ran back and forth
chanting: «You. Cat. Where are you? Here, cat.» She kept it up until a bumpyskinned boy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: «You wants
a nice kitty, miss? Gimme a dollar.»
The limousine had followed us. Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door,
she hesitated; she looked past me, past the boy still offering his cat («Haifa dollar.
Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it ain’t much»), and she shuddered, she had to grip my
arm to stand up: «Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine.»
Then I made her a promise, I said I’d come back and find her cat: «I’ll take care
of him, too. I promise.»
She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. «But what about me?» she said,
whispered, and shivered again. «I’m very scared, Buster. Yes, at last. Because it
could go on forever. Not knowing what’s yours until you’ve thrown it away. The
mean reds, they’re nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouth’s
so dry, if my life depended on it I couldn’t spit.» She stepped in the car, sank in the
seat. «Sorry, driver. Let’s go.»
TOMATO’S TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLAND
VICTIM. In due time, however, the press reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TO
RIO. Apparently no attempt was made by American authorities to recover her, and
soon the matter diminished to an occasional gossip-column mention; as a news
story, it was revived only once: on Christmas Day, when Sally Tomato died of a
heart attack at Sing Sing. Months went by, a winter of them, and not a word from
Holly. The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satin
bed, the tapestry, her precious Gothic chair; a new tenant acquired the apartment,
his name was Quaintance Smith, and he entertained as many gentlemen callers of a
noisy nature as Holly ever had — though in this instance Madame Spanella did not
object, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever he
had a black eye. But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, and
signed with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. Not
Tiffany’s, but almost. Am joined at the hip with duhvine $enor. Love? Think so.
Anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live ($enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let you
know address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it ever
existed, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wanted to write
her: that I’d sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were countersuing for
divorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, I

wanted to tell her about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It took
weeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there were
many false alarms — flashes of tiger-striped fur that, upon inspection, were not him.
But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Flanked by potted
plants and framed by clean lace curtains, he was seated in the window of a warmlooking room: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now,
certain he’d arrived somewhere he belonged. African hut or whatever, I hope Holly
has, too.