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.
I hated my clothes closet for more than simple fashion reasons, so I didn’t dally choosing an outfit. I went with a classic black dress, low cut and strapless. It was calf length, but had a dramatic slit on the right side up to mid-thigh. I liked it because it hung rather than clung, meaning I didn’t have to suck in my tummy all night.
I was searching through my sock drawer in a fruitless effort to find a pair of nylons without a run, when I noticed Mr. Friskers on my bed, clawing at my sheets. He wasn’t tearing them, just kind of gathering them in a ball as if burying something.
“Hey, cat. What are you . . . aw, dammit.”
So much for the litter box.
I stripped the bed and went to the kitchen for some stain remover. Cat litter blanketed most of the kitchen floor, trailing into the living room. Not a bad effort for an animal without opposable thumbs.
It was coming up on six, and I hadn’t even started on my hair yet. I hurried back to the bedroom, dumped some cleanser on the stain, then did a quick blow-dry.
My intercom went off. I hit the button to buzz Latham through the lobby door, squeezed into my least-runny pair of hose, and managed to tug on some two-inch heels just as the knock came.
Mirror-check. Not bad. I gave my hair a final finger-fluff and went to let Latham in.
Only it wasn’t Latham after all.
“Hiya, Jackie. Wow, you’re all dressed up and looking girly. How’d you know I was coming?”
Harry McGlade had gained a few pounds since I’d last seen him a few months back, on my solitary visit to the set of
Fatal Autonomy: Harry McGlade Meets the Gingerbread Man.
He wore his usual three days’ growth of beard and a wrinkled yellow suit jacket over a solid red T-shirt.
“I didn’t know the
Miami Vice
look was back.”
Harry grinned. “I don’t have socks on, either. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jackie. You can’t still be mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I lied. “I’m getting ready for a date. Why don’t you stop by sometime after Christmas? Of 2012?”
“Jackie, partner—”
“We’re not partners anymore, McGlade.”
Harry spread out his hands. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought the screen credit would make you happy.”
I’d visited a location shoot because McGlade had insisted on me meeting the director and the actor playing me. “So they get the authenticity right,” he’d told me.
It turned out my character was there for comic relief, and so stupid she had mismatched shoes for half the film. I cringed, recalling the scene where the idiot with my name read a suspect his
Fernando
rights.
I crossed my arms, anger rising. “You had me listed as a technical consultant on a movie that failed to accurately portray one single aspect of police procedure.”
“Heh, heh. Remember the
Fernando
rights scene? Biggest laugh in the flick.”
I tried to slam the door, but Harry shoved a foot inside.
“Jackie! Please! I really need to talk to you. It’s hugely important.”
I pushed harder, leaning into it.
“It’s life or death! Please! These loafers are Italian!”
If I knew Harry, and unfortunately that was the case, he’d continue bothering me until I gave in. I considered arresting him, but as much as that would amuse me, Latham would be here any minute and I didn’t want to spend our date at the district house booking McGlade.
“Thirty seconds, McGlade, then you go.”
“Sixty.”
“Thirty.”
“Forty-five.”
“Twenty.”
“Fine. Thirty seconds, then I’m out of here.”
I released the door. Harry grinned.
“Thanks, Jackie. You going to let me in?”
I stood to the side, allowing him entrance. He sauntered in, trailing a fog of Brut.
“So, this is your place, huh? Kind of dumpy.”
“You have twenty-five seconds left.”
Harry stopped fingering my couch and faced me.
“Okay, I’ll get to the point. I need a favor. You know a sergeant out of the one-two, name of Pierce?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s—”
My buzzer sounded. Nice timing, Latham. I hit the intercom button.
“I’ll be right down, Latham.”
“Could I come up? These need to get in some water.”
I pressed Talk, unsure of what to say. I really didn’t want Latham to have to deal with McGlade.
“Jackie!” Harry yelled. “Come back to bed!”
I punched McGlade in the ribs, hard. Though I didn’t weigh a lot, I was working on my second-degree black belt in tae kwon do, and knew how to hit. McGlade yelped.
“Jack, who was that?”
“Harry McGlade. He’s just leaving.”
McGlade pulled a face. “You promised me thirty seconds!”
“Jack,” Latham sounded flustered. “We can go out tomorrow, if you’ve got something going on.”
“No! Come on up.”
I buzzed him in, then jabbed a finger at McGlade’s spongy chest.
“You. Out.”
“But you said . . .”
“If you don’t leave right now, I promise that I’ll dedicate my life to making sure you never get whatever favor it is you want from me.”
McGlade considered it.
“So if I leave, you’ll do the favor?”
“I don’t even know what the favor is.”
“When would be a good time to discuss it?” Harry dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out a PDA. “I think I’m free for lunch tomorrow.”
“Fine. Lunch tomorrow. But you have to leave right now.”
