W Is for Wasted

young woman who looked irresponsible to me. She had pierced ears and peroxided hair that stood up in spikes all over her head. I told the vet I wouldn’t dream of putting the cat in the care of someone like that.”
    “Well, that’s wonderful,” I said, patting myself on the chest with relief. “So he’s a male?”
    “He
was
male. Apparently, he was neutered some time ago. The vet says neutering tempers aggression and will keep him from spraying and getting into fights with other cats. She also pointed out he has what they call heterochromia, meaning his eyes are different colors. One is blue and the other is a golden green. Odd-eyed kittens are more expensive than the ordinary ones.”
    William stirred, wanting to ask a question without generating any more ire on Henry’s part. “Have you thought about a name?”
    “Of course. The cat’s name is Ed.”
    William blinked and said, “Good choice.”
    I said, “Excellent.”

6
    PETE WOLINSKY
    May 1988, Five Months Earlier
    Pete ignored the phone when it rang, letting his answering machine pick up while he sorted through the mail that had piled up over the past week. Idly, he tuned in to his outgoing message, thinking as he always did that his recorded voice sounded manly, mature, and trustworthy.
    “Able and Wolinsky. We’re currently out of the office, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we return. We value your business and look forward to serving you with efficiency and discretion.”
    There was actually no Able. Pete had adopted a mythical partner so his agency name would appear first in the listings for private investigators.
    The caller didn’t need to identify himself since he rang up six to eight times a day. “Listen, you son of a bitch. I know you’re there, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to the point. If you don’t pay what you owe, I’ll come over there with a meat cleaver and chop off your shriveled dick . . .”
    Pete listened with amusement. Synchronicity being what it was, it was Barnaby on the line again, calling on behalf of Ajax Financial Recovery Associates, whose officious written demands were spelled out in the letter he held in his hand while the goober from the self-same company spewed venom. In truth, the dunning notices were almost as bad as the daily calls and both were getting on his nerves—abusive tirades generated by clowns who weren’t qualified for real jobs. What kind of fool spent his days in a cubicle badgering gainfully employed citizens about debts that might or might not be owed? Most debt collectors were rude, obnoxious, devious, and unprincipled. He filtered their calls, deleting a message the minute the caller announced his purpose. If he was careless and picked up the line, allowing one of his creditors to get through, he’d blast him with a handheld siren that would render a fellow deaf for the better part of an hour. He made an exception for Barnaby, whose threats were more vicious and imaginative than most. As soon as he’d recorded another week’s worth of diatribes, he’d file a complaint with the FTC.
    He tossed the Ajax letter into the trash along with the other overdue notices, a summons, two default judgments, and the threat of a lawsuit. The only envelope left contained a preapproved credit card offer, which made him laugh aloud. Those assholes never gave up. He adjusted his glasses, leaning close to the application as he took a few minutes to fill in the particulars. He used his own name with an X as his middle initial. The rest of the personal information—employment, bank accounts—he invented on the spot, wondering if the company would actually be foolish enough to issue him a card.
    It didn’t bother him so much that he was broke. It was the unpleasantness he objected to, having to suffer the screaming and insults, being interrogated about his intentions, which forced him to make up excuses or, worse yet, tell outright lies. He didn’t enjoy the dishonesty, but what choice did he have? Business was slow and had been for the past year and a half. The rent on his small office was three months in arrears. He avoided the premises when possible because his landlady was likely to pop up without warning, angling for payment. She insisted on cash, refusing to accept Pete’s checks after the third one was returned for insufficient funds.
    He glanced at his watch, startled to see the time had gotten away from him. It was 9:43. He