The Cat, The Devil And Lee Fontana

25

The plane burst out of the clouds with a buzzing roar banking directly over Lee, it dropped straight at him, its shadow swallowed him, then the dark silhouette swept on by, raking the field below the lowering plane; at the far end of the rough, unplowed land the yellow Stearman touched down. Wheels kicking up dust, it swung around and circled back toward him, its propeller ticking over slowly as the plane taxied. Lee stepped aside as it rolled up to him. The front cockpit was empty. In the rear cockpit, young Mark Triple pushed back his goggles, but didn’t kill the engine. “Hop in, Fontana.”

Reaching for the struts, Lee made the long step up onto the wingwalk. Pausing, he looked down into the open metal hopper where Mark had bolted in a makeshift seat for him. Not much to hold him in there, only that little leather strap screwed into the sides of the plane. He glanced back at Mark.

“Climb on in, it’s safe as a baby carriage.” Leaning forward, Mark handed him a pair of goggles. “They’ll keep the bugs out of your eyes. Make sure your seat belt’s fastened.”

Warily Lee stepped in, groping for the seat belt. He got the ends together, pulled the belt so tight he nearly cut himself in half. He wasn’t half settled when the engine roared again and they were moving, Lee gripping the sides of the hopper hard, the ground racing by in a brown blur. He was lifted, weightless, as the tail came up, then a belly-grabbing leap, forcing him to hang on tighter than he had ever clung to a bucking cayuse. Ahead, a flock of birds exploded away in panic. Looking gingerly over the side, he hung on with both hands as the plane banked, tipping sideways. They swept low over the rusty tin roofs of the packing sheds, not a soul stirring in the ranch yard. In the paddock, Lucita’s spotted mare crowded nervously against the rail fence, staring up at the rising plane. In Lucita and Jake’s yard Lee glimpsed a tiny flash of white, Lucita’s little Madonna. Then they were out over the green fields, the melons and vegetables, the cotton and alfalfa broken by irrigation ditches thin as snakes, then the sharp line where the green stopped and the pale desert stretched away to the low Chuckawalla Mountains, brown and barren and wind carved. He’d feel more secure if he were riding behind Mark instead of up here in front where he felt like he should have control but didn’t—but hell, if this bird took a dive he wouldn’t know what to do anyway.

Forcing himself to settle back, he concentrated on the panorama below, so different than what you could ever see from the ground. He told himself this was a good feeling, floating high above the earth with nothing to hold him up there, and he tried to set his mind on the job ahead, patting the traveler’s check folder in his shirt pocket, making sure it was safe. He’d never pulled a scam like this one. The excitement of it made his stomach twitch, but also made him smile. Yesterday he’d skipped lunch, borrowed Jake’s pickup and headed for town, first for his post office box—and his birth certificate was there waiting for him. Smiling, he’d headed for the Department of Motor Vehicles where he applied for a driver’s license in the name of James Dawson, hoping to hell the clerk hadn’t known Dawson. Hoping the DMV wouldn’t check past the P.O. address, wouldn’t start digging around in the birth certificates. There must be a lot of Dawsons in the world, but he had to have some kind of ID. He told the clerk he was a mining consultant moving down from San Francisco, would be doing some work for Placer Mining Company. Said he hadn’t had a driver’s license in years because the last company he worked for furnished a driver, he said that when he was in the city he preferred to take the cable car or walk. He’d had to take a driver’s test, a piece of cake on the open desert roads, and he had aced the written test.

