Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 122, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 745 & 746, September/October 2003

I look up, and there’s Freda glaring at me over the rim of her martini glass. Freda! A twisted sister if there ever was one. Freda curls her mouth into a semblance of a smile and sets down her glass. She stretches her arms and rolls her shoulders like a cat, like Cat. She tosses her head and makes that same backward sweep with her hand Cat does when she straightens her long black hair — except Freda’s hair’s cropped short and dyed not pink but fuchsia, according to Cat. Then Freda mimics Cat’s walk as she approaches us from across the room.

On Freda, Cat’s moves are obscene. And if Freda has legs or anything else a man might want under those suits from Moore’s she wears, I’ve never seen any evidence. She’s dressed like a freakin’ gangster tonight. With Cat draped on my left side, Freda drapes herself on my right, reaches up, and ruffles my hair. Cat smothers a laugh with her hand.

“Well, Mark,” Freda asks, “how are you tonight?” As if Freda cares. I take another swig of my drink.

“Just fine, Freda. How about you?”

I reach back, take hold of Freda’s jacket sleeve with three fingers — there’s no way I’m touching Freda herself — remove her arm from my shoulder, and drop it like a piece of garbage.

“Oh?” Freda says. “Is that the way it is?”

Cat touches her lips to my ear. “You don’t want to get on Freda’s bad side,” she teases. “Freda’s got a gun.”

Well, S.O.B.! Freda’s packing! One of the reasons for the suits she wears, the reason she never takes off the jacket. Freda’s packing a piece. Hilarious! No one in their right mind would molest a butch like Freda.

“Freda thinks I should have a gun, too.” Cat’s all serious now.

The way Freda turns her head and casually looks across the room, a little smirk on her face, I know she’s heard what Cat’s said. Freda thinks Cat should learn how to protect herself, that she should know how to blow me away. Freda’s just jealous because Cat’s not hers.

Freda slowly turns back to me, locks her eyes with mine, and wordlessly warns me I’d better be careful.

“I’ll be right back.” Cat pulls away.

“Hey!” I tighten my grip on her. “Where’re you going?” She hardly needs to be around Richard and his crowd.

“I have to pee,” she insists, giving me a petulant look, fluttering her long eyelashes.

I release her and hope Freda will follow in her path. Freda doesn’t. Freda probably never has to pee.

“You got a license for that thing, Freda?” I point with my glass at Freda’s ribs, left side.

Freda arches one eyebrow, that’s it.

I remember, then, that Freda works for some security firm. Guarding empty warehouses, in all probability. Her carrying the gun makes her feel real tough, no doubt.

“Well, Mark... It is Mark, isn’t it?”

No, Freda, it isn’t. Good for you.

“You’ve been living with Cat for how long now? Three months, is it? Still looking for a job?”

“Got another interview tomorrow, in fact.” Absolutely no one annoys me like Freda. “Satisfied?”

“Cat picked you up at the bus depot, right?”

“We met at Starbucks.”

“The Starbucks at the bus depot, though, wasn’t it? Were you arriving, departing, or just passing through?”

What a struggle it is not to whack her. “This your version of the third degree, is it, Freda?”

“Cat’s special, Mark. That’s something you should know. She believes in people, brings out the best in them, helps them when she can.” Freda studies me a sec. “And I don’t want Cat hurt.”

Freda’s damned jealous, is all.

“You’re not good for her, Mark. It’s time you moved on, job or no job. Let Cat find someone else.”

I don’t think so, Freda. Cat loves me. She’s mine. There isn’t going to be any someone else.

“You know, Mark...”

Why don’t you damn well shut up!

“...I can’t figure why Cat’s so committed to you. Makes me wonder what you are and what tale you must have spun.”

“Want my fingerprints, Freda?” I raise my glass and twist it round in the light. “Want to run a background check?” I can tell from that hungry look in Freda’s eyes that’s exactly what she wants.

But I’ve already spotted Cat making her way back through the crowd toward me. And I begin whistling—

That Freda! I swear. My whistling that tune burns her so. No way will Freda take the glass from me in front of Cat. Cat’s opinion of Freda would sink so low. I extend my hand to Cat. “Take me home, Cat. Take me into your bed.” With my other hand, I tuck my empty glass into the jacket pocket unoccupied by the rye and let Cat lead me from the room. The expression on Freda’s face...!

The digital clock on Cat’s night table, when I open my eyes, shows 11:06 A.M., and the air’s thick with the smell of brewed coffee. Cat woke me earlier, before she left for work, reminding me of that interview — one of the many interviews Cat’s arranged for me — at 10 A.M.

I roll over and stare at the ceiling. Who gives a damn about that interview? I don’t even remember what job the interview was for.