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it understood and wouldn’t forget the insult, the cat emitted a strange staccato meh-ing.
    Lacy took a step back. “I’ve never heard a cat make a sound like that.”
    â€œIs OK. Is nothing. Siamese, they do it sometimes,” Mrs. P said.
    â€œWhat’s it mean?”
    â€œIs cat. What can it mean?” Mrs. P shook her head as if the animal hadn’t just made a sound like a feline Gatling gun.
    â€œMrs. Paderewski, it’s obvious you’re a cat lover. Look at it, er, him. Oh, that’s right. It’s a her, you said. She’s such a pretty thing.” The cat flattened its ears to its head, obviously recognizing self-serving BS when it heard it. “Why don’t you take it?”
    â€œI would, but seven I have already.”
    Seven cats. Holy litter box. I hope she also has a seven-hundred-pound Air Wick.
    â€œShe tempt me, but no, I cannot,” Mrs. Paderewski said. “But you can. She good company. You see. Cats, they no trouble. Food, water, litter, done. So, we good?”
    Lacy looked around the apartment. It was charming, clean, and since it was located on the Town Square, she could indulge in the fantasy that she was still living in the thick of things like she had in her Boston loft. Everything else about the place was perfect.
    How bad could a cat be?
    She counted out her deposit and first month’s rent in crisp Benjamins. “What’s the cat’s name?”
    â€œDon’t know. Last tenant call her ‘eff-ing cat.’ Is not nice.” Mrs. Paderewski tucked the money into her cleavage. It would never see the inside of a bank. What the IRS didn’t know evidently wouldn’t hurt her. “So I call Effie. Is nice name. She like.”
    â€œEffie,” Lacy repeated as Mrs. P made good her escape.
    The cat growled menacingly. What Effie would really like was to be left alone.
    â€œYou and me both, cat,” Lacy told her. “You and me both.”
    * * *
    Jake gave his wet head a shake as he sat down to put on his prosthetic leg. His physical therapist had advised him to switch to tub baths instead of showers, but he’d never liked soaking in his own dirt. Hopping on a wet surface wasn’t advisable, so he kept a set of crutches close. He had a teak bench in the stall to balance on if he needed it.
    All in all, getting clean after a day behind the grill was a complicated business, but what hadn’t become more complicated since his injury?
    Jake massaged his stump, checking for sores or the start of one. The last thing he needed was a blister that might develop into something worse. He didn’t think he could bear going back into a wheelchair.
    There was something “in your face” about his titanium leg. He liked it. He could have had one that looked real enough to fool most folks, but he preferred the bare metal. It was like shouting to the world, “If I’m tough enough to wear it, you can be tough enough to look at it.”
    A wheelchair, on the other hand, made him invisible. People, women especially, had averted their eyes when he’d rolled down the German hospital corridor. Once he got his leg, he felt like a man again.
    Most of the time.
    He stood and put his weight on the limb. The pin clicked into place and the leg was his again. Then he tugged on a set of sweats and wandered into his living room, wondering if he’d be able to catch the last few innings of a ball game before he fell asleep in front of the TV.
    There was a time when he’d have hit a couple of bars after work, maybe closed one down. It wouldn’t have to be on a Friday night either. Now, after all day on his feet, he couldn’t wait to get his leg up.
    Dang, I even bore myself.
    Then he made the mistake of looking across the Square from his apartment above the Green Apple.
    â€œSomeone should tell Lacy she needs blinds,” he muttered.
    He could see her puttering around in her new place amid all