Fifteen minutes after he received his temporary license he had returned to the post office, parking around on the next street out of sight. Entering the lobby, standing in line before the window with the temporary cardboard sign reading BANKING BUSINESS, he was encouraged by the long line. A busy teller, hurrying through her transactions, was just what he wanted. A teller making quick decisions wouldn’t want to linger over unnecessary questions. When his turn came he gave the young redhead a grandfatherly smile, asked her for seven hundred dollars in traveler’s checks, in hundred-dollar denominations. He had stood admiring the young smooth look of her as she recorded the check numbers in the customer’s transaction folder, which was printed with the logo of the bank. He told her conversationally that he was on his way to San Francisco. She said she loved San Francisco, that the fee would be two dollars, and she had counted out the traveler’s checks to put into the folder. As he reached to his hip pocket, he picked up the folder. He dug convincingly in his pocket for his billfold, then looked surprised, looked up at her, frowning. “Oh, shaw. I’m sorry, miss. I left my wallet in the car.”

She smiled at him understandingly, and paper-clipped the checks together, glancing past him at the long line of customers. “That’s all right, sir. I’ll hold them until you get back. Just come to the window, you needn’t stand in that long line again.”

The customer behind him pushed impatiently closer as Lee slipped away pocketing the folder, leaving the young clerk cashing a paycheck.

Outside the post office, moving away around the corner out of sight of the post office windows, he swung into the truck and left, heading back for the ranch, the empty folder safe in his Levi’s pocket. That had been yesterday. Now he was on his way to complete the rest of the transaction.

His stomach dropped as the plane lifted higher yet, to clear the rising mountains, and he tried to ease more comfortably into the sense of flight, into the sudden lift, the speed, the throb of the engines. The wind scoured his face, sharp and cold. Below him the deep, dry washes dropping down from the mountains and across the desert floor looked ancient. Washes that during a heavy rain would belch out enough water to flood the whole desert, flood the highway deep and fast enough to overturn a car and drown an unwary driver. Maybe, Lee thought, every place in the world had its own kind of downside, unexpected and treacherous. Soon they were over San Bernardino, sailing smoothly over miles of orange and avocado groves, the lines of trees as straight as if drawn by a ruler. A few small farms, fenced pastures where horses and cattle grazed, a few small towns surrounded by green hills—and then the square grids of L.A. streets, neighborhoods of little boxy houses, and the main thoroughfares choked with traffic. Blue ocean beyond to his left, rivulets of white waves rolling in, and to his right the Hollywood Hills rose up, their pelt of green trees broken by the occasional glimpse of a mansion roof or the blue square of a swimming pool. This was the moneyed Neverland he’d read about, a place he’d never have reason to visit. Beyond the Hollywood Hills, forested mountains towered up, wild enough, by their look, to lose a man back among their rough ridges and gullies, wild enough to hide a man where the feds might never find him.

Lee eased down in his seat as Mark banked and circled, approaching the L.A. airport, the mountains swinging so close to Lee he caught his breath and clutched the seat hard again, staring straight out at what he thought was his last sight of this earth before they crashed into a thrusting peak, and died.

The ghost cat wasn’t frightened, he rode effortlessly on the wing above Lee, needing no support, watching Lee, amused, entertained by Lee’s fear, laughing as only a cat can laugh—though he felt sympathy for the old cowboy, too. If he had been a mortal cat, at that moment, riding in the little plane, he’d be crouched on the floor scared as hell, wild-eyed and out of control.

When Mark had first landed the plane back at Delgado Ranch and Lee stepped aboard, the cat had leaped lightly to the lower wing and then drifted up to the high wing, unseen. He had ridden there weightless as the plane took off, the wind tugging at his invisible fur, flattening his unseen ears without annoying the cat at all. Riding the yellow Stearman filled Misto with feline clownishness, caught him in a delirium of delight that perhaps no other creature but a ghost cat could know as vividly. The yellow tom didn’t often give himself to this degree of madness, he was for the most part a serious cat, but now he wanted to laugh out loud; sailing aboard the little manmade craft was more delicious than any binge of catnip, he rode the Stearman balanced without effort, he was one with the wind, he was a wind dancer, so giddy he wanted to yowl with pleasure. He let himself blow away free on the wind and then flipped over to land on the plane again, cavorting and delirious; he played and gamboled until Mark dropped the little craft smoothly down, to the landing strip in L.A., settling to earth once more. There the cat stretched out on the upper wing, lounging and watching to see what would happen next.

