become invisible. The motto of the Gold Hill Arms should be carved in the marble floor of the lobby: “Out of sight—Out of mind.”
I don’t know why I live here—maybe it’s just the observer in me. I only want to watch and listen, but an observer also needs to be invisible. I’d spent enough of my life in the spotlight, and that didn’t work out so well.
Javier was our super, custodian, handyman, and doorman. He lived on the ground floor. He had converted a meeting room adjacent to the lobby into an apartment. He usually left his door open, and anyone coming through could see him settled in front of his wide-screen television set. This satisfied his duties as a doorman. As I walked through he looked up from the TV and waved.
It was a hot August night, the air was still, and my apartment was steaming. I mixed a martini and climbed out the window to the deck chair on the fire escape. The ground dropped off behind the Arms, which allowed a long view to the south. In the distance lay the railroad yards, a great expanse of tracks where locomotives used to push boxcars around, sorting out those that would sit idle from those that were linked up for trips back to the West. There was only one pusher engine still working, and most of the freight cars that remained hadn’t moved in years. At the far end of the tracks I could see the lights from South Station, our main rail link to New York City. The few buildings along the edge of the tracks were dark. Only in one large stone factory did I see a glimmer of light.
6
Tuesday afternoon, sunny again, hot again, and the air was still. The sky was clear and blue—an August blue tempered by heat waves. The town was steaming, but the Park was blessed by the shadow of one cumulus cloud that sat overhead. Mother Nature was looking after Number Six. I strolled across the grass, taking advantage of the shade, and sat down on the bench next to him. He wasn’t very talkative today.
I was running through plans to scope out the KittyLuv office. I could put on a tie, find a Watchtower pamphlet and become a Jehovah’s Witness. But they travel in pairs, and I wasn’t sure Number Six would make the grade. Maybe go in to read the gas meter, or I could conduct a poll. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about your staff—like who’s sleeping with whom?” Maybe I’ll just go in and ask for a massage—isn’t that what KittyLuv really means? Or I could ask Hades, god of the underworld, if I could borrow his helmet, the helmet of invisibility. He never uses it anyway; it always seems to end up on someone else’s head. Hermes, Athena, and Perseus used it, and it worked for them. I could slip it on, just mosey into KittyLuv and look around. I’ll bet Number Six knows where to find Hades.
Something rubbed against my leg. “Go away, pussycat. Got no food.”
I suppose I could go over and ask if I could help, or donate something, or volunteer for a trip to Africa to pet a kitten.
“Okay, I’ll give you a scratch. But that’s all, or . . .” I looked down at the cat who had decided my leg was the object of his desires. “You could help me.” I picked him up; he didn’t object. He thought there might be some food in the exchange. He was wearing a collar, which suggested he had wandered away from home. “Come on, pussycat. We’re going for a walk. This looks like a job for KittyLuv.”
Number Six finally spoke. “Name’s Cat-Meow.”
“Cat-Meow?”
“What’d I say?”
“Can I borrow your Cat-Meow?” I asked Number Six.
“He’s not my cat,” Six growled in return.
“How do you know his name is Cat-Meow?”
“Ask him.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I put on my sunglasses—my idea of a disguise. I cradled Cat-Meow in my arms and started down the hill. He purred happily.
Number Six called out after with his gruff voice. “Watch out for that fucker!”
I stopped. “What fucker?”
Six pointed. The long town car was waiting by the curb. The tall sandy-haired, handsome chap in full chauffeur’s uniform—brass buttons and all—leaned against the front fender waiting for his riders.
I pointed at the chauffeur. “Him? He’s the fucker?”
“Fucker tried to take my bench.” Six spit on the ground.
“Thanks Six. I’ll be careful.”
The chauffeur gave me a puzzled look but didn’t say anything as I passed him by and entered the building. The ground floor was an empty lobby. A sign inscribed KittyLuv pointed to the open set of stairs leading to the second floor, where I faced a long hallway. The reception area was on the right side, the door was open. It was a large, cheery office, with a large vase of flowers by the door. The three desks in the room each sported large name tags; ‘Betty,’ ‘Sybil,’ ‘Rose.’ Only Sybil was there. She didn’t notice me at first, but I noticed her. She was quietly concentrating on the memo before her, her light dress was shifting about her thin figure as though a breeze was blowing through the room. It was hard to describe exactly what it was that made Sybil exotically beautiful. Her straight auburn hair touched her shoulders; a silver streak raced down one side. Long tempting eyelashes, light blue eye shadow, and glossy red lipstick accentuated her features and separated them from porcelain white skin. Each part of Sybil was beautiful, in and of itself, but they each went their separate ways.
“Good day, Sybil,” I began.
“Hello.” She looked at my lapel hoping to find a name tag.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but maybe you could help,” I said with a gentle plea.
“Well, isn’t he cute.” Sybil rose, her dress followed, and she reached out for the happy creature in my arms. I willingly handed Cat-Meow over. Sybil snuggled him against her breast, and he rewarded me by rubbing his whiskers against her neck, pushing the dress to the side. The voyeur inside me stood at attention. I’d never appreciated the power of cats before.
“What can I do for you?” Sybil asked, directing the question either to me or Cat-Meow.
“He’s not mine. I found him wandering about. I think he’s homeless, so I thought you people would know what to do with him.” That didn’t sound right, so I added, “How to help him.”
Just then a door at the back of the office opened and a gentleman stepped out. He wore a soft gray flannel suit, and, although it was the middle of August, a snug vest. A patterned blue tie was knotted in a perfect double Windsor, and a triangle of a folded handkerchief decorated his vest pocket. His lapel pin was a gold-framed American flag. I’d seen the pictures; it was Lawrence Lafonte. He had a gentle face with bushy gray eyebrows and a wide nose that was humbled by a thick mustache. He looked like your kind Uncle Larry, the uncle who didn’t molest you when you were seven.
“Is Samson ready with the car?” he asked Sybil.
“Yes, Mr. Lafonte,” she replied politely. “Are you off to the city?”
“Yes. Have to see our taxman. And what is this?” he said gently, looking at the cat, or maybe at Sybil’s cleavage.
“This gentleman here has a homeless cat. He’d like us to help.”
“Well, that’s not exactly
