Chapter Seven

"Look, Nick, you got'ta help me!" said Johnny Frisco. His voice was shaky and full of breath. "Make that big Texas cowboy keep his mouth shut!" Johnny jabbed his finger at the air in rhythm with each word, as if working a typewriter. "That Reverend Bob Billy Dollar, or whatever his name is--he's a fruitcake, and he can spoil the whole damned deal!"

"But, boss, ain't you the one who said we needed him?" Nick asked.

"We need him, yeah," Johnny said, his voice and finger lowering. "But we need him to shut up too!"

Koshka, being the inquisitive type, had slipped unnoticed into the giant second-floor suite occupied by the Amerikans. He sat in the corner, a feigned feline nonchalance upon his face.

Johnny plugged a cigarette into a long black holder, pulled out a "Zeepo" lighter, and lit up. His fingers shook all the while. "It's like this nut--he could blow the whole deal."

"I know, boss," answered Nick. "He's got a screw loose."

"But you know, Nick, we're stuck," Johnny said, drawing smoke through the long black tube. Koshka watched the ash on the cigarette grow longer and greyer, and it started to bend towards the floor. "We need the guy."

Nick pushed an ashtray towards Johnny, but it was too late. The long ash sailed towards the carpet, where it vanished in a thousand pieces.

Johnny sucked on the tube again, then blew a ring of smoke at the ceiling. "Winston Hale says we need him. Nobody's suspecting nothing yet. And now, the reverend's got the backing of the State Department, the money too."

"What kind'a money though?" asked Nick. "It gives me the shivers. Little old ladies with arthritis who touch the television set when he's preaching--I mean that's not what I call good money! The guy's a creep, for what I'm concerned."

"But we gotta work with him," said Johnny. "And you know, if we get a line on chicken wings in this god-forsaken country, if we make a name for ourselves, we'll have the cleanest money in the whole world! Nobody could trace nothin!"

"Yeah, boss," said Nick. "But only if that dumb cowboy don't blow everything."

"That's precisely our mission," said Winston Hale, rising slowly from a thick sofa. He was shorter and paler than Johnny Frisco and his friend Nick. He circled the room, his feet barely touching the floor. He lit a thin cigarette, and slowly blew the smoke from his face.

Koshka shivered. There was something ominous about this human, the quietest and thinnest of all the Amerikans.

Winston Hale studied the ever-widening circles of smoke that curled towards the ceiling. "We create the synergies--the spaces, if you will, where things can work out harmoniously."

"And it damned well better work!" said Johnny Frisco. "Hey, Nick, gim'me another bourbon there!"

Nick poured a thick brown liquid from a square bottle. "We ain't got ice cubes, boss."

"See what I mean?" said Johnny, shaking his head towards Winston Hale. "Good God, a country that doesn't even got ice cubes! We gotta get out'a here--set things up and leave, that's what I say!"

"Yeah, boss" added Nick. "I wanna go back to Vegas, where I belong. Now, that's where you find real hotels. These Russkies, they bother me!" He swallowed hard. "But that kooky reverend, he bothers me more."

"Oh, but you need the reverend!" Winston Hale admonished softly. "His connections in Washington can hold this deal together. Things are strained politically at present. We need the reverend, and his 'pull,' as you call it."

"But what kind of pull can a weirdo like that have, huh?" asked Nick.

Winston shook his head. "More than he--or anybody, needs. He's a personal friend of the vice-president's wife, for instance."

"I don't believe it!" snapped Johnny.

"Well, she watches his show every night, and she won't eat anything but his fried chicken wings."

"Yeah, yeah, maybe that's why she looks like a chicken," answered Johnny. "But the reverend's still got a big mouth. And he's stupid too."

"Stupid-smart!" said Winston Hale. "Remember, he's worth ninety million dollars! That doesn't even include his pet project, that amusement park thing."

"Yeah," said Johnny, not convinced. "But it's little old lady money!"

"Money's money!" said Winston. "And he knows how to get it!"