Taxiing, Mark quickly moved her off the runway, moved on past the terminal where passengers were boarding a big commercial plane, and headed slowly for the small hangars beyond and a metal building, its tin roof peeling paint. DUKE’S AIR SERVICE. REPAIR. CHARTERS. FLYING LESSONS. There, he cut the engine.

In the cockpit, Lee sat a moment, reorienting himself. At last he dropped his goggles on the seat, undid the seat belt, eased himself out of the hopper and climbed down.

But when he stood again on the ground he felt so small, and the earth felt unsteady beneath him, his balance so changed that for a moment he couldn’t get his footing. He watched Mark greet the mechanic, jerking a thumb at the prop. “It surges in high pitch,” Mark said. “Surges real bad.”

Lee moved closer to get Mark’s attention. “You going to be a while? I’d like to go into town if there’s time.”

Mark laughed. “See the big city. Sure, this will take . . . maybe three hours or better. You can catch a bus over there in front of the terminal. I’ll stay here and swap lies.”

The bus was nearly empty. When Lee chose a window seat close to the rear door, when he sat down laying his jacket across the other seat, he sensed the cat next to him, and that cheered him. In the plane, where the hell had the cat ridden? Had he needed to hang on for dear life, or had he been free to do as he pleased? Had he been afraid during that bouncing ride, or was such an experience nothing at all to a freewheeling ghost cat?

It was a half-hour ride into downtown L.A. The instant they passed the first bank, Lee rose and pulled the cord. He expected the ghost cat would tag along, but he didn’t sense him near. He had ceased to worry about the little cat, a ghost wasn’t mortal, nothing of this world could harm him, and how secure and amazing was that? Only something otherworldly could touch Misto, and so far as Lee could tell, he had taken care of himself just fine.

Walking back to the bank from the bus stop, he ran his finger into his shirt pocket, again making sure the paper with its record of the traveler’s checks was safe. He was feeling nervous, beginning to wonder if that young inmate, young Randy Sanderford, had given him the straight scoop about this scam.

The bank lobby was crowded, the lines long, and that was good. He picked a young, gentle-looking teller, and tailed onto the end of the line. The nameplate beside her window said Kay Miller. He fidgeted in line and tried to look worried, and as he stepped up for his turn he let his face twist into despair. Leaning into the window clutching the grill, he encouraged his voice to tremble. “Excuse me, ma’am—Miss Miller—I’m just worried sick and my missus is out in the car just crying her eyes out.”

The young woman’s clear green eyes searched his face, she leaned toward him over the counter, the gold heart on her necklace swinging. “What is it, sir? What’s wrong?”

“I’ve lost my traveler’s checks, every one of them, all the money we have. My wife said the money would be safer in traveler’s checks, we’re headed up to Oregon, I have a job there, and now—lost. Just—they’re gone. I don’t know where I could have dropped them . . .”

Lee clutched his bandana to wipe his eyes. He could feel the stares of people behind him. The teller started to reach out through the cage as though she would take his hand, then drew her hand back, but her face showed real concern. Maybe she had a forgetful father, Lee thought, some gentle, addled old duffer who too often stirred her pity. She said, “Do you have something to identify the lost checks, sir?”

“Not much, I’m afraid.” He pulled the little slip of recorded numbers, in their transaction folder, out of his shirt pocket. “Just this.”

Her gentle green eyes brightened when she saw the folder. She took it from him carefully, looking at the name of the issuing bank. “May I see your driver’s license, sir?”

