Read Online Cat People by Gary Brandner - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary Brandner
Tags: Horror
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of the St. Louis Cathedral and the delicately balanced equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson, his feet firmly planted in the stirrups, hat raised triumphantly aloft.
The sight of the artists at their easels brought back Irena's enthusiasm. She took out her book, found a spot on a stone bench, and began to sketch.
Twenty minutes later Irena snapped the lead of her third pencil in frustration. She could simply not get the cathedral down the way she wanted it. The light was wrong, or she had chosen a poor angle to work from, or she plain wasn't in the mood.
She closed the sketchbook with a snap and walked over to look at the canvases other artists had lined up outside the iron fence with hopefully high price tags attached. There were too many of the familiar weeping clowns and wistful children. The last artist along the fence seemed to be the most talented, although his still lifes were strongly reminiscent of Van Gogh.
"If you like anything, make me an offer," the young artist said from close behind her. "Those prices are just for my ego."
"They're very nice," Irena began, "but I—"
She stopped short, transfixed by one painting that did not seem to belong with the others. It was a white cat, curled up and lying on a dark-blue cushion. There was a spikiness about the fur and a look of madness in the animal's eyes that made Irena shudder.
"It's not very good, is it?" the young artist said.
"It's ... different."
"The fact is, I don't do animals very well, but some people like them, and I aim to please."
Irena felt suffocated. She had to get away from the terrible painting of the cat.
"Excuse me," she said abruptly to the young artist, and left him standing in front of his paintings as she hurried away. Irena could feel him staring after her.
She walked swiftly up St. Ann Street. The buildings seemed to close in from both sides. The ring of her heels was unnaturally loud in her ears. She stopped, confused, when she found herself at the corner of Bourbon Street.
As always, the sounds of jazz spilled from open doorways as the tourists wandered along both sides of the street. The brassy music and the crowd and the profusion of garish signs made Irena feel dizzy. She looked around for someplace to sit down, and saw she was standing in front of a narrow bar called Le Whiskey. As far as she could tell, it was cool and reasonably empty inside, so she walked in.
The only other customers were a man and a woman in their forties, enthusiastically groping each other in a back booth. Irena found a barstool, and the gray-haired bartender hurried over with a welcoming smile.
"Afternoon, Miss. What can I do for you?"
"I'll have a Coke, please."
"Bourbon and Coke?"
"No, just a Coke."
"Whatever you say." The bartender scooped crushed ice into a glass and filled it with cola from a hose that came up behind the bar.
"Like a twist of lemon in that?"
"No, thank you."
The bartender sighed. He squared up a cocktail napkin on the bar and placed the glass on it. "I don't feel like I'm doing my job, just pumping Coke into a glass."
Irena smiled at him to show that his efforts were appreciated.
"Quiet today," he said, encouraged by her smile.
"Is it?" Irena had no interest in the state of his business, but it was relaxing to have someone to talk to.
"Yeah, real quiet. It'll pick up about dinnertime, though, then we'll go all night long."
"Sounds exciting."
"Gets to be routine when you've been on the street as many years as I have. Once in a while, though, something really weird happens. Last night, for instance, we had a big ruckus right up in the next block."
"Really?" Irena took a long swallow of the Coke. She was only half-listening to what the man was saying, but the sound of his voice soothed her.
"Oh, yeah, it was something. Had the police, ambulance, fire department. Regular circus."
The man was so plainly eager to talk about it that Irena could not refrain from asking, "What happened?"
"I never did get the whole
The sight of the artists at their easels brought back Irena's enthusiasm. She took out her book, found a spot on a stone bench, and began to sketch.
Twenty minutes later Irena snapped the lead of her third pencil in frustration. She could simply not get the cathedral down the way she wanted it. The light was wrong, or she had chosen a poor angle to work from, or she plain wasn't in the mood.
She closed the sketchbook with a snap and walked over to look at the canvases other artists had lined up outside the iron fence with hopefully high price tags attached. There were too many of the familiar weeping clowns and wistful children. The last artist along the fence seemed to be the most talented, although his still lifes were strongly reminiscent of Van Gogh.
"If you like anything, make me an offer," the young artist said from close behind her. "Those prices are just for my ego."
"They're very nice," Irena began, "but I—"
She stopped short, transfixed by one painting that did not seem to belong with the others. It was a white cat, curled up and lying on a dark-blue cushion. There was a spikiness about the fur and a look of madness in the animal's eyes that made Irena shudder.
"It's not very good, is it?" the young artist said.
"It's ... different."
"The fact is, I don't do animals very well, but some people like them, and I aim to please."
Irena felt suffocated. She had to get away from the terrible painting of the cat.
"Excuse me," she said abruptly to the young artist, and left him standing in front of his paintings as she hurried away. Irena could feel him staring after her.
She walked swiftly up St. Ann Street. The buildings seemed to close in from both sides. The ring of her heels was unnaturally loud in her ears. She stopped, confused, when she found herself at the corner of Bourbon Street.
As always, the sounds of jazz spilled from open doorways as the tourists wandered along both sides of the street. The brassy music and the crowd and the profusion of garish signs made Irena feel dizzy. She looked around for someplace to sit down, and saw she was standing in front of a narrow bar called Le Whiskey. As far as she could tell, it was cool and reasonably empty inside, so she walked in.
The only other customers were a man and a woman in their forties, enthusiastically groping each other in a back booth. Irena found a barstool, and the gray-haired bartender hurried over with a welcoming smile.
"Afternoon, Miss. What can I do for you?"
"I'll have a Coke, please."
"Bourbon and Coke?"
"No, just a Coke."
"Whatever you say." The bartender scooped crushed ice into a glass and filled it with cola from a hose that came up behind the bar.
"Like a twist of lemon in that?"
"No, thank you."
The bartender sighed. He squared up a cocktail napkin on the bar and placed the glass on it. "I don't feel like I'm doing my job, just pumping Coke into a glass."
Irena smiled at him to show that his efforts were appreciated.
"Quiet today," he said, encouraged by her smile.
"Is it?" Irena had no interest in the state of his business, but it was relaxing to have someone to talk to.
"Yeah, real quiet. It'll pick up about dinnertime, though, then we'll go all night long."
"Sounds exciting."
"Gets to be routine when you've been on the street as many years as I have. Once in a while, though, something really weird happens. Last night, for instance, we had a big ruckus right up in the next block."
"Really?" Irena took a long swallow of the Coke. She was only half-listening to what the man was saying, but the sound of his voice soothed her.
"Oh, yeah, it was something. Had the police, ambulance, fire department. Regular circus."
The man was so plainly eager to talk about it that Irena could not refrain from asking, "What happened?"
"I never did get the whole
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