Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Turned On and Off

Qwilleran twisted the note into a bowknot before dropping it in the wastebasket. He had half expected this news. She was young, and the Qwilleran moustache and temples were graying noticeably. It was a disappointment, nevertheless.

Now he had no date for the Christmas Eve party at the Press Club — the only Christmas celebration he expected to have.

The third communication was a memo from the managing editor, reminding staffers of the annual writing competition.

Besides $3,000 in cash prizes there would be twenty-five frozen turkeys for honorable mentions, donated by Cybernetic Poultry Farms, Inc.

"Who will expect to be loved, cherished, and publicized by Fluxion writers till death do us part," said Qwilleran, aloud.

"Yow," said Koko between licks, as he washed his face.

The little female was now taking her turn at the turkey; Koko always left half the food for her-or a good 40 percent.

Qwilleran stroked Koko's fur, soft as ermine, and marveled at its shading — from pale fawn to seal brown — one of nature's more spectacular successes. Then he lighted his pipe and slouched in the armchair with his feet on the bed.

He could use one of those cash prizes. He could send a couple of hundred to Connecticut and then start buying furniture. If he had his own furniture, it would be easier to find lodgings that accepted pets.

There was still time to write something prizeworthy and get it published before the December 31 deadline, and the feature editor was desperate for Christmas material. Arch Riker had called a meeting of the feature staff, saying, "Can't you guys come up with some ideas?" Without much hope he had searched the faces of the assembled staffers: the paunchy columnists, the cadaverous critics, Qwilleran on general assignment, and the specialist who handled travel, hobbies, aviation, real estate, and gardening. They had all stared back at the editor with the blank gaze of veterans who had reported on too many Yuletides.

Qwilleran noticed Koko watching him closely. "To win a prize," he told the cat, "you've got to have a gimmick." "Yow," said Koko. He jumped to the bed and looked at the man with sympathetically blinking eyes. They were sapphire blue in bright light, but in the lamplit hotel room they were large circles of black onyx with flashes of diamond or ruby.

"What I need is an idea that's spectacular but not cheap." Qwilleran was frowning and jabbing his moustache with his pipestem. He was thinking irritably about the Fluxion's Jack Jaunti, a young smart-aleck in the Sunday Department who had taken a job as Percival Duxbury's valet, incognito, in order to write an inside story on the richest man in town. The stunt had won no friends among the city's First Families, but it had increased circulation for two weeks, and the rumor was that Jaunti would walk off with first prize. Qwilleran resented juveniles who substituted nerve for ability.

"Why, that guy can't even spell," he said to his attentive audience of one.

Koko went on blinking. He looked sleepy. The female cat was on the prowl, searching for playthings. She rose on her hind legs to examine the contents of the wastebasket and hauled out a twist of paper about the size of a mouse. She brought it to Qwilleran in her teeth and dropped it — the letter written in brown ink — on his lap.

"Thanks, but I've read it," he said. "Don't rub it in." He groped in the drawer of the nightstand, found a rubber mouse and tossed it across the room. She bounded after it, sniffed it, arched her back and returned to the wastebasket, this time extracting a crumpled paper handkerchief, which she presented to the man in the armchair.

"Why do you fool around with junk?" he said. "You've got nice toys." Junk! Qwilleran experienced a prickling sensation in the roots of his moustache, and a warmth spread over his face.

"Junktown!" he said to Koko. "Christmas in Junktown! I could write a heartbreaker." He came out of his slouch and slapped the arms of the chair. "And it might get me out of this damned rut!" His job in the Feature Department was considered a comfortable berth for a man over forty-five, but interviewing artists, interior decorators and Japanese flower arrangers was not Qwilleran's idea of newspapering. He longed to be writing about con men, jewel thieves, and dope peddlers.

Christmas in Junktown! He had done Skid Row assignments in the past, and he knew how to proceed: quit shaving — pick up some ratty clothes — get to know the people in the dives and on the street-and then listen. The trick would be to make the series compassionate, relating the personal tragedies behind society's outcasts, plucking the heartstrings.

"Koko," he said, "by Christmas Eve there won't be a dry eye in town!" Koko was watching Qwilleran's face and blinking. The cat spoke in a low voice, but with a sense of urgency.

