“Suit yourself. The ordinance doesn’t say a word about horses. But just one more thing-does that cat really drink ginger ale?”
“Fourth Amendment, remember?”
“I don’t want to see the animal; I just want to know.”
“Well,” I admitted, “he prefers it with a dash of bitters, but he’ll drink it straight if he has to.”
“It’ll ruin his kidneys. Look here a moment, friend.”
“At what?”
“Lean back so that your head is close to where mine is. Now look up at the ceiling over each booth . . . the mirrors up in the decorations. I knew there was a cat there-because I saw it.”
I leaned back and looked. The ceiling of the joint had a lot of junky decoration, including many mirrors; I saw now that a number of them, camouflaged by the design, were so angled as to permit the cashier to use them as periscopes without leaving his station. “We need that,” he said apologetically. “You’d be shocked at what goes on in those booths . . . if we didn’t keep an eye on `em. It’s a sad world.”
“Amen, brother.” I went on out
Once outside, I opened the bag and carried it by one handle; Pete stuck his head out. “You heard what the man said, Pete. `It’s a sad world.’ Worse than sad when two friends can’t have a quiet drink together without being spied on. That settles it.”
“Now?” asked Pete.
“If you say so. If we’re going to do it, there’s no point in stalling.”
“Now!” Pete answered emphatically.
“Unanimous. It’s right across the street.”
The receptionist at the Mutual Assurance Company was a fine example of the beauty of functional design. In spite of being streamlined for about Mach Four, she displayed frontal-mounted radar housings and everything else needed for her basic mission. I reminded myself that she would be Whistler’s Mother by the time I was out and told her that I wanted to see a salesman.
“Please be seated. I will see if one of out’ client executives is free.” Before I could sit down she added, “Our Mr. Powell will see you. This way, please.”
Our Mr. Powell occupied an office which made me think that Mutual did pretty well for itself. He shook hands moistly, sat me down, offered me a cigarette, and attempted to take my bag. I hung onto it. “Now, sir, how can we serve you?”
“I want the Long Sleep.”
His eyebrows went up and his manner became more respectful. No doubt Mutual would write you a camera floater for seven bucks, but the Long Sleep let them get their pattypaws on all of a client’s assets. “A very wise decision,” he said reverently. “I wish I were free to take it myself. But . . . family responsibilities, you know.” He reached out and picked up a form. “Sleep clients are usually in a hurry. Let me save you time and bother by filling this out for you . . . and we’ll arrange for your physical examination at once.”
“Just a moment.”
“Yes?”
“One question. Are you set up to arrange cold sleep for a cat?”
He looked surprised, then pained. “You’re jesting.”
I opened the top of the bag; Pete stuck his head out. “Meet my side-kick. Just answer the question, please. If the answer is `no,’ I want to sashay up to Central Valley Liability. Their offices are in this same building, aren’t they?”
This time he looked horrified. “Mister- Uh, I didn’t get your name?”
“Dan Davis.”
“Mr. Davis, once a man enters our door he is under the benevolent protection of Mutual Assurance. I couldn’t let you go to Central Valley.”
“How do you plan to stop me? Judo?”
“Please!” He glanced around and looked upset. “Our company is an ethical company.”
“Meaning that Central Valley is not?”
“I didn’t say that; you did. Mr. Davis, don’t let me sway you-”
“You won’t.”
“-but get sample contracts from each company. Get a lawyer, better yet, get a licensed semanticist. Find out what we offer-and actually deliver-and compare it with what Central Valley claims to offer.” He glanced around again and leaned toward me. “I shouldn’t say this-and I do hope you won’t quote me-but they don’t even use the standard actuarial tables.”