"As a matter of fact, yes."
The chief nodded. "You'll have to stop. You can't hand out those things
without a permit."
Wheelan tucked his box of leaflets up under his arm. "Who do I see
about a permit?"
"Me, Glenn." Chief Neff flipped off his helmet and stroked his crewcut,
looking down the street. "Let's go down to the Blue Oasis and have a
beer and talk."
"Can you drink while on duty?"
"Beer." He took Wheelan's arm.
"What about your motorcycle?"
"Won't come to any harm."
In one of the Blue Oasis's dark leather booths Neff said, "Don't you
like the way the old town's blossoming, Glenn?"
"Cats make me feel crawly," Wheelan said, pushing his schooner back and
forth in front of him.
"Why, even the slums are a sight to see. And San Miguel's getting to be
a well-liked spot. Like Capistrano and Disneyland. Being well-liked is
good for a town's civic pride." The chief grinned at Wheelan.
"I think there's something basically wrong with people turning into
cats." Wheelan made up his mind not to drink the beer.
"There might be something wrong in it if people did it out of spite or
for mischief, Glenn. But I think most competent authorities will agree
that Mr. Balderstone's method has a real, honest-to-gosh therapeutic
value." He looked straight at Wheelan. "There's a lot of nervous
tension these days, Glenn. Even teaching in Pasadena you must have seen
that."
"Well, Hal, I'll admit that. I just don't think Balderstone's approach
is any solution."
Neff laughed. "There's not really much solution to anything." He leaned
back into the shadows in the booth corner. "You're as interested in our
town as anybody, aren't you, Glenn? Growing up here, playing in the
Little League, attending Grover Cleveland High."
"Sure. That's why I hate to see it taken over by some crackpot cult."
"You're entitled to your opinions. Just don't hand them out in the form
of leaflets."
"About that permit?"
"Well, Glenn, you know how tangled in red tape any government gets.
It'll take time. Even with me putting the spurs to everybody. Uh,
you're leaving the first part of September?"
"Yeah, when school opens." Wheelan pushed his glass away and slid out
of the booth. "It'll take until early September to get the permit, huh?"
"No. With me seeing to it you should have it by the end of August." He
stood and shook hands. Something about shaking hands with Chief Neff
unsettled Wheelan. Trying not to show it, he walked with Neff out into
the light.
* * * * *
Wheelan was squatting, studying the bottom shelves of his aunt's
refrigerator. He looked into an opened tin of smoked oysters, then
decided against making a sandwich. He opened a can of beer and sat down
at the white-topped table. This was the night his aunt went out to
Balderstone's. Wheelan shivered. They even had special buses running
out there.
The doorbell rang, or rather chimed a tune that had been a favorite of
his aunt's during prohibition. Karen Wylie was standing on the front
porch in a big tan coat. "Hi," she said. "Busy?"
"Pretty much."