a player. When in Rome . . . He stopped short of buying a gold
neck chain.

He put the cash in the walnut box and then hid the box behind old
sheets in the bedroom closet. The box made a good bank, but he missed
seeing it on the mantelpiece.

Verdi. He couldn't just leave food and kitty litter--Verdi needed to
prowl around outside. And what if he didn't get back right away, for
some reason? Maybe Arlen, downstairs, would look after him. A few
minutes after he heard Arlen return from work, he knocked on his door.

"Hello, Oliver."

"Nice shirt, Arlen. Aloha!"

"Aloha, Oliver." White tropical blossoms and blue sky hung from Arlen's
thin shoulders. He was wearing faded jeans and cowboy boots.

"I was wondering if you could do me a favor?"

"If I can--of course. Would you like to come in?" Oliver entered an
immaculate apartment. Parakeets and finches were hopping back and forth
in large cages near the windows.

"I'm going on a short trip--three days, maybe four, next weekend. I
need someone to look after Verdi, feed him, and let him out once a day.
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.

"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."

"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He
looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."

"Tootsi