W is for Wasted

Henry said, “The vet has to put the cat to sleep and that’s what it costs.”

Both William and I said “Oh” in tones of regret and bewilderment.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, looking from my face to William’s.

I said, “If I’d known you were going to have it put down, I’d have taken it myself.”

“What are you talking about? She’s not killing the cat. She’s cleaning his teeth and he has to be sedated. I’m to pick him up at five.”

I said, “Really? Well, that’s great!”

He seemed to be feeling self-conscious as he went on. “The vet says he’s a Japanese bobtail, which is a rare breed. As a matter of fact, this is the first one she’s seen in her entire career. Bobtails are active and very intelligent, easily trained to a leash. And talkative, she said, which I’d noticed myself. Two people in the waiting room spotted him and volunteered to take him off my hands that very minute, but I didn’t like their looks. One had a yappy dog the cat took an instant dislike to, and the other was a young woman who looked irresponsible to me. She had pierced ears and peroxided hair that stood up in spikes all over her head. I told the vet I wouldn’t dream of putting the cat in the care of someone like that.”

“Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, patting myself on the chest with relief. “So he’s a male?”

“He was male. Apparently, he was neutered some time ago. The vet says neutering tempers aggression and will keep him from spraying and getting into fights with other cats. She also pointed out he has what they call heterochromia, meaning his eyes are different colors. One is blue and the other is a golden green. Odd-eyed kittens are more expensive than the ordinary ones.”

William stirred, wanting to ask a question without generating any more ire on Henry’s part. “Have you thought about a name?”

“Of course. The cat’s name is Ed.”

William blinked and said, “Good choice.”

I said, “Excellent.”

6

PETE WOLINSKY

May 1988, Five Months Earlier

Pete ignored the phone when it rang, letting his answering machine pick up while he sorted through the mail that had piled up over the past week. Idly, he tuned in to his outgoing message, thinking as he always did that his recorded voice sounded manly, mature, and trustworthy.

“Able and Wolinsky. We’re currently out of the office, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we return. We value your business and look forward to serving you with efficiency and discretion.”

There was actually no Able. Pete had adopted a mythical partner so his agency name would appear first in the listings for private investigators.

The caller didn’t need to identify himself since he rang up six to eight times a day. “Listen, you son of a bitch. I know you’re there, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. If you don’t pay what you owe, I’ll come over there with a meat cleaver and chop off your shriveled dick . . .”

Pete listened with amusement. Synchronicity being what it was, it was Barnaby on the line again, calling on behalf of Ajax Financial Recovery Associates, whose officious written demands were spelled out in the letter he held in his hand while the goober from the self-same company spewed venom. In truth, the dunning notices were almost as bad as the daily calls and both were getting on his nerves—abusive tirades generated by clowns who weren’t qualified for real jobs. What kind of fool spent his days in a cubicle badgering gainfully employed citizens about debts that might or might not be owed? Most debt collectors were rude, obnoxious, devious, and unprincipled. He filtered their calls, deleting a message the minute the caller announced his purpose. If he was careless and picked up the line, allowing one of his creditors to get through, he’d blast him with a handheld siren that would render a fellow deaf for the better part of an hour. He made an exception for Barnaby, whose threats were more vicious and imaginative than most. As soon as he’d recorded another week’s worth of diatribes, he’d file a complaint with the FTC.

He tossed the Ajax letter into the trash along with the other overdue notices, a summons, two default judgments, and the threat of a lawsuit. The only envelope left contained a preapproved credit card offer, which made him laugh aloud. Those assholes never gave up. He adjusted his glasses, leaning close to the application as he took a few minutes to fill in the particulars. He used his own name with an X as his middle initial. The rest of the personal information—employment, bank accounts—he invented on the spot, wondering if the company would actually be foolish enough to issue him a card.