"Yeah, but it gives me the creeps--the heebie-jeebies," said Johnny Frisco. "All that crying and sobbing he and his wife do on TV, all that begging and bible-thumping!"

"But it works," said Winston. "I wish I had his portfolio. The man's rich--he's got mansions all over the country. Last year, he built an entire underground city in Muleshoe, Texas, for him and his followers."

"That's what I mean," said Johnny. "The guy's a nut. I don't trust him, and he gives me the willies!" Johnny lit a cigarette, looked around the room, and spotted Koshka in the corner. "Just like that cat there, staring at us like it knows what we're saying."

Koshka blinked fast, then pretended to fall asleep on the carpet. He kept one eye open, but barely.

"Yeah, I hate cats!" Johnny Frisco said. "You can't trust 'em. Hey, Nick, get rid of that fat, striped thing, okay?"

Nick mashed his cigarette into an ashtray, took in a deep breath, and rose from his chair. But by then, Koshka had zipped out of the room, and was catching his breath just around the corner.

"See what I mean?" he heard Johnny say. "That damned cat! It's like he knows everything we said! It gives me the creeps. Our cowboy preacher gives me the creeps. This whole damn country gives me the creeps!"

"It'll all be over soon," said Winston Hale. "And it will be well worth it. Just be patient, and you'll see."

#

Koshka started putting things together. During the Andropov years he had seen a special program, "The Mafia--Who Really Rules Amerika?" on Soviet television, so he knew that Johnny Frisco wasn't just an ordinary kapitalist businessman. And, when Johnny talked about clean money, Koshka understood exactly what he meant.

Koshka decided to open a private, free-enterprise investigatory agency, based on Kapitalist grounds combined with the principles of perestroika. He hung a small sign on a cellar heat pipe. "World Headquarters, Wonder Cat Detective Agency," it said. Then, late at night, he sat in his office, collected his thoughts, and put them down on paper.

He saw two possibilities for turning things around and protecting the widow from eviction. First, he could figure out a way to expose Johnny Frisco's evil plans (once he found out exactly what they were) to the reverence Billy Bob Buck, and then the whole kapitalist deal for the Glasnost Hotel would fall through. Or, he could figure out a way to expose the plot to the Muscovites, in which case the deal would be canceled and all the kapitalists would be sent packing.

He couldn't decide which avenue to pursue. He needed time, and the opportunity to collect more information. And Koshka, like all cats, had more than enough patience to wait however long it would take to obtain that information.

And the location of the Wonder Cat Detective Agency was no accident. The venting ducts passed through the cellar there, and an attentive cat could hear conversations from all over the building.

#

A call came to the Wonder Cat Detective Agency, via the venting duct alarm system. Something was happening on the fifth floor. Koshka rushed to the scene, being careful to remain out of view of any humans. Comrade Rassolnikov was inspecting the construction progress in the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar. Actually, there was no progress because there was no construction. He was merely ordering his workers to shuffle around the tarps and drop-cloths to make it look like progress was being made. "Here, put that canvas over those tables!" he commanded. "Good! Now, stack those chairs over there. Yes! Yes! Now, move those tables over towards the back wall and stack them three-high."

"But they were just there yesterday," one of the workers offered.

"Just do as I say!" snapped Rassolnikov. "You just follow orders, and I'll do the rest. That's why you're workers and I'm a special delegate."

"I thought we were all equal under the law," grumbled the worker, but Rassolnikov heard.

"Shut up, or I'll show you just how unequal we are!" said Rassolnikov.

Just then, a stranger, walked into the room. He was a foreigner--his clothes fit well, but his shoes wouldn't survive one Saint Petersburg winter. "Excuse me," he said in perfect Russian. "I'm looking for the Americans involved with this project. Have you seen them?"

Rassolnikov scowled and shook his head.

Koshka stared at the stranger from the back corner of the room. The man was about thirty years old, of medium-tall height. He had a head of thick brown hair and fine, noble features--almost like a statue, Koshka decided, or better, an Amerikan movie star.