He handed over the temporary license. “Just had it renewed.” He let his unsteady voice carry softly. “It’s my wife’s sister, she—we’re having to move up to Oregon to look after her, we don’t think she has very long, and with the money so short . . . I just don’t know how I could have lost them. They were so loose in the folder, one came out accidentally. My wife said they’d be safer in the glove compartment, and I thought I put them there. But then I couldn’t find them. I thought maybe I put them in my pocket when we stopped to get gas, but I paid for the gas with cash and . . .” He shook his head, clenching his hands together like a little old lady, trying to look shrunken and pitiful. “I could give you our address in Oregon, if there’s any way you could help us?”

Her eyes widened as she glanced at the line behind him, he knew everyone was listening, and she let her soft voice carry. “Mr. Dawson, we like to give our customers personal service. But, you see, our bank manager’s out today.”

Lee swallowed.

“But Miss Lester is here. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get her.” She smiled at the line of waiting customers, and left the window. When Lee turned to look, most of the faces behind him were soft with sympathy. Only two men were scowling, impatient to take care of their business. Lee glanced down shyly, ducking his head, smiling sheepishly; most of the folks smiled back, nodding encouragement. He could see, at a desk at the back of the bank, Miss Miller speaking with a dark-haired older woman. The woman looked up, studying Lee. As the two women talked, the tension behind Lee in the line was like electricity, sympathy and impatience mixed, and Lee’s own nerves were strung tight. He was shaking with anxiety for real; by the time the pretty young teller returned to the cage, he was so nervous he could feel a cough coming. He did his best to swallow it back, but the cough racked him so hard he doubled over. He swallowed back phlegm, at last got himself under control. As he straightened up, another fit of coughing almost took him when he saw the sheaf of traveler’s checks in the young teller’s hand.

“I can reissue the checks, Mr. Dawson,” she said, smiling. Lee heard a pleased murmur of voices behind him. As he let out a breath, shaken and weak, he felt the cat brush against his boot, pressing hard, as if to say, See, everything went just fine. Lee watched Miss Miller count out seven one-hundred-dollar traveler’s checks. She showed Lee where to sign them, recorded the numbers, and clamped them securely into a new folder for him. Lee started to cough again, trying to thank her.

“We’re glad we could help,” she said softly. “Please be careful with them, now. You and Mrs. Dawson have a safe trip up to Oregon, and I hope her sister’s better soon.”

Collecting the folder, he thanked her again, reached through the grid to pat her hand, and then turned away moving slowly, almost feebly out of the bank.

On the street again, pretending to hurry to rejoin his weeping wife, James Dawson picked up his speed and, once he’d rounded the corner, he was moving fast and grinning with smug success. Not a damn thing wrong with that scam.

It took him more than an hour to cash five of the traveler’s checks, walking long distances between stores, buying a few items in each, half a dozen pairs of shorts, a shirt, some work gloves and, in a hardware store a small trenching tool. He saved the last two checks for the pawnshop. And as he moved around the town, every now and then he could feel the cat pressing against his leg, could feel it now as he pushed in through the barred pawnshop door. Why was the cat so interested? Just plain nosiness? Or was the ghost cat bringing him luck? Helping him along, tweaking the sympathy of young Miss Miller and her superior, maybe even weaving a sense of honesty around Lee as he dealt with each clerk and shopkeeper. Could the ghost cat do that? More power to him, then, Lee thought as he pushed in among the crowded counters of the pawnshop.

There were no other customers. Every surface was stacked with binoculars, cameras, musical instruments, jewelry, guns and ammo, all of it familiar and comforting. A pawnshop was always his destination soon after parole or release, a pawnshop was a source of sustenance where he could gather together the supplies to feel whole again, the equipment he needed to feel capable again and master of his own fate. Even the square-faced shopkeeper behind the counter seemed comfortable and familiar, the way he peered up over his horn-rimmed glasses, the way his veined hands stayed very still on the newspaper he had been reading, waiting to see if Lee wanted to sell, or buy, or try to rob him, his hands poised where he could reach, in an instant, the loaded weapon he’d have ready just beneath the counter. The man gave Lee a shopkeeper’s all-purpose smile. “Help you?”

