hated him all other times, and had terrified him now.
Cristina. He would never forget her name, just as he would never forget the vicious way she had sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his hand the first time he had tried to pet her. Dennis had kept cats as pets in the past, and they usually liked him, but it seemed as though Cristina had instantly abhorred him. In fact, she loathed everyone but Abe Kipp, the older of the two custodians whose sole domain was the Venetian Theatre and environs, and only because he had raised her from a kitten and fed her every day.
Dennis watched her now as she regally stepped onto the stage like a diva in a curtain call, stretched luxuriously, and padded silently over to the spot where Tommy had died. She sat, curled her tail around her, and gazed down at the damp stain on the wooden stage floor. Then, having come to some feral conclusion, she uncoiled her tail, lowered her head, and began, ever so daintily, to lick the sodden boards.
Dennis turned away, a bitter lump rising in his throat. He swallowed heavily and closed his eyes, trying to erase the sight of the cat.
'Dennis? Are you okay?'
He opened his eyes. Sid was standing inside the door to the inner lobby. 'I'm fine. I… just… wanted to see, wanted to think about it, about what could have happened.'
'I know. It was danm strange.' Sid frowned, as his gaze swept past Dennis up onto the stage. 'Jesus, what's that cat doing?' He turned toward the open lobby door. 'Abe!' he called. 'Get that cat out of here, will you?'
In through the door walked Abe Kipp. The gray coveralls he was dressed in were a shade darker than his hair, which framed a face fissured with wrinkles. He looked at Sid through round, owlish glasses with the kind of superior, appraising look mechanics give you when they tell you a part you've never heard of needs to be replaced. 'What's she doin' now?' he drawled.
'See for yourself,' Sid said, and took Dennis by the arm. 'Come on, Dennis. Let's get some sleep.'
~* ~
Abe Kipp walked up to the marble divider that separated the seats from the inner lobby, leaned on it, and looked at the stage. 'Goddam,' he said softly, a sour smile twisting his mouth. 'Fuckin' cat…”
'Yo, Abe!' a voice called from behind him. He turned and saw Harry Ruhl's bushy head poking through the door, slowly and fearfully joined by the rest of him. As usual, Harry wore his Kirkland High jacket, though it had been a dozen years since he had somehow managed to graduate from the school. Harry was borderline-retarded, and had graduated, so the drinkers down at Morrie's had it, only because he was the best fucking guard the football team ever had. In fact, Harry Ruhl had been threatened by his teammates whenever he so much as thought about dropping out and getting the exact kind of janitorial job he now had, even with his diploma.
'Come in here, Harry,' Abe called, hiding his smirk from the larger, younger man. 'Lookit that.' He put his arm around Harry's shoulder and pointed to the stage. 'Crissie's lapping up the goddam blood.'
'Ohmigosh. Ohmi gosh, Abe! That's that guy's blood? That Tommy guy?”
“That's right. That's what's left over from the accident. And what she don't lick up, we gotta clean up.'
'Who? You mean me?' The hefty shoulder trembled under Abe's spidery hand.
'Well, sure, Harry. I mean, you just can't leave a big blood stain right there in the middle of the floor, can you? Hell, the folks in the balcony and the mezzanine would see it sure, and Mr. Hamilton couldn't have that in his theatre, now could he?'
'Nope, I… I guess not.'
'You wouldn't want to get Mr. Hamilton mad, would you?'
'Nope. I wouldn't…”
'All right then, let's get backstage and get to work.'
Abe had learned that the easiest way to get Harry to do what he wanted was to keep asking him questions, questions whose logic, right or wrong, demanded from Harry the kind of answer that Abe wanted. And if Harry said it himself, well then, he most likely would do what he himself had said.
Abe led the way down the aisle and onto the stage, where he went over to the gray cat and picked her up. Harry stayed near the wings, looking with a mixture of fear and awe at the dark stain on the blond wood.
'Whatsa matter, girl?' Abe said. 'Isn't old Abe feedin' you enough? Gotta eat up other people's leavin's?' He rubbed his bulbous nose against her moist black one. She purred.
'Geez, Abe,' Harry said. 'Geez…'
'Okay, you little cannibal,' Abe said, setting the cat back on the floor and pushing her in the direction of the wings, 'go catch yourself a mouse or eat your Purina or something. We gotta clean this crap up. Let's get a bucket, Harry.'
'Aw, geez, Abe. I mean, couldn't I do something else?'
'What, you're afraid of a little blood? Come on, Harry, be a man. It's a good thing you was never in the service. I fought in Europe when I was a helluva lot younger than you, kid. I seen my share of blood. Guts too.' Abe put a fatherly arm around Harry and led him offstage into the scene shop that also housed the janitors' closet. 'My buddy – name of Ikey, Jew boy from New York City, but he was okay – he took a bullet right in the head at Anzio – you know where Anzio is?'
'Uh-uh.'
'Italy. You know where Italy is?'
'Uh… Europe? Where you fought?'
'That's right. Europe. Anyway, Ikey's head just went ka-pow, like you put a cherry bomb in a melon. Blood? There was blood all over, but that wasn't the worst – there was brains, too, like white-gray oatmeal, stuck all over my uniform, splashed all over my face -'
'Aw, come on, Abe,' Harry said, shaking his head and pulling a large bucket and a wet-mop out of the closet, 'I don't like to hear talk about -'
'And a eyeball,' Abe proudly announced. 'This eyeball just popped right out of his head, and it's layin' there on the goddam sand, and you know what, Harry?'
Harry looked up tentatively from his mop and bucket. 'What?'
'It winked at me.'
'No!' The tone was properly awestruck.
'Hell if it didn't – just layin' there, and it winked.' Abe could see from the way Harry's expression was changing from amazement to puzzlement that he was not too far from asking how an eyeball could wink without having an eye lid attached, so he changed the subject. 'So you ain't too fond of cleanin' up blood, are you?'
'Well… no. No, Abe.'
'Scared of ghosts?'
Harry snorted disgustedly. 'Aw, come on now, you said you wouldn't talk about ghosts anymore.'
'Well, hell, they can't hurt you, Harry. Now you know we've had them, and you know they've never hurt you, don't you?'
'Well…”
'Come on, you've worked here what, eight years? Have you ever been hurt in here?'
'No, no…'
'Well, then, what are you scared of them for? Get that bucket filled, huh?'
Harry took the bucket over to the large sink, put it in, and turned on the hot water. 'I just don't like 'em, that's all. They're creepy.'
'Honest to God, Harry, sometimes I think you're a pussy boy, you're so damn afraid of everything.'
'I'm not a pussy boy, Abe.' Harry stared down glumly at the water filling the dingy gray bucket.
'You sure act like it. And I never see you with girls.'
'I like girls fine,' Harry said, then added softly, 'but not too many of them like me. Hey! ' he said, as though he had just thought of something. 'What about you, Abe? You're not married. Don't you like girls?'
Harry had brought up that point many times before when Abe had accused him of being a pussy boy, but had, as usual, forgotten that he had and forgotten Abe's response as well. Abe grinned and answered. 'I like girls fine, Harry. In fact I screw 'em every chance I get. I like 'em so much I pay for 'em, and then I can get 'em to do just whatever I want.'
Harry's eyes widened. 'Whatever you want? What kinda things, Abe?”
“Nothin' you'd understand. And I thought we were talkin' about ghosts.'
' You were talkin' about ghosts,' Harry said, twisting the spigot handle and hauling the full bucket from the
