The Big Cat Nap

Charleston, South Carolina.” Latigo Bly walked across the inner quad with Reverend Jones.

The two men had come from Reverend Jones’s garage. Neither one wanted to pass close to the cemetery. Instead, they walked at the edge of the large outer quad, reaching the low fieldstone retaining wall. Herb opened the white-painted half-moon gate, stepping into the rich green space. “Well, I’ll be,” Herb said, in response to Latigo’s mention of Charleston.

Satisfied that Reverend Jones had evidenced interest, the tall man continued, “It was in 1732. However, this first American insurance company only offered insurance against fire.”

“I always thought the first person to start an insurance company was Ben Franklin.” Reverend Jones had to take bigger steps to keep up with the long-legged Latigo.

“That was later, in 1752. He founded the Philadelphia Contributionship for the Insuring of Houses from Loss by Fire.” Latigo chuckled. “No fool, Mr. Franklin. He refused to insure bona fide fire hazards, which meant all wooden houses.”

“Guess he still made money.”

“A resourceful, creative man.” Latigo reached the arcade, the stone arches adding to the sense of order and harmony.

“A highly sexed man, too,” Herb said, then quickly added, “Recent history books make much of it.”

“Sex sells,” Latigo said without emotion.

“Maybe you should try it in the insurance business,” Reverend Jones teased him.

“Sure works in yours. Aimee Semple McPherson, for starters.”

“Well, if it worked for religious revivalists, it’s got to work for you. Insurance isn’t a—how shall I put this—a lively business? No singing, dancing—”

Latigo cut in, “Or praising the Lord.”

The two laughed as Reverend Jones opened the outside door to his office. Asleep on the sofa, curled up together, the three cats lifted their heads, dropped them again.

“Please sit down.” Herb motioned to a comfortable club chair. “Can I get you any refreshment?”

“No, thank you. I dropped by to give you the check for your truck.” He reached into his pocket, retrieving an ecru envelope, business logo on the upper left corner.

“I didn’t expect this so fast.” Reverend Jones opened the envelope with his fingernail, pulled out the check. “Latigo, this really is more than that truck is worth.”

“It has scrap value.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Herb replaced the $8,000 check, slipping the envelope into his pants pocket.

“As for a new truck,” said Latigo, “this is a good time to buy. Folks are staying away from the gas guzzlers, so truck sales are slow. You should be able to drive a good bargain.”

“That they are, but the church needs a big truck. As you can imagine, the upkeep on a place this old consumes a considerable chunk of our budget. I’ll buy the truck in my own name, but, of course, we’ll use it for necessities here.” He leaned back in his chair. “Nothing seems to get cheaper, does it?”

“No. Doesn’t the church provide you with a car?”

“They do, and it’s a big help.” He swept his hand toward the triple-sash windows, wide open. “What a beautiful place to work, to live. Can’t put a price on that, and what preacher is in it for the money?”

An eruption of laughter roared from Latigo. “All of them on TV.”

Reverend Jones smiled at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t consider them ministers. I think of them as hucksters. Revealing my prejudice here, but I am an ordained Lutheran minister, so I have high educational standards. Plus, I don’t think one should use the Good Lord for profit.”

“I do.” Latigo smiled. “I pray daily.”

This time it was Reverend Jones’s turn to laugh uproariously. “I’ll pray for you.” He patted his pocket wherein he had slipped the check. “You’ve got one good deed fresh in St. Peter’s book.” Then he smiled again. “And I’m sure many, many more.”

Latigo surreptitiously checked the Napoleon clock on the mantel. “I’ve got to run. Let me know what you do buy. I certainly hope you’ll continue to insure with Safe and Sound.”

“I will.”

As Latigo left, Lucy Fur raised her head. “Poppy’s happy.”

“A new truck,” Cazenovia purred. “New leather seats to scratch. Heaven.”

Herb dialed ReNu.

“ReNu Auto Works,” Kyle intoned.

“Kyle, this is Reverend Jones. You have my 1994 Chevy half-ton there. I’d like to come down tomorrow and clean it out thoroughly. I didn’t do that when it was towed. Just too upset about it. Will that be okay?”

A short pause, then Kyle replied, “Sure. I’ll tell the boys to leave it alone.”

“What would they do with it?”

“Strip it. There will be good parts in it even though it’s old. The boss sells the older stuff to specialty houses.”

“Specialty?”

“Places that work on old vehicles, trucks. Plus there are warehouses for old parts.”

“I see.”

“And then the boss sells the truck for scrap. Scrap metal’s up right now, so he’s happy.”

“Well, you don’t stay in business if you don’t find ways to make the money, beat the tax man.”

“Right.”

As Reverend Jones hung up, he thought to himself that the few times he’d seen or spoken to Kyle, no sliver of enthusiasm ever disturbed the young man. The other thing was, Kyle never said good things about ReNu. He didn’t say bad things, either.

He dialed again. “Harry.”

“Rev.”

“Will you go down to ReNu with me tomorrow?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“I need to clean out the old truck before they trash it. I was so mad when the truck went out on me, I didn’t think to take all my stuff. I don’t even know what I left in there.”

“Glad to help.”

“I don’t want to go there alone, truth be told.”

“I understand. I really do.”

“Okay, then. Mmm, ten too early?”

“No. I’ll pick you up.”