held by a young woman. “They saved this little kitten from a life of misery and loneliness. Just for, like, twenty dollars or something.”
“Fuck!” Number Six was getting worked up. “People gave money, and they bought that big-assed car. That’s what they did!”
Number Six had a point. It wasn’t really clear how the shiny limousine was helping baby cats.
“There she is.” Number Six suddenly perked up.
“There who is?” I asked.
“Who asked you?” he growled and continued to stare straight ahead.
A radiant glow of red hair sat atop a figure walking toward the front door of KittyLuv. With the August sun shining, the figure was a beacon, a siren, leading the weak to their destruction. I couldn’t make out her features, but I bet I’d just seen Vera Booby. Number Six had been waiting to spot her and now had fulfilled his goal for the day. He worked his way to a semi-upright position and shuffled off in the opposite direction. I called out a “see you tomorrow” and watched him shrink into the distance. Kathy and Number Six had both abandoned me today. I envied Number Six’s clear-cut vision of life. Come to the Park, wait for the red-haired vision, see her, then go off, satisfied, until tomorrow.
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,
