I know it's a nuisance . . ."
"But I like Verdi. It will be no trouble. When are you leaving?"
"Friday."
"No problem. Would you like a drink? We don't get to chat often."
"Sure."
"Let me see. I have ale and, of course, the hard stuff."
"You wouldn't have any Glenlivet, by any chance?"
Arlen smiled. "Would Laphroiag do?"
"Damn, Arlen. I'll choke it down. Yes."
Arlen poured two drinks. "Another day, another dollar," he toasted.
"Single malt," Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a
moment of reverence after the first taste. "God, that's good!" Oliver
said. "I have plenty of cat food. I'll leave clean kitty litter. You
probably won't have to change it if he goes outside."
"I'd have a cat if it weren't for the birds," Arlen said. "I don't
think enemies should live together, do you?"
"No." Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim
orderly face.
"Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people," Arlen said, "but I
love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please." He
sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed
boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.
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