"What's on your mind?" Qwilleran asked. He knew the water dish was freshly filled. He knew the sandbox in the bathroom was clean.

Koko stood up and walked across the bed. He rubbed the side of his jaw against the footboard, then looked at Qwilleran over his shoulder. He rubbed the other side of his jaw, and his fangs clicked against the metal finial of the bedpost.

"You want something? What is it you want?" The cat gave a sleepy yowl and jumped to the top edge of the footboard, balancing like a tightrope walker. He walked its length and then, with forepaws against the wall, stretched his neck and scraped his jaw against the light switch. It clicked, and the light went out. Murmuring little noises of satisfaction, Koko made himself a nest on the bed and curled up for sleep.

"Christmas in Junktown!" Qwilleran said to the feature editor. "How does that grab you?" Arch Riker was sitting at his desk, browsing through the Friday morning mail and tossing most of it over his shoulder in the direction of a large wire bin.

Qwilleran perched on the corner of the editor's desk and waited for his old friend's reaction, knowing there would be no visible clue. Riker's face had the composure of a seasoned deskman, registering no surprise, no enthusiasm, no rejection.

"Junktown?" Riker murmured. "It might have possibilities. How would you approach it?" "Hang around Zwinger Street, mix with the characters there, get them to talk." The editor leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. "Okay, go ahead." "It's a hot subject, and I can give it a lot of heart." Heart was the current password at the Daily Fluxion. In frequent memos from the managing editor, staff writers were reminded to put heart into everything including the weather report.

Riker nodded. "That'll make the boss happy. And it should get a lot of readership. My wife will like it. She's a junker." He said it calmly, and Qwilleran was shocked. "Rosie? You mean — " Riker was rocking contentedly in his swivel chair. "She got hooked a couple of years ago, and it's been keeping me poor ever since." Qwilleran stroked his moustache to hide his dismay. He had known Rosie years ago when he and Arch were cub reporters in Chicago. Gently he asked, "When-how did this happen, Arch?" "She went to Junktown with some gal friends one day and got involved. I'm beginning to get interested myself.

Just paid twenty-eight dollars for an old tea canister in painted tin. Tin is what I go for — tin boxes, tin lanterns — " Qwilleran stammered, "What — what — what are you talking about?" "Junk. Antiques. What are you talking about?" "Hell, I'm talking about narcotics!" "I said we were junkers, not junkies!" Arch said. Junktown, for your information, is the place with all the antique shops." "The cabdriver said it was a hangout for hopheads." "Well, you know how cabdrivers are. Sure, it's a declining neighborhood, and the riffraff may come out after dark, but during the day it's full of respectable junkpickers like Rosie and her friends. Didn't your ex-wife ever take you junking?" "She dragged me to an antique show in New York once, but I hate antiques." "Too bad," said Arch. "Christmas in Junktown sounds like a good idea, but you'd have to stick to antiques. The boss would never go for the narcotics angle." "Why not? It would make a poignant Christmas story." Riker shook his head. "The advertisers would object. Readers spend less freely when their complacency is disturbed." Qwilleran snorted his disdain. "Why don't you go ahead, Qwill, and do a Christmas series on antiquing?" "I hate antiques, I told you." "You'll change your mind when you get to Junktown. You'll be hooked like the rest of us." "Want to bet?" Arch took out his wallet and extracted a small yellow card. "Here's a directory of the Junktown dealers. Let me have it back." Qwilleran glanced at some of the names: Ann's 'Tiques, Sorta Camp, The Three Weird Sisters, the Junque Trunque. His stomach rebelled. "Look, Arch, I wanted to write something for the contest-something with guts! What can I do with antiques? I'd be lucky if I tied for the twenty-fifth frozen turkey." "You might be surprised! Junktown is full of kooks, and there's an auction this afternoon." "I can't stand auctions." "This should be a good one. The dealer was killed a couple of months ago, and they're liquidating his entire stock." "Auctions are the world's biggest bore, if you want my opinion." "A lot of the dealers in Junktown are single girls-divorcees-widows. That's something you should appreciate.