“Well, let ’em stand there. It’ll do ’em good to get a little nervous. I already heard that they’ve been lightin’ up the town and getting everyone nervous. Do the greasy little sheepherders good—“
There was silence; the pacing stopped. Catwoman understood that Eddie was getting reamed out by his boss. The warm feeling bloomed under her heart again, and this time she let it simmer.
“Yeah, right.” The voice was subdued, the pacing slower. “208 Broad, off Tenth, in an hour. Yeah, I’ll be there.” Another pause, not as long as the previous one. “No, I don’t know if they took anything. That’s not the point. The point is some sick-o, punk bastard got into my place and messed around with my things, you know, boss, my personal things . . . No, no—not the front door . . . Shit, I don’t know how— Rose . . . ? Shit, no. Maybe. I didn’t look.”
Catwoman hurried down the hall. She wanted his picture with the tiger skins in the background. She held the camera in front of her like a weapon or a shield, her finger poised above the button Bonnie told her to push and hold.
“Gotcha, Eddie Lobb,” she snarled from the doorway. He was at least five feet away; Bonnie said the camera needed five feet if Eddie and the background were both going to be in focus. She pushed the button. Strobe-light flashes burst from her hand. Eddie was transfixed. His mouth gaped, the phone fell from his hand.
“A cat. Jesus H. Christ, it’s a giant freaking black cat.”
But he didn’t move. Catwoman had no trouble making her retreat.