"I'm an interpreter," the man said politely. "The State Department sent me. I've been assigned to this project, and I need to find the Americans."

"Try downstairs," snapped Rassolnikov.

"Which floor?"

"Any floor! I don't know where they are!"

The American smiled politely, but Koshka could see it was a forced smile, and the man's eyes became firm and penetrating as well.

Koshka crept closer, sniffing out the stranger, while a plan began to brew in his crafty feline brain. It had worked for Pimen, so why not for Koshka?

Koshka calculated, as if adding up a sum. The man was very handsome, for a human, and he was of the right age. He spoke beautiful Russian, and was obviously well-educated and cultured. He smelled good. There were no traces of stale liquor or tobacco smells, and no horrible colognes like with Johnny Frisco's men.

"What a nice, healthy-looking cat!" the man said softly, leaning down to pet Koshka. Koshka took an instant liking to him, and the plan gelled in his cat brain.

How to execute it? It was truly a job for Wonder Cat.

#

For the next three days, Koshka followed this interpreter around. His name was David Thompson, Koshka learned. He was from Amerika, but from some part that was not Kalifornia and not Texas. He didn't talk, look, or act like the other Amerikans. It must be a very vast country indeed, Koshka decided.

This David was assigned to work with the Amerikans, Koshka discovered, but he didn't get along very well with them, although he was always very polite. One meeting in the Amerikan suite went long into the night, and there was a lot of finger-pointing and name-calling. David was right in the middle of it. He was playing the role of peacemaker, but no one seemed to notice--not the kofboi contingent, not the Kalifornia contingent, not Winston Hale.

"Look!" Winston told David finally. "You just do your little job! Just translate your little words, keep your nose in your dictionary, and out of our business, okay?"

"I was just trying to help," David answered. "Some of the Russians are worried--that's all. They see a lot of dissension. They suspect some kind of deception--I was just trying to help out--to tell you what I sense and hear from the other side."

"Who died and made you king?" asked an exasperated Winston Hale. "Just peddle your little dictionary words, and leave us to business!"

David shrugged his shoulders and left the room.

"Little snoop!" said Winston Hale.

"He's a midwestern creep!" said Johnny Frisco, tossing a match into the ashtray. "I hate midwestern creeps. Send him back to his cheese farm in Wisconsin, that's what I say."

"Be careful around him!" said the reverend. "He could be a plant."

"A flower?" asked Winston Hale.

"No, my sunny California brother!" said the reverend impatiently. "A spy. Someone sent to keep track of us--that's all!"

Johnny Frisco leaned back in his chair. "I don't know, but I just don't trust him. He's too nice, too god-damned sincere."

"Be wary, brethren!" said the reverend. "He could be the devil in disguise, the Antichrist himself!"

#

The remarks confirmed Koshka's earlier suspicions and convinced him even more that his plan would work. He shut down the Wonder Cat Detective Agency, temporarily, and got down to work on his new project.

It took a lot of planning, then a lot of maneuvering. First he had to find a window that opened horizontally--a difficult enough task in a city that liked windows that open sideways, but worse, the window had to work too. He found just such a window, just one of the many architectural peculiarities of the crazy old building, and the window was in a perfect location. It was on the landing between the floor occupied by the widow and the floor occupied by the foreigners.

Koshka got hard to work. The window had to be raised to the exact height. A half-inch too low would have spelled failure, and a half-inch too high would have spelled it with the same dismal letters. Too high, and the plan would be too apparent. Too low, and, well, Koshka would be in a serious fix indeed.

He arranged the mechanism slowly and carefully, his paws taking great pains for precision. It would work on something like the guillotine principle. Two sticks under the open window--one stick as long as it could be, and the second stick as short as it could be. The window had to be fixed so that it would slam down hard the next time and would be very difficult to lift. And the howl had to be perfect too. For that he practiced in the cellar, until Rodion the janitor drove him out.

