Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 15

Later that afternoon, Cordon joined us at Applebee's. By that point, I'd eaten my way through about a quarter of the menu. I couldn't stop stuffing my face. When Catsby took my silverware away, I thrust two hands into my penne, shoveling pasta into my mouth like a toddler. Cordon averted her gaze, too embarrassed to watch. But let me tell you: I had no shame. No shame at all. After two weeks in the hospital, my appetite had returned in full force and then some.

"I think that's enough, Old Spice," Catsby said, pushing my plate into the center of the table. "If you eat any more, we're going to have to wheel you out on a stretcher."

I leaned back in the booth with a heavy sigh. As if on cue, the button on my jeans popped off and hit a passing waitress in the face. A thin mist of blood sprayed into the air as her head snapped up and to the left (a little Zapruder film that still plays in my head from time to time). Two cooks emerged from the back. They picked up the waitress's lifeless body and hauled her into the kitchen.

"I think I'm done," I said.

Catsby glanced out his phone. "Look at the time—I must be off. If you kids will excuse me...."

"Can I catch a ride back with you?" I asked.

"My business is in the city, I'm afraid." He handed me his Rite Aid card. "Take a cab home—on me, Old Spice."

I took the card from him. Such power, in the palm of my hand! The feeling quickly passed when I realized I didn't have a home to go back to. "My house—"

Catsby slapped a paw to his forehead. "I'm sorry, that's right. Why don't you stay with me until we can find you a new place?"

"I couldn't impose."

"It wouldn't be imposing. I have thirty-two rooms, only one of which I use. You'd practically have your run of the place."

"Thank you," I said, once again dumbfounded by his generosity.

After he left, I remarked to Cordon just how selfless Catsby seemed to me.

She smirked. "There's no such thing as a selfless cat."

"Then why help me? We're just neighbors—practically strangers, at that."

"You have something he wants."

I scoffed at her suggestion. "Impossible. He has all the money in the world. If there's something he wants, he could buy it in a heartbeat."

Cordon leaned over the table. "He can't buy your cousin."

"Dandelion? Tucker would probably sell her for the right price."

"What an awful thing to say, Dick. Women aren't property to be bought and sold."

"You're right," I said, readily conceding the point. Now was no time to get into my somewhat controversial views on prostitution.

"And besides, Catsby would never treat a woman that way—he's too classy."

"If you say so. What does he want with Dandelion, anyway? I've only heard her mention his name once, and that was when you brought it up at their place in Park Slope. Have they even met?"

"Oh, they've met," Cordon said. "Let's go for a walk through Times Square. I'll tell you everything I know."