But literate or not, he wasn’t the sort of person one wants to find hovering over one’s car in a deserted parking lot at - good grief! - 1:05 A.M. Perhaps if it had been earlier, I would have gone back inside to wait him out or call the police. But 1 was tired, cranky, and, I suppose, a little reckless.
Assailants aren’t looking for opponents, I said to myself, recalling the words my karate instructor had always used. They’re looking for victims. Don’t look like a victim.
I slid my purse down to where I could use it for a purse fu block if needed, made sure my weight was balanced evenly, took a deep breath, stood up as straight as I could, and prepared to project fierceness and self-confidence as I strode forward.
Apparently I wasn’t projecting anything with sufficient force for the biker to notice. I stopped a few feet short of the car and wondered what to do next. My supposed assailant was still peering under the car. What could he possibly be doing? Was there some kind of nefarious sabotage he could do to the undercarriage of my car? And he was holding a ratty old towel on one hand - soaked in ether, perhaps, the better to subdue his unwary victims? Or did thugs use some more modern anesthetic these days? And how long was I supposed to stand around waiting for him to notice my fierce, alert, threatening presence, anyway? Should I clear my throat or something to get his attention?
“Hey!” I shouted. “What do you think you’re doing? Get away from my car!”
He stood up, bumping his head on the door handle on the way. “Shh!” he said, putting his finger to his lips and whispering. “You’ll scare her.”
Fingers massaging where he’d hit his head, he bent down again and looked back under the car, leaving me standing there, purse in hand, feeling ridiculous.
“Here, kitty-kitty-kitty!” he called in a falsetto.
“You’re looking for a cat?” I asked.
“A pregnant cat,” he said.
“Ah,” I said. “I was wondering where she went.”
“She’s under your car,” he said, standing up and puffing a little, as if prolonged bending over tired him. “She won’t come out.”
Sensible cat.
“Perhaps the noise is scaring her,” I said.
“Noise?” he repeated.
“You know - the chains and stuff,” I said, gesturing to his outfit. “All that jingling.”
“I should have realized!” he exclaimed, and began divesting himself of chains. “The poor little pussycat! I never realized how terrified she must be.”
He’d shed the bracelet chains and belt chains, and was just discovering that he’d have to shed his jacket and jeans to rid himself of the ones permanently attached to them. I was about to protest - although I was mildly curious to see if his striptease act would reveal any other amusing tattoos - when the cat, evidently alarmed by the noise of his chains hitting the asphalt, made a break for freedom. Luckily she was so focused on the biker that she failed to notice my arrival. I dropped my purse and managed to snag her, though she was struggling so hard I wasn’t sure I could hold her.
“Here, let me take her,” the biker said. With a few deft moves, he swaddled the cat in the towel so that only her head showed. She mewed faintly in protest, then gave up and closed her eyes.
I sucked a few of the worst scratches on my right hand and was grateful, for almost the first time in two weeks, for the bandage that had shielded my left hand.
“Poor widdle thing,” the biker cooed, scratching the cat behind the ear. “I’ve got a box all ready for you.”
“A box?” For a moment I visualized a perfect feline-size coffin, topped with a wreath of catnip; then I told myself to stop being so morbid.
“It’s behind the car,” he said. “Would you mind getting it?”
He’d have had to drop the cat to attack me, and I was beginning to get the feeling he was harmless. Either the cat felt the same way or she had given up all hope. While I didn’t think she was enjoying having her head scratched, she’d stopped fighting.
I found the box and set it on the hood of my car. It was a copier-paper box with a six-inch-square hole cut in the lid and covered with a piece of old window screen.
I managed to get the top off, and the biker put the cat inside. He deftly unwrapped the towel with one hand and then set the top in place before the cat realized she could move again.
“Poor kitty,” he cooed, peering down through the screen. “You had me worried.”