It took a full week's secret effort, done in late-night spurts, to claw away at the window frame, to jimmy the sash and counter-weight. The timing had to be right too--just perfect, but Koshka had patience. He crouched for days in the dark hallway, waiting.

Then one night, it was dark and windy, and the hotel was strangely quiet. It seemed like a perfect time to execute the plan. Koshka crept down the hall and heard voices from the widow Petrova's apartment. That was a good sign. Yes, it was Anna's voice. Good.

Now the American interpreter's room was one flight down, but his doorway was near the landing. Koshka crept down the steps. A light was on in the room--that was certain. The door, being of post-war Soviet construction, let out light on all four corners. Koshka turned his ears, expertly waiting for the slightest sound. Flip! Yes, it was the sound of a page turning. Good! The American was in his room, and he was awake.

There was no time like the present. Koshka took a deep breath, fixed his eyes on the target, and leapt onto the window sill. Plop! Everything was in order. Then with his hind leg, he kicked the taller stick out from the window. Slam! The giant window plunged downwards. The second stick held, thank goodness! The bottom of the window grazed his fur and pressed into his flesh, but the stick held and the distance was perfect.

"M-m-m-r-r-ro-o-o-w-w-w-!" Koshka let out the most heart-some, forlorn, prayerful howl that any single cat could have ever let out.

A door slammed below. Koshka heard footsteps. Good, the American was running up. Then a door slammed upstairs, and there were footsteps heading towards the landing--lighter, softer footsteps. It was Anna. Good.

"What's happened?" Anna called out as she rushed towards the landing.

"I--I don't know," said the Amerikan, dashing up to the landing. Panting, he ran up to Koshka and tugged at the window with one hand while stroking the cat with the other. "Here!" David called out. "This poor cat's caught in the window!"

"M-m-m-e-e-e-o-o-o-w!" Koshka let out a low, pained, mournful moan.

"Oh, let me help!" called out Anna. She stepped up to the sill and petted Koshka.

"M-e-e-o-o-w!" It was the softest, most helpless of sounds.

The Amerikan tugged at the window, with no luck. His face turned red, and small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead and over his lip. "This thing is really stuck!" He stepped back, leaning his body into the tugging. At last the window moved upwards.

"Come here, poor little kitty!" said Anna, scooping Koshka up in her arms.

David patted Koshka's head. The cat purred soul-fully. The moment was at hand.

"Poor little kitty!" said Anna. "I don't know how he got caught in that window!"

"Me neither," said David. "It's lucky he's alive. If that one little stick hadn't been there, the window would have killed him, I'm sure."

Anna held Koshka tighter, while David petted the cat's head. Then Anna's eyes met those of the Amerikan, and he looked back at her. Both flinched ever so slightly. It was the tiniest of jolts--so small that a human probably wouldn't have noticed. Koshka noticed, and he could feel Anna's heart beating faster.

Anna held Koshka tighter. The Amerikan stepped back. "Is that your cat?" he asked.

"Why, no!" said Anna. Her face was turning red, just a little, and Koshka could feel the blood pulsing through her body. "But he's almost our cat. We feed him and care for him--he's one of the old residents around here."

"Oh, you live here?" asked David.

"Yes, I mean--no. I mean, my aunt does--my great aunt, I mean, and I'm visiting her. And you? You're not a Russian, are you?"

"No. I'm an American."

"But you speak Russian?"

"Yes, but not well."

"Perfectly! How do you know Russian?"

"I'm an interpreter," he answered.

"And why ever would an American study Russian?"

"I've studied it since high school I was interested in the music, then the literature, and finally the language, so I majored in it and got a degree in it. And you--what do you do?" he asked.

She blushed. "I'm a teacher."

"What a coincidence! I'm a teacher too. I teach Russian. How about you?"

She smiled. "I teach English."

Koshka smiled a wily cat smile. The plan was proceeding faster and better than anticipated.

"That's--that's great!" David fumbled with his hands.

