I was alone in a milk-white kitchen. It was immaculate. The counters were spotless. The pots and pans shined. The black and white tiles on the floor glistened. A small door at the far end of the room opened, and a black-and-gray alley cat sauntered into the kitchen, trailing muddy footprints across the tiles.
It was joined by another cat, a cinnamon tabby, its fur fluffy from a recent bath.
The cats moved apart. The scruffy feline rubbed against a polished chrome cabinet, leaving a trail of dirt. It grinned at me and leaped up suddenly onto the counter, landing gracefully. Purring now.
I was shocked to see that its paws were covered not in dirt but in blood.
So intently was I focused on the gray cat that when the tabby leaped upon my back, sinking its claws into my flesh, it caught me off guard and off balance. I stumbled, my feet slipping on the polished tile floor. I was barely able to raise my hands to guard my face as I fell forward, hitting the tile floor with a solid thud.
The tabby’s claw was caught in the material of my coat. The cat tugged at the coat, trying to free itself.
To my surprise, it began talking in a human voice. “C’mon. C’mon now, chef. Wake up.”
It was Maxwell Sucony, his round, black face looking stressed. “C’mon, chef. No time to snooze. You gotta get out of here. Cops on the way.”
Somebody had stuck a razor blade in a tennis ball and was bouncing that around in my skull. But I was awake enough to go along with Maxwell’s effort to get me to my feet.
I was still in Rudy’s bedroom.
Just me and Maxwell.
“The couple who came in with me. Where are they?”
“Beats the hell out of me, chef. All I care is they gone. And that’s where I want you before the cops show and we have to explain how you got in here.”
I was woozy. Staggering. Maxwell was all but dragging me to the front door. “Jesus, the smell of this place could gag a maggot,” he said. “All my wasted effort.”
Somehow we made it to the hall. Maxwell closed the door to Rudy’s apartment and used his master key to lock it. “What exactly’s been goin’ on up here?” Maxwell asked.
“I wish I knew.”
“Your friends didn’t leave past me. They musta used the service stairs. You’d better do that, too. The cops’ll be coming through the front, if they’re not down there already. You navigate the stairs by yourself?”
I nodded. A mistake. That razored tennis ball started bouncing again.
“I better get down to deal with the cops,” Maxwell said, moving to the elevator he’d locked there with its door open.
“Why did you call ’em?” I asked.
“I didn’t. They phoned me on the night line. Said they got an anonymous call reporting a break-in at six-D. Did I know anything about it? I told ’em I didn’t know nothing, and they said to keep an eye out but not to go investigate myself. They were sending some officers to check it out.
“Gotta go, chef,” he said, running to the elevator. “Good luck.”
I thanked him, then slid along the wall to the door leading to the service stairwell.
It was dimly lit and smelled of disinfectant.
I grabbed the handrail and descended the stairs slowly and carefully. I felt like such a fool that if I’d had a spare foot, I would have used it to kick my own ass on every step. Down all six floors.