Page 63 of Guitars and Cages

“No,” I told her, shaking my head. “Hell, no. I’ll have your money; you just fix her, please.”

“All right, if you’re sure.”

“I am,” I told her, stroking the little cat’s head. I decided to call her Ghost.

“Why don’t you go up front and take care of the paperwork while we get started testing her blood and prepping her for surgery.”

“Okay,” I said, kissing Ghost on her furry head before I left the room. Through it all, Anne had stayed with me. I filled out a ton of paperwork, giving the number to the bar since I wasn’t sure I’d find my cell. When it was all done, Anne asked if I’d like a ride back to the pet store, since she needed to pick up her things anyway.

“Sure,” I said, shocked at all the help she’d given me. Back in her Jeep she turned off the radio, though she still drove as fast as she had before.

“You have a way with animals,” she said.

“I grew up on a ranch in Nebraska.”

She laughed. “I’m an old ranch gal myself, grew up on one in central Wyoming, cattle and horses, and then I married my husband. He had a ranch in the western part of the state, but we only raised sheep and some horses there.”

“Cattle and horses, that’s what my old man had. So, how’d you get to the city?”

“My husband got sick, and we came here to be closer to the treatments he needed. He’s in recovery now, but we had to sell the ranch to pay for it all, so I doubt we’ll ever leave the city now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I. I miss waking up in the morning and seeing trees and hills, instead of buildings and cars. What’s a youngster like you doing here instead of out there on horseback beneath a bright blue sky?”

“Not a whole lot, to be honest. Playing my guitar when I can, bartending, just trying to survive.”

She shook her head. “Your way with critters is wasted in the city.”

“I know,” I said, turning to look out the window.

“Have you ever thought about going back home?”

“Don’t have no home to go back to.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

The only way to earn over a thousand dollars in a night was gonna be to fight for it. I just needed to get out the door without anyone knowing what I planned to do. This was gonna be shitty enough without hearing a chorus of what a dumbass I was for wanting to pay for an operation for a cat. The first lie to go in my journal was when I lied about where I was going when I went to see Catfish Dan. If anyone knew where I could find a quick, easy fight, it would be old Catfish.

He was called Catfish for the mustache he’d had since 1972, at least according to all the old guys who knew him. It was long and stringy, like catfish whiskers, and completely gray, though rumor had it that once it had been redder than my hair. This time of night there was only one place old Catfish would be and that was down at River’s End. I took the bus, since there was no way in hell I could ride my Harley with a broken hand.

He was there in his corner booth, a Long Island Iced Tea on the table in front of him, his little red book in his hands. He was scrawling notes on the betting pages, occasionally crossing off a name. I stood still by the edge of his booth and waited until he raised his head and acknowledged me. He pointed to the seat across from him, giving me permission to sit down.

“You don’t owe me nothin’, so you must be lookin’ for a fight.”

“Yes, sir,” I told him. I’d learned right from the start that the best way to stay on Catfish’s good side was to be polite and respectful.

His eyes drifted down to the cast on my hand, and then back up to my face.

“How are you planning to fight with a fucked-up hand?”

“Any way I have to.”

“How quickly you wanna fight?”

“Tonight, if you know a place that’s runnin’ em.”

He gave me a grim look, studying me closely. I tried not to flinch, ’cause I knew he was seeing how pale I was, and the lingering effects of being in the hospital.