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of the bar. The remaining
    bar patrons retreated to the other side of the room. It was only me and the cat in the center ring.
    I said weakly, “This is odd. Usually cats like me.”
    The problem with a life spent reading is you know too much. I knew for example that an ocelot was
    extremely fast, strong and agile. That they could be very aggressive on occasion—and this seemed to be An Occasion. I knew that they were spectacular climbers. Able to leap to impressive heights, like the top of a bookshelf—or some unfortunate person’s head. I knew their bite could be vicious, that they liked to
    eviscerate their prey with their back legs, and that they had the uncanny ability to sense pressure points and seek them out during an attack.
    Attacked by an ocelot in the Champagne Bar of the Hotel Del Monte? Try topping that for freak-show
    value. I’d have to hope he killed me outright because I’d never live it down.
    Safely across the elegant room, Professor Crisparkle slipped out of his tweed blazer and started
    toward us, holding the jacket out with the clear intent of using it as a kind of net. A couple of people, lined against the wall as though for a firing squad, offered their suggestions and advice. They were ignored.
    “Don’t move,” Crisparkle instructed quietly.
    “Who are you talking to? Me or it?” I flicked a nervous gaze from Crisparkle to the cat, which was
    apparently trying to calculate the best way to get around the flimsy barrier I’d placed between us. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
    “I don’t think there’s much of an option. I believe it’s going to attack you.” He sounded perfectly
    calm. That was probably the whole British sang-froid thing. Or perhaps the University of London was a
    rougher school than it sounded.
    Crisparkle sidestepped a fallen chair, and sensing his approach, the ocelot turned with a sneeze-type
    snarl. Maybe he was in a bad mood because he had the flu.
    The side entrance door flew open and a chubby woman in a pink and black checked suit rushed into
    the bar crying, “Oscar! Oscar! Oh you bad, bad kitty.”
    The ocelot cringed like a guilty dog and the next minute she had scooped it up in her arms and was
    scurrying away. The rest of us gaped and gawked after her and then the remaining customers burst into
    conversation.
    I dropped the tall stool and slumped against the bar. Crisparkle walked up to me. “Well.” It took me a few seconds to collect myself enough to say, “Thank you.”
    Crisparkle nodded, serious as ever. Not that I was ready to laugh about it myself quite yet. “That was most peculiar,” he said, which had to be the understatement of the century. “Even for this city.”
    “You can say that again.” Belatedly it occurred to me that I should probably make more of an effort. I asked, fully expecting rejection, “May I buy you a drink?”
    I was surprised when he assented.
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    The Dickens with Love
    He gave the bartender his order and we moved to his table near the fireplace. I sat down, met his gaze, and looked away feeling weirdly self-conscious. Well, maybe not so weird given the circumstances.
    As conversation seemed required and he wasn’t making an effort, I said, “I’ve read that they typically go for your groin or armpit. Ocelots, I mean. It was very hard not to visualize that.”
    “You seemed remarkably calm. I wondered if you knew what you were dealing with.”
    Oh, I knew. I’d read a lot of boys adventure novels growing up. All small cats have certain target
    areas. The ocelot tends to target the armpit, inside of elbows, groin and neck. That makes even a simple bite from an ocelot a big deal. They also tend to repeat strike when deflected. Try blocking an ocelot leaping for your throat, and he’ll hit the ground and rebound straight back at you.
    I reached for the bar menu as Crisparkle added disapprovingly, “Someone was remarkably, criminally
    careless in allowing that animal to roam