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It was a cold night in New York. A stiff northerly was blowing big snowflakes around my loft in 199 Vandam Street. The cat was sitting on the windowsill and, with a mew of distaste, watched the smoking remains of the two towers which were blown to the lord by the flying Orks of Saruman.
I took a big cuban cigar from Sherlock Holmes' head and set fire to it, holding the tip of the cigar ever so slightly above the flame. I puffed at it while watching thoughtfully around the loft. The industrial-size espresso machine was steaming like the train to nowhere. Hank Williams looked out of the compartment window, dreaming of Kaw-Liga the little wooden Indian. Winnie Katz's lesbian dance class made thumping sounds on the ceiling, hopefully leaving it in place. On the mantelpiece, the little black puppet head smiled, and rightly so, because nothing was happening and life inside this universe of a loft was like always.
An ashtray the shape and size of Texas sat on my desk between two red phones, which rang. The cat leaped sideways and disappeared in the rain room, obviously using the opportunity to dump a serious Nixon. I picked up the blower on the left. "Start talkin'," I said.
A little rodentlike voice shouted "Kinkstah!". It was Frotso, my old housepest. "Kinkstah! Guess what I found!" I had no idea, but I could tell from past experience that whatever he found, it meant trouble. He even inherited several million dollars a while ago and had never seen a cent of it, not to mention my expenses of which I never saw a cent.
"You found your mind which you lost Elvis knows when."
"No, Kinkstah, it's a ring with some strange writing scribbled around it. It makes you invisible when you wear it. you gotta see it. Let's meet at Wong's in an hour." I cradled the blower, poured a healthy shot of Jameson's into the bullhorn and tossed it.
The cat came back from the rain room and raised an eyebrow. She never liked Frotso and made a point that she would never make an attempt at liking him.
"Frotso gave me a ring, because he found a ring," I told the cat. The cat, of course, said nothing. Being a cat, she had some dignity and disliked silly word games.
The wind outside went stronger. It made moises like angry men shouting. The cat jumped on the window sill and peered down, a trace of recognition in her face. The noise of the wind became words: "Throw the goddam puppet head, Kinky!"
I opened the window and looked down. Between the garbage trucks, Rambalf the grey jumped up and down like a madman.
"Wait down there, we have a date with a special friend." I closed the window, took an emergency ration of cigars from Sherlock Holmes' head and left the loft. I left the cat in charge.