Kitty and the Silver Bullet
Page 76

Happily I took it and wrote with the most flourishing handwriting I could manage: To Rick: Always look on the sunny side of life. Love, Kitty.
Then Ben and I got this great idea. Well, I had the idea—borrowed it from Ahmed, the werewolf I'd met in Washington, D.C., who didn't hold with packs and fighting. But Ben made it happen. Found the place and did the paperwork to set up the business.
He let me tell Shaun about it.
I picked up Shaun after he got off work and took him to the storefront on the east side of downtown. It had been a bar and grill until a few months ago, and would be again, or something like it, maybe, with luck. Shaun knew the place. He gave me a startled look when I pulled out the keys for the front door.
"It's yours?" Shaun asked.
"Ben and I picked up the lease." I led Shaun inside.
The fixtures had been gutted, which was fine, because I hoped we could redo it all. The bar and shelves behind it were intact, but everything else was a wide open expanse of hardwood floor. Potential incarnate.
I told him about D.C. "There's this place run by a wolf named Ahmed. It isn't anybody's territory. Anyone's welcome there, as long as they keep the peace. Wolves, foxes, jaguars, lions, anybody. People come there to talk, visit, drink, play music, relax. No pressure, no danger. You understand?" He nodded, donning a slow smile. "Rick's Café."
I shook my head. "No, it's got nothing to do—"
His grin broke full force. "Not that Rick. Casablanca."
Oh, that Rick. "Yes. Exactly. Ahmed subsidized his place with a restaurant, but this has to be a real business. It has to support itself, and there aren't enough lycanthropes around here to do that. So it has to be real, open to the public, everything, and still be a haven for people like us. And we need someone to run it. Do you think you can handle it?"
"Totally," he said, not even a spot of hesitation, which gave me confidence. "Absolutely. There—that's where the stage goes, for live music." He marched to a corner and turned, sweeping a circle with his arms. His eyes lit up with plans. "And no TVs. I hate TVs in bars. And maybe we can have a private room in back for the pack."
His enthusiasm was infectious. This was going to be good, I could feel it. He said, "You know what you want to call the place?"
"I've had some ideas. Do you have any suggestions?" He was still looking around, gazing in every corner, studying every wall. "New Moon," he said.
I could already hear Billie Holiday playing on the sound system. I could smell beer and fresh appetizers, hear an espresso machine hissing away in the corner. Sense the press of bodies around me, all of them smiling. Nobody fighting.
"I like it," I said.
"We'll stay open all night," he continued. "Feed the nightclub crowd on weekends. We'll need a liquor license, and—"
He kept going, spinning out plans, and I happily basked in the knowledge that I had chosen my minion well.
In the end, Mom was right. She'd been right the whole time, every single phone call she made to me when I was on the road, asking me when I was going to come home, making all those pleas. She knew, and I should have known, that I'd come back eventually.
For Mom's birthday, we had a big party at their house. The spirit of celebration was headier than usual. After facing the possibility that one of these birthdays we wouldn't have her anymore, we were determined to make a production of it Cheryl had decorated the living room with streamers and balloons—which the kids couldn't keep their hands off. Then Jeffy started crying when Nicky popped one in his face, and well…Cheryl stuffed all the balloons in a closet after that, and Dad distracted the kids with wrapping paper and boxes, the best toys ever. I'd brought a huge ice cream cake. The whole family was there, relatives I hadn't seen in years stopped by, and with all the cake, snacks, and sodas, the whole place smelled like too much sugar.
The medical gurus decided Mom's cancer was Stage II. The prognosis was still good, as she kept saying. She was recovering from her second chemotherapy treatment. We'd tried to schedule the party so she'd be mostly over the effects, and the plan seemed to have worked. She was up, well, and smiling. She still had her hair, but not her appetite. We'd filled the house with her favorite foods, and she couldn't eat any of it. But she didn't complain. She was determined to put on a good show for our guests.
I felt a shadow over her, from what Arturo had said at the hospital. That she was still sick, the cancer was still there, waiting to strike. I thought about telling her, with the idea that she could do something about it, we could attack it, really stop it. But I didn't tell her. No matter what we did, we couldn't know if the cancer was all gone. And Arturo could have been lying about it. All we could do was wait, which we'd have had to do anyway.
Cheryl and I were friends again. Not that we'd ever stopped being friends. But we were sisters, and sometimes that was different. We could take each other for granted.
We sat on the sofa together, kvetching.
"It was cool having a DJ for a sister," Cheryl said, pouting a little. "I miss you just playing music all the time. You used to dig up the best stuff."
"Like you ever listened," I said. "I always did graveyards."
"What do you think I listened to when I was up with the babies at midnight?"
She had a point. I let the warm glow of the compliment settle over me. My sister, my big sister, listened to my shift. "I used to think you had the best stuff. I think you're the one who got me started on the whole music thing."
She narrowed her gaze. "Did you ever give me back that Smiths tape?"
"Oh no, we are not starting that again—"
Mom, as usual, intervened. "What about you, Ben—what kind of music do you listen to?"
"He doesn't like music," I said, glaring.
Ben occupied a nearby armchair, nibbling at a piece of cake and trying to be unobtrusive. He looked at me, feigning shock and hurt. At least I thought he was feigning.
"I never said that," he said. "I grew up watching MTV just like everyone else."
Cheryl said, "And he's old enough to remember when MTV played music."
I rolled my eyes. "Ah yes, the battle cry of Generation X." Now I had them both glaring at me. I gave up. I stood and headed toward the kitchen. "Anyone else want a soda?"