The village cats had established in Jolly's alley, as well, a center for feline messages, a handy post office where, through scents left on flowerpot and doorway, one could learn which cats were with kitten or had had their kittens, which ladies were feeling amorous, or if there was a new cat in the village.
Only in the hierarchy of the supper plate did the biggest and strongest prevail-but George Jolly did not tolerate fights.
Such social commerce pleased Joe and Dulcie despite the void that separated them from normal cats. After all, every cat was unique. The lack of human language didn't make the other cats imperceptive or unwise; each could enjoy the world in his own way. And, Joe thought, how many cats would want to read the newspaper or use the phone?
But tonight they had the alley to themselves, the little brick-paved retreat was their own small corner of civilized ambiance, softly lit by the wrought-iron lamps at either end of the lane, perfumed by the jasmine vine that concealed Jolly's garbage cans.
The two waiters had disappeared inside, but George Jolly must have been watching for visitors, because as the cats flopped down to roll on the warm bricks, the back door opened and the old man was there, his white apron extending wide over his ample stomach as he knelt to place a paper plate before them, a little snack of smoked salmon and chopped egg and Beluga caviar.
They approached the offering purring, Dulcie waving her tail, and George Jolly stood smiling and nodding. Jolly loved providing these little repasts-he took a deep delight in the cats' pleasure.
Kneeling for a moment to stroke them, he soon rose again and turned away to his kitchen like any good chef, allowing his guests privacy in which to enjoy their meal. They were crouched over the plate nibbling at the caviar when, above them, a dark shadow leaped across the sky from roof to roof, and the black torn paced the shingles looking down at them-observing the loaded deli plate.
Dropping to an awning and then to the bricks, he swaggered toward them snarling a challenge deep in his throat, a growl of greed and dominance.
Dulcie screamed at him and crouched to slash; Joe flew at him, raking. At the same moment, the back door flew open and George Jolly ran out swinging a saucepan.
"No fighting! You cats don't fight here! You cats behave in my alley!"
Joe and Dulcie backed away glancing at each other, but Azrael stood his ground, snarling and spitting at Jolly.
"Stop that, you black beast. Don't you challenge me!" Jolly hefted the pan. "You eat nice or I don't feed you. I take the plate away." He looked hard at the three of them. "I don't put out my best imported for you to act like street rabble-you are Molena Point cats, not alley bums.
"Except you," Jolly said, glaring at Azrael. "I don't know you, you black monster. Well, wherever you come from, you snarl again, you get a smack in the muzzle."
George Jolly could never have guessed the true effect of his words. He had no idea that the three cats understood him, he knew only that his tone would frighten and perhaps shame them. He glared hard at Azrael-Azrael blazed back at him, his amber eyes sparking rage, and he began to stalk the old man, crouching as if he would spring straight into Jolly's face.
"Don't you threaten me," Jolly snapped, swinging the saucepan. "You learn some manners or you'll be snarling at the dogcatcher." He stood glaring until Azrael backed away switching his tail, his head high, and turned and swaggered off up the alley-until the formidable Death Angel vanished into the night.
Joe and Dulcie did not see Azrael again until some hours later as they prowled the rooftops. Pale clouds had gathered across the moon, and there was no sound; the bats had gone to roost or perch or whatever bats did hanging upside down in their pokey little niches beneath the eaves. Who knew why bats would hunt one night and not the next? Presumably, Joe thought, it had to do with how bright the sky-yet why would bats care, when they hunted by radar? On the roofs around them, the shadows were marbled by moonlight. Above them they heard a barn owl call, sending shivers. Even Joe Grey respected the claws and beak of the barn owl.
When the clouds parted and the full moon brightened the rooftops, across the moon's face the owl came winging. He swooped low and silent. The cats crouched to run. Screaming a booming cry, he dove, heading for the shadows beyond them.
They heard the boom of his wings beating against the roof, and heard screaming-the owl's scream and a cat's scream, then the frantic flurrying of feathers, the thud of bodies…
The owl exploded into the sky and was gone.
And in the moon's gleam the black cat sauntered out swaggering and spitting feathers.
Unaware of them, he slipped along seeming none the worse for his encounter. Pausing as before at each window and skylight, looking in, he lingered at a thin dormer window. He reared suddenly, clawing at the frame.
A wrenching creak slashed the night as the casement banged open.
Below on the street the cats heard footsteps, and when they fled over the roofs to look, they saw Azrael's human partner pacing, peering impatiently in through a glass door below a liquor store sign, his gray hair tangled around the collar of his wrinkled leather jacket, his boots, when he fidgeted, chuffing softly on the concrete.
The instant the door opened from inside, the old man slipped in. The cats, dropping down onto the hanging sign then to the sidewalk, crouched beneath a car where they could see through the plate glass.
Within, a faint, swinging light shone as the old man shielded his flashlight behind his hand, directing its beam along rows of bottles where Azrael paced, his tail lashing against the rich labels.
At the cash register, the old man bent over the lock and inserted a metal pick, his thin face lined and intent.
Within minutes he had the drawer open and was snatching out stacks of bills. Cleaning out the shallow tray, he lifted it, spilling loose change onto the floor as he grabbed at the larger bills that lay beneath; the night was so still they heard every coin drop.
"Why do shopkeepers do that?" Dulcie whispered. "Why do they leave money in the register?"
"Because the village has never had that much trouble. Don't you wonder if this old boy knew that-if he knew what an easy mark Molena Point is? Yet he has to be a stranger-I'd remember that old man."
They watched him stuff wads of bills into his pockets while, behind him, Azrael wound back and forth along the liquor shelf smiling and rubbing against the bottles.
"Cut the purring!" the old man snapped. "You sound like a spavined outboard. And don't leave cat hair stuck to everything."
"I never leave cat hair. Have you ever seen me shed?"
"Of course you shed. Everything I own is covered with black fur."
Azrael leaned from the shelf, peering over his partner's shoulder. "Get those tens-they can't trace tens so easy."
"Who's going to trace anything? No one marks their money in this burg. You're talking like some big-assed bank artist."
"How do you know they don't?"
"Don't be so paranoid."
"It's you that's paranoid-getting jumpy because I purr and grousing about cat hair."
The old man smoothed his thin gloves where they had wrinkled over his fingers and closed the register, and the two slipped out the front door.
"Don't forget to lock it," the cat hissed.
"Don't be so damn bossy."
"Don't get smart with me, old man. You'll be running this party alone."
The man and cat stiffened as, half a block away, a prowling police car turned into the street. As it shone its light along the storefronts in routine inspection, the two burglars slid through the shadows into the alley, were gone as completely as if they had never been there.