Part I: Wherein Liza Bean Bitey Tells a Story; or Tin and Jonics, On the Cat, Please

I've taken it into my head to write a horror story.  And so I am.  Please enjoy a repeat from last February, when the nights were long, the commute ice cold, and the drinks were on the kitteh...

We’ve managed to grab a booth at Nye’s.  The gold-flecked upholstery, the low, intimate lighting: the place has the feel of a supper club, circa 1950.  In this atmosphere, Ike is president, Dean Martin is headlining in Vegas, and cigarettes are an appetite suppressant.

Liza Bean gazes into her drink, an iridescent gin and tonic, absent-mindedly fishes out one of four lime wedges.

“Have I ever,” she says, thoughtfully re-squeezing the lime, “told you about the time I worked as a bouncer?”

She hadn’t.  I somewhat drunkenly shake my head.  Drinking with a cat is no small matter, and I reflect on my foresight in having canceled the next day’s activities.

“Nope,” I say. 

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, a small-pawed murderer of mice, a cat who has a manuscript purportedly written as a collaborative effort between her and Hunter S. Thompson, drops the lime back into her drink, stirs it with one terrible extended claw.

She takes a sip, smiles with tiny, pointed teeth, eyes gleaming like stolen emeralds.

“It was a couple summers ago, actually,” she says.  “You know the building in the Warehouse District, the one that has the top of it blown off?”

For once, I do.  Pleased with this, I nod vigorously, and a passing cocktail waitress pauses briefly, perhaps concerned I’m having a seizure.

Liza Bean flicks her extended claw back and forth, back and forth, through her ice cubes, leans forward and sucks the last of her drink up the straw.  No sooner has she raised her paw but our waitress is back.  “Gin and tonic, four limes,” she says, placing the drink on the table.  Felines are notoriously good tippers, and any waitress worth her salt knows this.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”  Liza Bean hands her a couple bills.  The waitress, a Betty Paige look-alike, winks and practically skips back to the bar. 

“So there was a bar in the basement of that building,” the cat says, squeezing one lime after another into her drink. “You had to know it was there, and it wasn’t for just anyone.  No signs, no flashing lights, no indication that there was anything of interest down those steps.”

Liza Bean takes a sip of her drink, closes her eyes in appreciation.  What is it with cats and gin and tonics?  I consider pulling out the notebook I keep in my purse for just such observations and then promptly forget about it.

“It was a cat bar,” she purrs.  “Do you hear what I’m telling you, Pearl?  A cat bar, one of only four in the city.”

I nod: a cat bar.

And that’s when I settle back, a silly smile on my face. 

Liza Bean Bitey, of the Minneapolis Biteys, is going to tell a story.


Come back tomorrow for Part II!