Koshka turned around in Anna's arms, let out a contented "meow," and stretched a paw out towards the Amerikan.

"Oh, look!" Anna said. "He likes you!"

"What's his name?"

"He doesn't have one, I guess. At least no one knows what it is. So, we just call him 'Koshka,' or 'The Cat at the Glasnost Hotel.'"

"Do you have a name?" David asked boldly. His eyes turned steely, then soft.

"Yes, I do." She blushed. "Anna."

"I have a name too," he said. "It's David." He offered his hand, and Anna extended hers, tenuously.

Koshka was ready to cheer. Pimen couldn't have done it better.

But then there was a long silence--it was too long. Koshka fretted, knowing every second was critical. He jumped to the floor and in a single movement, leapt back up onto the window sill.

"Oh, haven't you learned, kitty?" asked Anna. "Stay away from things that hurt you!" With that, she glanced sideways at David, and her face turned redder.

"I--I--it was nice meeting you," said David.

"Nice meeting you too. Do you live here in the building?"

"Yes. The second floor."

Anna frowned, and her body stiffened. "Are you here with that--that hotel delegation?"

"Yes," he said. "I've been assigned to interpret for the renovation project!"

"Oh, that's certainly too bad!" she huffed, turning her head away. "Well, I must go and tend to some things. My aunt needs-" Her voice trailed off as she made her way down the landing.

David stood in his place, his eyes following Anna's steps down the hallway.

Koshka blinked, brushing away a tear that blurred his vision. All that effort, for nothing! He'd risked death, closed down a potentially lucrative free-enterprise detective agency, wasted weeks in preparation, and all for nothing.

#

It was time for the meeting of cats. Feofan Lapa, the Moscow visitor from the Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress, chaired the meeting in the watch factory.

"Life is falling apart," Avvakuum grumbled, settling into his position on the workbench.

"You can choose any period of history that you like, and any place as well," answered Feofan Lapa. "And it will seem that life is falling apart. Life is like that. It is always falling apart, always changing and throwing in quirks and kinks that no one expects."

"And none of it for much good, to my way of thinking!" said Avvakuum. "Life is just one pain piled on another--one loss piled on another loss, one-"

"Or one joy piled on another joy," interrupted Feofan Lapa. "It all depends on what you expect--what reality you create for yourself. For you know, the world is really in you more than it is outside you, and every day the world rises up to give you what you have asked for, even if you didn't know you were asking."

Koshka nodded his head at these words of wisdom. They sounded true. They sounded like the best rebuttal to the grouchy old Avvakuum, but was it true? If so, why was there so much suffering? Why did the poor widow Petrova have to move out of her home, her comfortable nest? "I would like to believe you, Feofan Lapa," Koshka said finally. "I want to believe it! Yet, I don't think life works like that--at least not around here. I've tried to help, but it hasn't helped at all."

Feofan Lapa nodded. "You are an intelligent cat, but still you must learn when to press forward, and when to lie back and let things take their course. That's always the question--fight, flee, or flow."

Koshka pondered those wise words, wanting to agree, knowing he should agree, wishing he knew when to fight, flee, or flow. And old memories stirred deep inside him.

Feofan Lapa took up a position on the tallest work bench. "This evening, we will hear happy tales, my fellow cats! We will go back in time now, so rest easily, get comfortable, and close your eyes. I will tell you, among other things, what some humans think about where we came from, and about one great human who really loved cats."

Koshka settled down on a pile of wood scraps, while above, Avvakuum sighed and eased his old body down onto the workbench.

"You are feeling drowsy, and your eyelids are getting heavy, very heavy," sang Feofan Lapa. "The words I speak will paint vivid images in your heads. We are going backwards in time, and southward in place--back to the time of the prophet Mohammed. Now Mohammed loves cats, and always has. He believes that cats first appeared on Noah's ark. As the tale goes, one day Noah noticed that his policy of two-of-each-species had gone somewhat awry; namely, that mice were over-running the ship. Now Noah, seeing the problem, passed his hand three times over the head of a lion. The lion sneezed forth a cat, and the cat went and controlled the mouse population. So you see, we cats have a royal lineage according to the teachings of Islam.

