Arlen poured two drinks. "Another day, another dollar," he toasted.
"Single malt," Oliver replied, holding his glass high. There was a moment of reverence after the first taste. "God, that's good!" Oliver said. "I have plenty of cat food. I'll leave clean kitty litter. You probably won't have to change it if he goes outside."
"I'd have a cat if it weren't for the birds," Arlen said. "I don't think enemies should live together, do you?"
"No." Arlen was an accountant for one of the big firms. He had a slim orderly face.
"Sometimes I think cats are smarter than people," Arlen said, "but I love to hear the birds. They sing whenever they damn please." He sighed, leaned back on his couch, and crossed his legs. An embossed boot swung prominently in front of him, oddly flamboyant.
"Yeah, Verdi's my buddy," Oliver said. "He likes you, too."
"Birds can be your friends," Arlen said. "People don't realize." He looked out the window. "I had a parakeet once. His name was Tootsie."
"Tootsie," Oliver repeated, sipping whiskey.
"An ordinary parakeet, green and yellow—but Tootsie could sing! A wonderful singer." Arlen looked back at Oliver. "Parakeets are tough, you know. They are little parrots, actually, strong birds."
"Really? Parrots? I didn't know that."