Lee eased down a row of showcases, looking through the glass tops. “Like to see what you have in the way of revolvers.”

“Something for protection?”

“You might say that. Some critter is getting my calves—got home from a trip up north, my wife was pretty upset. I’ve watched for two nights—I don’t know what’s after them but I mean to find out.”

The man slid open a glass door. “Here’s a nice little snub-nose I can let go at a reasonable price.”

Lee looked down at the cheap little handgun. “I don’t want a toy. I want a gun.” He moved on down the showcase. “There. Let me see that one.”

He accepted the heavy revolver, opened and spun the cylinder, and eased it closed. He saw how the bluing had worn off from riding in its holster. He looked down the length of the six-inch barrel, examined the scars on the wooden grips. A forty-five-caliber, double-action no-nonsense handgun designed on the lines of the Paterson Colt. Not so fine or rare a weapon, but it would do for what he wanted. “How much?”

“Hundred dollars. Hundred and thirty with the holster.”

“I’ll take both, and a box of ammunition.”

But when Lee pulled out the traveler’s checks, the man did a double take. He looked at Lee hard for a minute.

“These are the last two. Always carry them when I travel. Hope you don’t mind. Won’t be needing them now, for a while.”

At last, under Lee’s innocent gaze, the clerk cashed the checks. Lee bought a wide roll of gray tape that the shop used for packing; he paid for that, too, and, knowing the guy was wondering if he’d been taken, he mosied on out, paused to look again in the shop window, then walked casually away to the bus stop. Moving on around the corner out of sight, he leaned against the brick building letting his rapid heart slow, waiting for the next bus bound to the airport. The twenty-minute delay made him real nervous before the bus finally appeared, before he was safely aboard and away from the watchful owner of the pawnshop.

Getting off at the air terminal, double-timing across the long stretch of tarmac, he arrived back at the hangar just as the mechanic was pushing his wheeled tool chest away from the yellow biplane. Reaching into the plane, Lee stashed his packages under the makeshift seat, then stood watching Mark approach from the office, where he had gone to pay the bill. As they pushed the plane out away from the hangar, Lee couldn’t help wondering where the cat was now, but knowing that wherever he lingered at the moment was exactly where he wanted to be.

“You heading out next week,” Lee asked. “Headed for Vegas?”

Mark nodded. “Vegas, and then on to Wichita.”

“Don’t know if it would fit in with your plans,” Lee said, “but I’d sure like to see Vegas, play the tables for a day or two.”

Mark grinned. “You getting to like this flying?”

Lee nodded, grinning at him.

“Might arrange it, if you can get the time off.”

“I can get the time off. I’ll be in town next Thursday on some business, I can get a lift in. Don’t suppose you could pick me up there, on your way? I’d pay for your gas to Vegas. Fellow told me there was an emergency landing strip just outside of town, at the junction to Jamesfarm.”

Mark scratched his head. “I was going to leave Wednesday, but what the hell, for the price of gas, I’m flexible. Sure, hell yes, I’ll pick you up, say Thursday evening? Smoother ride over the mountains when the air’s cool. I know the strip, I had a leaky oil line coming back from Vegas one time. That strip saved me from burning up the engine. How will you get back from Vegas?”

“I’ll hop a bus. How about six-thirty or seven, Thursday night?”

“Make it eight-thirty, I’ll have some things to clear up, that night. Take us an hour and a half to Vegas. My girlfriend doesn’t get off until nine.” He grinned at Lee. “This thing burns thirty gallons an hour.”

Laughing, Lee crawled up into his seat. “I can make that much in an hour or two at the blackjack table.” He snapped on the goggles, buckled his seat belt, tucked the brown paper packages securely between his legs, patting the forty-five. Wherever the ghost cat was, he wondered if he was in for the ride to Vegas as well, if he’d be with him for the rest of this gig, for the bad time Lee expected to endure before he headed for the border, rich and living free.