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Updated: June 28, 2025
"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.
His mother had split soon after she learned that she was pregnant. According to her, Muni had wanted to marry, but she knew it wouldn't work. Not a lot to go on, but it would have to do. "Welcome back, Oliver. You're home early," Arlen said. "Don't get used to it. I'm going to Hawaii." Arlen's jaw dropped. "Don't worry," Oliver said. "I'm not going to stick you with Verdi.
So I jumped off onto the float and grabbed the canoe, and g-o-o-d night! it was my Indian dugout. Then I heard one of the fellows shouting "Look who's here!" and I saw the fellow who had been sitting on the steps coming toward the float and I could tell it was Artie Van Arlen. Then I could hear Pee-wee dancing on the cabin roof and screaming, "The plot grows thicker!
"Ninety percent of success is showing up," Arlen answered. "Woody Allen." "It's true, isn't it," Oliver said. "You just have to keep at it. What was your father like, Arlen, when you were a kid?" "Very much as he is now," Arlen said. "Early to bed, early to rise. We had a dairy farm near Unity. We didn't have a lot of money, but we always had clothes and whatever we needed for school.
I walked over, and there was Tootsie on the table beneath his cage. He was lying on his side, stone dead." "No way," Oliver said. "Stone dead. I don't know how he got out. I don't know what happened. All I know is that he died when the relationship did. I think his heart was broken." "What did you do?" "I buried him beneath a tree on the Eastern Prom," Arlen said.
I rang a bell marvellously encrusted with rust, and after a long while the door opened a little way revealing a hall with much old armour in it and the shabbiest butler that I have ever known. I asked him who lived there. Sir Richard Arlen. I explained that my horse could go no further that night and that I wished to ask Sir Richard Arlen for a bed for the night.
Thanks very much for taking care of him, by the way. We just had a chat. He says you're a nice man and you have some Laphroiag left." "You can't tell a cat anything, these days," Arlen said. "It's not quite cocktail hour, but I suppose it's close enough." "Just a drop," Oliver said. They sat near the birds. "Perseverance furthers," Oliver toasted. "That's from the I Ching."
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."
"You do your own cooking?" Artie Van Arlen asked him. "Yes, but I'm not much of a cook," Blythe said. "I I don't I won't get anything till the work's finished " "You should worry about that," Roy said. "I guess I can eat most anything," Blythe. "Can you eat as many as eleven?" Pee-wee laughed. "Can you eat as many as eleven?" Pee-wee demanded.
"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."
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