The Emerald Cat Killer by Richard A. Lupoff

himself, proffered his business card, and said, “Miss Gottlieb?”
    She admitted as much. From the apartment behind her Lindsey could hear voices raised in slow rhythm. The effect was not unpleasant. There were rugs and cushions on the floor and a narrow column of gray rising from a hammered brass incense burner.
    The young woman inquired the nature of Lindsey’s business.
    He asked if she was indeed Steve Damon’s literary agent, Rachael Gottlieb.
    She was.
    He wondered if this was a convenient time to discuss a business matter involving Mr. Damon. Or would she prefer to meet him at her office?
    â€œThis is my office.” She had a soft voice that would have been at home with the singing—more like chanting—from inside the apartment. “You can come in.”
    Either Rachael Gottlieb couldn’t afford much furniture or she preferred to do without it. Lindsey found himself seated on a floor cushion, listening to recorded sounds. Rachael Gottlieb left the room briefly, returned carrying a cast-iron pot, and poured a cup for Lindsey. “It’s pu-erh. It’s very soothing. I find that it harmonizes the body with the music of Hildegard. A most astonishing woman. Hildegard von Bingen. Do you know the ‘Antiphon for Saint Ursula’? It elevates the spirit.”
    She lowered the cast-iron pot to a three-legged trivet and herself to a floor cushion facing Lindsey. “Now, Mr. Lindsey, what do you wish to know?”
    Lindsey sipped the pu-erh tea. He didn’t know whether it would harmonize his body or not, but it tasted good. He said that he was investigating an alleged plagiarism case involving Steve Damon and asked if Miss Gottlieb could put him in touch with the author.
    â€œThat’s not so easy.”
    Lindsey asked why not.
    â€œI’m afraid he’s dropped the class.”
    Lindsey frowned. “I’m sorry, you’re losing me. What class is that? Aren’t you an agent? Isn’t he your client?”
    She did have a sweet smile. Somehow the spirit of a generation ago survived, at least a little bit, in this eccentric town.
    â€œWe were taking a class together at Laney. You know Laney College, in Oakland?”
    â€œI know of it.”
    â€œâ€˜Female Poets from Sumangalamata to Maya Angelou.’ You see?” She waved a hand gracefully toward a small stack of books. Lindsey didn’t recognize many of the bylines but he was willing to take her word.
    â€œRigoberto was the only man in the class. He—” She stopped when she saw Lindsey’s frown.
    He said, “Rigoberto?”
    â€œOh.” The smile again. “Steve Damon is a pseudonym. Rigoberto, Rigoberto Chocron, was in the class. We went out for coffee afterward. It was an evening class, we went out for coffee a few times and he told me he’d written a novel and he didn’t know how to market it. I told him he should ask Professor Rostum, Rosemary Rostum; she taught our poetry class, but he thought she wouldn’t like his book. So I suggested that he just go to the library and get a directory of publishers and try to sell it himself but he didn’t want to.”
    She paused to sip her own pu-erh.
    Lindsey asked if Damon—Chocron—had said why he didn’t want to market the book himself.
    â€œHe’d been in a certain amount of trouble. He was getting a stipend from some kind of rehabilitation people for going to school. He seemed afraid of publicity. He asked if I would do it for him. I thought maybe he was just shy. Anyway, I looked up local publishers and there was Gordian House, so I called them up and went to see Mr. Burnside and he bought the book. That’s about all there was to it. I didn’t even take a commission. I just cashed the Gordian House check and paid Rigoberto in cash. He said he didn’t have a bank account and he couldn’t cash a check himself.”
    Lindsey asked Rachael Gottlieb for