He wouldnt. He wrehe flowers from the vase and thrust them at her; theymissed their mark, scattered on the floor. "Good-bye," he said; and, as though hewere going to vomit, scurried to the mens room. We heard the door lock.The Carey chauffeur was a worldy spe ted our spdash luggagemost civilly and remained rock-faced when, as the limousine swished uptownthrough a lessening rain, Holly stripped off her clothes, the riding e shednever had a ce to substitute, and struggled into a slim bck dress. We didnttalk: talk could have only led tument; and also, Holly seemed too preoccupiedfor versation. She hummed to herself, swigged brandy, she leaned stantlyforward to peer out the windows, as if she were hunting an address -- or, I decided,taking a st impression of a se she wao remember. It was her of these.But this: "Stop here," she ordered the driver, and we pulled to the curb of a street inSpanish Harlem. A savage, a garish, a moody neighborhood garnded with posterportraitsof movie stars and Madonnas. Sidewalk litterings of fruit-rind and rottedneer were hurled about by the wind, for the wind still boomed, though the rainhad hushed and there were bursts of blue in the sky.Holly stepped out of the car; she took the cat with her. Cradling him, shescratched his head and asked. "What do you think? This ought to be the right kind ofpce for a tough guy like you. Garbage s. Rats galore. Plenty of cat-bums togang around with. So scram," she said, dropping him; and when he did not moveaway, instead raised his thug-fad questioned her with yellowish pirate-eyes,she stamped her foot: "I said beat it!" He rubbed against her leg. "I said fuck off!"she shouted, then jumped ba the car, smmed the door, and: "Go," she toldthe driver. "Go. Go."I was stunned. "Well, you are. You are a bitch."Wed traveled a block before she replied. "I told you. We just met by the river oneday: thats all. Indepes, both of us. We never made each other any promises.We never -- " she said, and her voice colpsed, a ti invalid whiteness seized herface. The car had paused for a traffic light. Then she had the door open, she wasrunning dowreet; and I ran after her.But the cat was not at the er where hed bee. There was no one, nothingoreet except a urinating drunk and two Negro nuns herding a file of sweetsingingchildren. Other children emerged from doorways and dies leaned over theirwindow sills to watch as Holly darted up and down the block, ran bad forthting: "You. Cat. Where are you? Here九-九-藏-書-網, cat." She kept it up until a bumpyskinnedboy came forward dangling an old tom by the scruff of its neck: "You wantsa ty, miss? Gimme a dolr."The limousine had followed us. Now Holly let me steer her toward it. At the door,she hesitated; she looked past me, past the boy still his cat ("Haifa dolr.Two-bits, maybe? Two-bits, it aint much"), and she shuddered, she had to grip myarm to stand up: "Oh, Jesus God. We did belong to each other. He was mine."Then I made her a promise, I said Id e bad find her cat: "Ill take careof him, too. I promise."She smiled: that cheerless new pinch of a smile. "But what about me?" she said,whispered, and shivered again. "Im very scared, Buster. Yes, at st. Because itcould go on forever. Not knowing whats yours until youve thrown it away. Themean reds, theyre nothing. The fat woman, she nothing. This, though: my mouthsso dry, if my life depended on it I couldnt spit." She stepped in the car, sank i. "Sorry, driver. Lets go."TOMATOS TOMATO MISSING. And: DRUG-CASE ACTRESS BELIEVED GANGLANDVICTIM. Iime, however, the press reported: FLEEING PLAYGIRL TRACED TORIO. Apparently no attempt was made by Ameri authorities to recover her, andsooter dimio an occasional gossip-ion; as a ory, it was revived only once: on Christmas Day, when Sally Tomato died of aheart attack at Sing Sing. Months went by, a winter of them, and not a word fromHolly. The owner of the brownstone sold her abandoned possessions, the white-satihe tapestry, her precious Gothic chair; a enant acquired the apartment,his name was Quaintance Smith, aertained as malemen callers of anoisy nature as Holly ever had -- though in this instance Madame Spanel did notobject, indeed she doted on the young man and supplied filet mignon whenever hehad a bck eye. But in the spring a postcard came: it was scribbled in pencil, andsigned with a lipstick kiss: Brazil was beastly but Buenos Aires the best. NotTiffanys, but almost. Am joi the hip with duhvine enor. Love? Think so.Anyhoo am looking for somewhere to live (enor has wife, 7 brats) and will let youknow address when I know it myself. Mille tendresse. But the address, if it everexisted, never was sent, which made me sad, there was so much I wao writeher: that Id sold two stories, had read where the Trawlers were tersuing fordivorce, was moving out of the brownstone because it was haunted. But mostly, Iwao tell her about her cat. I had kept my promise; I had found him. It tookweeks of after-work roaming through those Spanish Harlem streets, and there weremany false arms -- fshes of tiger-striped fur that, upon iion, were not him.But one day, one cold sunshiny Sunday winter afternoon, it was. Fnked by pottedpnts and framed by ce curtains, he was seated in the window of a warmlookingroom: I wondered what his name was, for I was certain he had one now,certain hed arrived somewhere he belonged. Afri hut or whatever, I hope Hollyhas, too.