And in Arabic legend, we are equally important, although of a somewhat mixed pedigree. According to one legend, there were long, lonely times on Noah's ark, and many of the animals were bored, or worse. They had certain physical desires that required fulfillment, if you will. Now, we can surmise that for some reason, the monkey pair did not get along well, and the she-monkey would have nothing to do with the he-monkey, just as the she-lion for some reason would have nothing to do with the he-lion. It is not so surprising, really, on such a long journey, in such crowded conditions, that certain animosities might arise. At any rate, this legend tells us that a monkey and a lion became interested in one-another, they mated, and the result was a cat.

Now both of these legends are probably true to a certain extent, on some level or another. But we can surmise that the second legend was devised by humans to explain a nature they cannot fathom--to wit, the independent, introspective, paradoxical, unflinching nature of us cats!

Whatever the perceived reason for our creation, we know that the prophet Mohammed loved his personal pet cat, Muezza. Whenever Mohammed meditated, chances are that Muezza reclined nearby. Now one day, Mohammed awoke from his meditation, but Muezza was still asleep in his arm. Rather than awaken the cat, Mohammed cut the sleeve off his robe. Now that is a sign of love and reverence for a cat! And would that all humans treated us so!"

With those words, Feofan Lapa finished his story, and as if on a signal, all the cats opened their eyes and stretched--Avvakuum first, albeit slowly, then Koshka, and Misha and Grisha, Almaz the Persian, and Masha the house cat too.

"Such love the prophet had for his Muezza!" said Koshka. He thought of the good widow Petrova, of tender Anna, of the nice Amerikan named David.

"Why are humans so nice to cats in other countries, and not so nice here?" asked Masha the house cat.

Feofan Lapa smiled. "You will see that humans have not treated cats too kindly anywhere, Masha. That is the subject of our next meeting, my friend. But you know, your colleague, Avvakuum, can better answer your question than I can, so I will return the floor to him for our next gathering."

"You bet I can tell you about human cruelty!" grumbled Avvakuum.

Koshka knew it to be true, but wondered why. After all, Avvakuum had one of the nicest mistresses around. Babushka Shura fretted over him daily and yet, Avvakuum confounded each of her kindnesses. "It must be cat nature--to be so perverse," he decided. "Or at least, Avvakuum's nature," he concluded.

#

Things were not going well with the Amerikan kapitalists. Koshka could tell, because the Kalifornians had been shouting at the kofbois since sunrise, disturbing the usual early morning peace of the Glasnost Hotel. At ten o'clock, Rodion got up from his lumpy old chair in the lobby, grumbled, "To the devil with them all!" under his breath, and headed for the cellar, where he continued his nap. His snoring disturbed Koshka's post-breakfast repose, so the cat headed upstairs to see what all the shouting was about.

"Don't give me any of your Christian bullshit!" said Johnny Frisco. "You're here to make money, and we're here to make money too. Now all you gotta do is exactly what I tell you to! Understood?"

"I have a burden on my heart," said Billy Bob.

"My husband has a burden on his heart," said Mrs. Billy Bob, also known as Nellie Maye Filbert Buck, of the Longview, Texas Filberts, thank you. "He needs to share something with you all!"

"Oh, to share something with us?" asked Winston Hale, the Kalifornian. "You mean, like sharing feelings?"

"Oh shut up!" snapped Johnny Frisco. "Feeling's got nothing to do with this. We're talking business here! Money!"

"But I have a burden!" said Billy Bob.

"My husband has a burden!" said Mrs. Billy Bob. "He--he--I'm sorry--he gets these, these spells once in a while, and we need to hear him out. It's the holy spirit moving within him, that's what it is."

"I don't care what the hell is moving inside him," said Johnny Frisco. "Tell him to say what he has to say! We ain't got all day here!"

