lovely liquor cabinet against one wall.
'Dewars okay?' she asked.
'Perfect.'
'This is my office,' she said as ice clinked into the glasses.
'You write too.'
'Yes, but not detective stories like Dad. I do more scholarly work.'
She handed me the hand-blown tumbler. We toasted with a shrug and sipped.
'So, what do you make of the missing cat?'
'What do you mean 'What do I make of it?'' Gilda was almost defensive.
'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-'
'No, no, I should apologize, Mr. Prager. It's been a rough several years with Dad and all. Frankly, there's never been an easy day for him since Annie was killed.'
'I can only imagine.'
'Let me go and check on Dad and Jack.'
She scurried out of the room. I looked around, snuck a look at the ultra thin screen of Gilda's Apple. I also picked up the book she had left open on her daybed. I put the book back where I found it and headed back to where I had been standing when Gilda had left the room.
'They'll be only a few more minutes. Dad loves Jack. They met in Galway years and years ago, in '03 or '04. Jack had just lost a little girl of his own, I think. They were both feeding the swans down by the quay and seemed to hit it off.'
'Gilda, do you mind if I tell you a story about my family?'
'No, go right ahead.' The smile on her face belied the uneasiness in her voice.
'My dad was a failure in business and he equated that with being a failure as a father. I had an older brother, Aaron. Aaron was the best brother and such a devoted son, but his devotion to my dad was-'
'I'm sure this is all very interesting, Mr. Prager, but-'
'Moe.'
'Moe then. But I really don't see what this has to do with-'
'Yes, you do, Gilda. You see that it has everything to do with the missing cat. I had a peek at your computer and your reading material. Humor an old man by letting me finish. So, as I was saying, Aaron's devotion to my dad became a quest of sorts. He spent much of his own life trying to convince my dad he hadn't been a failure at all. Even after my father had passed away, Aaron tried convincing him. The business Aaron and I owned, the one I now run with the kids and grandkids, is a manifestation of Aaron's futile quest. Your father's dying. Painting leaves on a vine or stealing a silver cat off your sister's grave won't save him. Let him go, Gilda. It's his time. It's almost mine.'
She broke down, resting her head on my shoulder. Half a century of tears, grief, and sorrow seemed to pour right out of her. Jack walked in on the scene. Said
'I'm going outside for a smoke.'
###
Jack had been right about the weight of the damned cat statuette. The thing had quite a bit of heft to it. Gilda stayed downstairs as I brought the Silver Whisker up to show her dad. She had confessed the whole plot to me … well, most of it, anyway, when her crying had quieted down. She had stolen the cat in the hope of keeping her dad alive just a little longer.
She so desperately wanted him to see that she was everything that Anne had been, maybe more. She had done everything else she could think of, yet she could never compete with Anne's memory. Gilda knew it was a crazy thing to do and doomed to fail as everything else had failed, but … What she had neglected to tell me was that she, not her father, had written the book that had won the Silver Whisker. I don't know exactly how I knew that. I just did.
When I entered the bedroom, silver cat in hand, K.T. Baum was dead. Apparently, he knew it all, too. I placed the statuette near his right hand and left.
I couldn't seem to find Gilda when I went back downstairs. I let myself out. I couldn't blame Gilda for wanting time alone. She had too many years of emptiness and self-deception to deal with in one night.
But Jack was gone too. When I stepped out into the cool black air of the Brooklyn night, all that remained of Jack Taylor on the planks of the wrap-around porch was a crushed cigarette butt and wisps of pungent cigarette smoke.
'Grandpa Moe,' I heard a little boy's voice coming out of the genie's smoke. 'Grandpa Moe.'
'Sssshhh, honey, Grandpa is very sick,' I heard my daughter Sarah say, her voice cracking slightly. 'He needs to rest.'
'But-'
'No buts, Aaron. God, you're just like your Great Uncle Aaron, may he rest in peace.'
'I'll take over, Sarah,' I heard my kid sister Miriam say.
'Where's Jack?' I said, my throat dry, my voice thin as a hair. I had trouble focusing my eyes. I saw the world through heat waves coming off hot tar and it smelled like a hospital.
'Take it easy, Moe. Rest. You really need-'
'Miriam, for chrissakes! Where's Jack?'
'Who's Jack?'
'Jack! Jack Taylor. Where's Jack Taylor?'
'I'll be right back.'
The door opened and closed. That much I could make out. Then it opened and closed again.
'He's asking for someone we don't know, someone none of us know,' Miriam was near frantic.
'It might be the drugs,' a man's voice explained. 'It might be the cancer. At this point, it's impossible to know. Just sit with him and call the family in.'
'Miriam,' I called to her in a whisper.'
'What is it, Moe?'
'No silver cats for me, okay?'
'Okay,' she said, though only I understood.
Then I went to sleep.
Pearls
Marilyn Monroe
Her favorite flavor
Leaving Las Vegas
Her favorite toy
Fuck
Her ambition
Pussy
Her favorite tragic figure
Pearls
Her favorite thing to do, feel and say
She would pull the string of pearls out of them one, two at a time. With each gentle tug, a moan, a sigh, a twitch-the quiver of an orchid as grains of pollen are removed. She loved the look of translucent white against wet pink. For her it was the feel, the friction. Finally, their muscles taut, pulsing with electricity, she would yank the remaining pearls out with a snap of the wrist. They would near explode as the twisted end loop was set free.
'Fuck me, fuck me hard!' she'd hear them scream, breathless, gasping for air, rubbing the wet pearls against
