Lilian Jackson Braun - Cat 11 Who Lived High

When I told my wife about him, she bugged me until I got her a Siamese, but ours is more interested in breaking the law than enforcing it. Pull up a chair, Qwill. Have some coffee. Have dessert. The Fluxion's picking up the tab." Qwilleran declined, saying that he had an appointment, and went on his way, thinking about the proliferation of Hedrogs and Thiggamons, like" names out of science fiction. Moreover, the bylines at the Fluxion were getting longer and more complicated. Fran Unger had been replaced by Martta Newton-Ffiske. At the Morning Rampage Jack Murphy's gossip column was now written by Sasha Crispen-Schmitt. Try saying that fast, he thought: Try saying it three times.

In a critical and slightly grouchy mood he pushed through the lunch-hour crowds on the street, finding most of the pedestrians to be in a mad rush, tense, and rude. The women he evaluated as chic, glamorous, and self-consciously thin, though not as pretty or as healthy-looking as those in Moose County.

Returning to the Casablanca too early for his. appointment with Mary Duckworth, he went for a ride, extricating the Purple Plum from the parking lot's tire-bashing cracks and craters and driving to River Road, his last address before moving up north. His old domicile and the tennis club next-door had been replaced by a condo complex and marina, and he could hardly remember how either of the original buildings looked. Too bad! He chalked up another score for the developers and drove back to the Casablanca, hoping it would still be there. What he found was a revised situation in the parking lot. His official slot, #28, was still occupied - not by the green Japanese car but by a decrepit station wagon with a New Jersey license plate. Someone else had pulled into #29, so he wheeled the Purple Plum into #27. After a morning of disappointment, indignation, and other negative reactions, Qwilleran was none too happy when he left for Mary Duckworth's antique shop.

The Blue Dragon still occupied a narrow townhouse, handsomely preserved, and a large blue porcelain dragon (not for sale) still dominated the front window bay. That much had not changed. Nor had the entrance hall with its Chinese wallpaper, Chippendale furniture, and silver chandeliers. There was a life-size ebony carving of a Nubian slave with jeweled turban that had not yet sold, and Qwilleran glanced at the price tag to see if it had been marked down. It had gone up another two thousand dollars, Mary's credo being: If it doesn't sell, raise the price.

As for Mary herself, she still had the sleek blue-black hair and willowy figure that he remembered, but the long cigarette holder and the long fingernails were no longer in evidence. Instead of an Oriental kimono, she wore a well- tailored suit and pearls. She shook his hand briefly and glanced at his Nordic sweater and Aussie hat. "You look so sportif, Qwill!" "I see you haven't sold the blackamoor," he said.

"I'm holding it back. Originally it stood in the lobby of the Casablanca, and it will appreciate in value, no matter what happens to the building." "Do you still keep that unfriendly German shepherd?" "Actually," said Mary, "I don't feel the need for a watchdog, considering the new atmosphere in Junktown. I was able to find him a good home in the suburbs, where he's really needed. Come into the office." She motioned him to sit in a wing chair.

Its tall, narrow proportions labeled it an antique, and he glanced at the price tag. He looked twice. At first reading he thought it was $180.00, then realized it was $18,000. He sat down carefully.