I shoved Harry out the door, hurried to the bathroom to check my hair and makeup, and swallowed two aspirin; McGlade never failed to induce a headache.
When the knock came, I did my damnedest to put on a nice smile.
“Hi, Latham.”
Latham stood in my hallway, a dozen roses in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. Standing next to him, arm around his shoulders, was Harry.
“Good news, Jack. We can cancel lunch tomorrow. Your boyfriend invited me to dinner with you guys.”
Latham shrugged.
“He said it was life or death.”
I gave Harry a look I normally reserved for rapists and murderers.
“McGlade . . .”
“I won’t stay long. And I’ll pay. The best bar and grill in the city is right around the corner.”
“Wait out here,” I told him, tugging Latham into my apartment and closing the door.
Latham looked good. He wore a dark gray suit, a light gray shirt, and a rich blue silk tie. Businessman chic.
“So that’s Harry, huh? He’s older and fatter than the guy who played him on TV.”
“He’s stupider too. Are those for me?”
Latham handed me the roses. I took a compulsory sniff.
“They’re gorgeous.”
“You’re gorgeous.”
Latham moved in for the kiss, and when his lips touched mine I felt it all the way down to my toes. I had a sudden urge to forget about dinner, and McGlade, and drag Latham into the bedroom. And I might have done just that, if my bed hadn’t been covered with cat stains.
“We should put those in some water.” Latham brought the roses into the kitchen, stopping when he saw the mess.
“What happened in here? It looks like Pompeii after Vesuvius.”
“Long story. I’ll tell you over a romantic dinner.”
“Jackie!” McGlade pounded on the door. “What’s taking so long? You guys bumping uglies in there?”
Latham laughed. “Romantic dinner, hmm?”
“My gun’s in my purse. Want me to shoot him?”
“Let him pay for dinner first.”
I found a vase in the cabinet while Latham cut an inch off the bottom of the stems. When the flowers were arranged, I kissed him again, then wiped a smudge of my lipstick off his lips.
“So what’s this big thing you wanted to ask me, Latham?”
Latham smiled, eyes twinkling.
“I’ll tell you soon enough.”
“So this was back in the ’80s, and crack was still pretty new to the streets, and me and Jackie catch an
officer down
squeal at this known crack house.”
Latham nudged me. “You two used to ride together?”
I took a large swig of Sam Adams and frowned.
“No one else would ride with Harry, so I got stuck with him.”
“That’s true. It’s because I was reckless.”
“It’s because you’re obnoxious. Every partner Harry ever had put in for a transfer.”
Harry shook his head. “Wrong. Steinwank got shot.”
“Steinwank shot himself in the foot to get away from you.”
“Whatever. Anyway, we pull up to this crack house, and sure enough, there’s a uniform down on the sidewalk right in front.”
I drank more beer and looked around the room. We’d wound up at the Cubby Bear, a Chicago bar and grill across the street from Wrigley Field, just a few blocks from my apartment. Harry’s face was a mess of BBQ sauce, and he gnawed at his two-dozenth buffalo wing while he spoke.
“So Jack gets out of the car, checks the guy. He’s out.”
“Was he shot?” Latham asked. He’d been humoring McGlade for the last half an hour, and I wished he’d quit it. Neither he nor Harry had gotten around to telling me the reasons they wanted to talk to me, and I was antsy, overdressed, and getting very bored with the cigarette smoke and loud noise and college kids bumping the back of my chair.
“That’s the thing. He wasn’t shot, but he’s got this big goose egg on his head. Won’t wake up—the guy’s even snoring. Anyway, Jackie uses this as probable cause for entering the crack house. She marches right inside, which was suicidal. Crack houses are like fortresses. I even remember a raid where Vice nabbed a rocket launcher. Those guys don’t play around.”
Latham looked at me with such frank admiration I almost blushed.
“They didn’t have a rocket launcher,” I said.
“Let me finish the story. So anyway, because I’m Jackie’s partner, I go in after her. Jackie’s in there, screaming and waving her gun, and scares the absolute shit out of them. They practically trip over themselves trying to surrender. We made eighteen felony arrests, all by ourselves, not a single shot fired. Even made the nightly news.”
“What about the cop?”
“That’s the best part. Turned out the cop was there to score some coke for his personal use, and he tripped on a shoelace and knocked himself out.”
Harry laughed, slapping his thigh and staining it with sauce.
“That’s a great story,” Latham said. He took a pull on his beer. “Jack really doesn’t talk about herself.”
“Do you know about the time she loaned out to Vice to go undercover as a hooker?”
“No. I’d like to hear that one.”
I didn’t mind hearing stories about my past so much as I minded Latham getting chummy with Harry McGlade, whom I couldn’t stand for a handful of reasons. This was a good time to change topics.
“So what’s the problem you’re having with Sergeant Pierce?” I asked Harry.