But Mrs. Billy Bob was silent. She turned towards her husband. His head went back, and his eyes started to roll. "I have a burden from the Lord!" he said. "I must bring these people, these godless heathens, the word of the Lord Jesus! I have a word of knowledge. Yes, there it is!" He closed his eyes and grimaced until his face turned dark red. "There's a man--an old man--I see him, in the basement--yes, he is holding a broom. He has a thirst within him. Yes, he is thirsty for the Lord, for the Holy Spirit! I must read to him from the holy book!" The reverend opened his yes, reaching into his white sequined jacket, and pulled out a leather-bound book whose pages had golden edges.

"Like hell you will!" said Johnny Frisco. "Listen! You get this restaurant project off and running. Then you can go reading from any old book you want to. But until then, you just work on that restaurant. Get your damned chicken wings batter-fried first!"

"But, the Lord has given me a sign!" Billy Bob insisted. "Why, look at this cat here that's just come into the room--this messenger from Satan. He says, 'Feed ye not the bodies of those who would starve thy spirit!'"

"Feed them, God damn it!" shouted Johnny Frisco. "Don't give me none of your bull shit! You are the premier frier of chicken parts in the whole USA."

"I am a minister of the Lord Jesus Christ, sir! A preacher. A humble servant of the Lord."

Mrs. Billy Bob patted her husband's head. The man nodded and winked. "Yes. I will feed them of the flesh. Then, when they are sated, I shall bring them onto the Lord!" His voice lowered. "Okay, honey pie, okay." He blinked. His eyes narrowed and then seemed to look right through Johnny Frisco. "Now, what percentages are we talking about here?"

Johnny Frisco's eyes narrowed too. "You. Twenty-five per cent, the Russkies fifty per cent, and us, twenty-five per cent."

Billy Bob's eyes narrowed even more, and his fingers ran down the crease on his white trousers. "We're talking percentages of profit here, not ownership. Us, thirty per cent. Our Russian brethren and you, the remainder."

"Okay. Okay," said Johnny Frisco. "But we get early out. You stay in with long-range expenditures."

"Amortized, of course!" chanted Winston Hale.

"But, the Russkies got to agree too!" added Johnny, lighting another cigarette.

"Well, bring our unbaptized brethren in then!" said Billy Bob. "And get rid of this devil's messenger--this, this mangy cat!"

Koshka took direct offense at the remark, but considered it prudent to leave anyway. When the Russians got together with the Amerikans, then he could find out more about David--how he fit in with these other Amerikans--how, or whether, he could be ever part of another Wonder Cat plan.

And there was much more going on than met the eye, Koshka decided. Something about that confrontation showed that Johnny Frisco and his men weren't being completely honest with the kofbois. In addition, it was clear that Billy Bob Buck had something up his long sleeve that only his wife was privy to.

Curiosity, like hunger itself, gnawed at Koshka.

#

It was in that long summer of 1982, long after the official period of mourning had ended and workers had folded away the bunting and posters. Winter came, and humans gossiped and whispered in flats and on stairway landings.

"Akh, it makes no difference who's in the Kremlin," said Ivan Petrovich, an old man in the snowy court yard behind Koshka's building. "One is like the other."

"This time it will be different!" promised Olga Ivanovna, a smiling lady with round eyes that flashed across her aged face.

"They say that every time," said Ivan. "And the only time things change is when they change for the worse."

Olga sighed and crossed herself. She adjusted the net bag on her arm, and proceeded through the court yard. Her shadow hunched and shrank as she passed through the entry, out to the faded light on the street.

And now too, there were whispers over back fences about changes in the cat world too. What were they talking about? Koshka didn't know, but he trembled a little when the other cats talked, then stopped talking when he approached. Not for himself did he tremble. He was big and muscular and tough. But for Katyenka and the five kittens.

He thought he heard whispers and rumors of war. And once, in the court yard, he thought he heard someone say "Igor."

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