Cat on a Cold Tin Roof by Mike Resnick Page B

Bolivians,” I said. “But they have to be insured. If I find them, I’ll turn them over to the insurance company for the standard finder’s fee. We’ll see that word gets out, and they can go home or rob the insurance company.”
    He glared at me. “ Half a finder’s fee,” he said. “Remember, I’m the one who told you about them.”
    â€œYou’re going to be looking too?” I asked.
    â€œYou bet your ass I am,” he assured me. “Why do you think I haven’t gone back to Chicago? After all, Big Jim’s not in a position to rat on anybody.”
    â€œSo are we partners or competitors?” I asked.
    He stared at me for a long time, then shrugged and extended his hand. “Partners.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, taking his hand and shaking it. “If the Bolivians are still here, we know they haven’t got them.”
    â€œAin’t much to go on,” he said.
    â€œOh, we know a little more than that.”
    He looked surprised. “We do?”
    I nodded. “We know they’re not in the Grandin Road area.”
    â€œWhy the hell not?”
    â€œThere are five animal shelters closer to the Pepperidge house than the one the cat turned up at. Believe me, I’ve been to all of them. Maybe whoever stole the cat and the collar didn’t want it showing up a few blocks away, where someone might recognize a car or a driver, or at least be able to identify them—but no one drove twenty-five miles through that blizzard just to dump the cat where nobody knew it or them—and no pampered housecat walks twenty-five miles in two days in this weather.”
    â€œThey said you were good,” he replied approvingly. “Okay, we’ll keep in touch three or four times a day. What’s your cell number?”
    â€œI don’t have one.”
    He looked hurt. “I thought we were partners.”
    â€œWe are,” I replied. “I just don’t have a cell phone.”
    He frowned. “I suppose a tablet that lets you answer any e-mails I send to you is out of the question?”
    I nodded. “Afraid so.”
    He sighed deeply. “Do you at least carry a gun?”
    â€œAlmost never.”
    â€œI know you solved a murder down in Kentucky last year and exposed a major drug ring before that.” He stared curiously at me. “Just what century do you operate in?”
    I shrugged. “I think I’d have been really effective working for Tom Jefferson.”
    He half-nodded in agreement. “At least if you worked for old Tom you wouldn’t have three Bolivian hit men with maybe twenty kills between them racing you for the collar and ready to blow you away if you find it first.” He pulled out a pen and wrote on a napkin. “This is my cell number. Check in two or three times a day.” I was about to answer when he held up his hand. “No more bullshit. Use a pay phone.”
    â€œRight,” I said, vaguely wondering what pay phones cost these days. “Where will you go first?”
    â€œI don’t know . . . but it makes the most sense for you to find out about the Bolivians. After all, this is your town. You’ve got to have some snitches who can tell you what’s going on.”
    I was happy to hear him use the word “snitches.” It was comforting to know something I was familiar with hadn’t vanished before the turn of the century. “I’ll see what I can find out,” I told him.
    â€œI’ll check with my people and see which fences out of the Cincinnati area can handle that kind of hot material. Where should we meet for dinner?”
    â€œWhat do you like?” I asked.
    â€œDiamonds,” he said.
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œIf it’s smaller than me, I’ll eat it,” said Sorrentino.
    It was comforting to know that I’d picked up a partner with the same taste.

6.
    I figured the first thing I’d