could be seen in the weed-infested garden at the side of the cottage; a tiny, dried-up old woman, bending over her vines and plants, mumbling incessantly to herself or to the raddled black tomcat which served as her constant companion.
"Old Prune-face ain't around!" Ronnie observed, loudly. "Must be off someplace on her broomstick."
"Ronnie—please!"
"Who cares?" Ronnie pulled Mary June's curls. "You dames are scared of everything, ain't you?"
" Aren't , Ronnie."
"Don't tell me how to talk!" Ronnie's gaze shifted again to the silent house, huddled in the shadows. A segment of shadow at the side of the cottage seemed to be moving. A black blur detached itself from the end of the porch. Ronnie recognized Mrs. Mingle's cat. It minced down the path towards the gate.
Quickly, Ronnie stooped and found a rock. He grasped it, rose, aimed, and hurled the missile in one continuous movement.
The cat hissed, then squawled in pain as the rock grazed its ribs.
"Oh, Ronnie!"
"Come on, let's run before she sees us!"
They flew down the street. The school bell drowned out the cat-yowl.
"Here we go," said Ronnie. "You do my homework for me? Good. Give it here once."
He snatched the papers from Mary June's hand and splinted ahead. The girl stood watching him, smiling her admiration. From behind the fence the cat watched, too, and licked its jaws.
2
It happened that afternoon, after school. Ronnie and Joe Gordon and Seymour Higgins were futzing around with a baseball and he was talking about the outfit Ma promised to buy him this summer if the dressmaking business picked up. Only he made it sound as if he was getting the outfit for sure, and that they could all use the mask and mitt. It didn't hurt to build it up a little, with election tomorrow. He had to stand in good with the whole gang.
He knew if he hung around the school yard much longer, Mary June would come out and want him to walk her home. He was sick of her. Oh, she was all right for homework and such stuff, but these guys would just laugh at him if he went off with a dame.
So he said how about going down the street to in front of the pool hall and maybe hang around to see if somebody would shoot a game? He'd pay. Besides, they could smoke.
Ronnie knew that these guys didn't smoke, but it sounded cool and that's what he wanted. They all followed him down the street, pounding their cleats on the sidewalk. It made a lot of noise, because everything was so quiet.
All Ronnie could hear was the cat. They were passing Mrs. Mingle's and there was this cat, rolling around in the garden on its back and on its stomach, playing with some kind of ball. It purred and meeowed and whined.
"Look!" yelled Joe Gordon. "Dizzy cat's havin' a fit 'r something, huh?"
"Lice," said Ronnie. "Damned mangy old thing's fulla lice and fleas and stuff. I socked it a good one this morning."
"Ya did?"
"Sure. With a rock. This big, too." He made a watermelon with his hands.
"Weren't you afraid of old lady Mingle?"
"Afraid? Why, that dried-up old—"
"Catnip," said Seymour Higgins. "That's what he's got. Ball of catnip. Old Mingle buys it for him. My old man says she buys everything for that cat; special food and sardines. Treats it like a baby. Ever see them walk down the street together?"
"Catnip, huh?" Joe peered through the fence. "Wonder why they like it so much. Gets 'em wild, doesn't it? Cats'll do anything for catnip."
The cat squealed, sniffing and clawing at the ball. Ronnie scowled at it. "I hate cats. Somebody oughta drowned that damn thing."
"Better not let Mrs. Mingle hear you talk like that," Seymour cautioned. "She'll put the evil eye on you."
"Bull!"
"Well, she grows them herbs and stuff and my old lady says—"
"Bull!"
"All right. But I wouldn't go monkeying around her or her old cat, either."
"I'll show you."
Before he knew it, Ronnie was opening the gate. He advanced toward the black tomcat as the boys gaped.
The cat crouched over the catnip, eyes flattened
Learning to Kill: Stories