Shirley Murphy: Cat Pay the Devil

He’d boarded in Panama City at seven A.M. and now, approaching the Bay Area and nearly suppertime, his whiskers itched and his rough gray hair tickled under his collar. The flight from Central America seemed longer every time he took it, though he didn’t return to the States often. He’d gone to work for the Panama Canal Company when he was twenty, and then later for the Panamanian government, a forty-year hitch all together. Now, at last, with a little fast footwork, he was getting together the kind of retirement money that would let him laugh at the rest of the world.

Well, he sure as hell wasn’t retiring stateside. A visit to California every few years was plenty. Better living in the tropics, better weather, better people. Hell of a lot more opportunities. Too bad a man had to come up to the States to sell his take-if he wanted to sell it safe, not get a knife in his ribs.

They’d taken off from Miami in early afternoon, the sun over the left wing blazing in his eyes as they banked to head west. Full of a good meal in an airport café, he’d leaned back in his seat, in a better mood, going over his moves. Planned to pick up a rental at San Francisco Airport, better known as SFO. Get the montly rate, and he could use a car that long. Check into some airport motel, hit the road early tomorrow morning-first, the short drive down the coast to Molena Point. Couple of hours, get in and out of the village nice and easy, not run into his sister. He sure didn’t want to see Mavity now, she asked too many questions. She always had been too damned judgmental. Then head south for L.A., on 101. Long trip down and back, but that couldn’t be helped if he wanted cash in his jeans-wanted cash in the bank, in big numbers. He didn’t look forward to those megalane city freeways in southern California, he was too used to the slow, crowded streets of Panama and the narrow jungle roads.

When he’d gotten back to San Francisco and took care of business, he’d make one more quick trip to Molena Point without Mavity’s knowing. Later on, though, he planned to spend some time in the village, and camp out at his sister’s.

He’d waited a long time to make this sale and he wished the price was higher now. But the time was right, and his contact to the fence was available now-or would be when he got to L.A. Strange, Cage Jones in and out of prison all those years and leaving his half of the stash hidden like he did.

Well, Greeley thought, he had salted his own share away, too, while he was out of the country. But in a safer place. Sometimes, you had to trust a bank.

But Cage never did. Well, everyone to his own. Question was, where had Cage hidden it?

Greeley smiled. He’d find out; might take some time, but he had time.

Right now, the hard part was done. They’d both got their share into the country. Now, once he picked up Cage from prison, selling his own share would be a piece of cake.

Somewhere along the way he’d buy a car, maybe one of them old-fashioned-looking PT Cruisers; that old thirties era look suited his sense of humor. He wasn’t never no high roller to be buying some fancy convertible, he wasn’t out to impress no one, and he liked doing things his own way.

Looking ahead, he could see the lights of the Bay Area now blazing out of the dark. Hell of a lot more lights spread out than you saw over Panama City. Propping his feet on his wrinkled leather duffle, Greeley settled into the feel of the big 757 cutting speed and dropping altitude. Soon felt the little bump as she let down her landing gear. Pilot’s tinny voice over the loudspeaker said the city was sixty-five degrees and foggy, and that made him shiver. He wished this coast had warmer summers; here it was May and he doubted it would get much warmer except maybe a few scattered days in July. Pulling his coat around him, he settled deeper into his seat as the plane hauled back and touched down; deafened by the roar of the plane on the runway, then waiting to deplane, he went over his schedule again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

The minute the door opened, everyone stood up and crowded into the aisle. Greeley stood, too, but didn’t move out, picked up his leather duffle and set it on the seat beside him, watched them crowd out like a flock of brainless chickens.

The next days went smooth as glass; he’d missed nothing in his planning. When it was over and he had the cash, he headed down the coast in the rental car, for Molena Point; but again he didn’t call his sister. He closed out his now empty safe-deposit box, and in three other village banks he opened modest checking accounts and new SD boxes, each in a new and different name for which he had obtained new IDs in the city. He filled the boxes with sealed envelopes containing bound packages of hundreds. Then he took himself back to the city for a little vacation. Nice but modest hotel room where he watched stateside TV, read the papers, enjoyed room service. Didn’t do no shopping, fancy clothes meant nothing. He’d buy a car later, in Molena Point, after he’d made his presence known to Mavity.

She wouldn’t be happy to see him. She lived with three other women now. Strange thing to do, putting her bit of money from the condemnation sale of her marsh-side house into a fourth share of a house big enough for the four old women. The chicken feed she called her savings. Said she wanted to keep her independence, not go into a home. Well, he could understand that-but likely she’d gotten scammed somehow in that house deal and just didn’t know it yet.

It was nearly a month later, in mid-July, that Greeley was ready to return to Molena Point and move in with his sister. He booked the short flight from SFO on a one-way ticket. He didn’t call Mavity; she’d figure out some reason he couldn’t stay there with her. He’d take a cab from the airport, give her a nice surprise.

At least the weather had turned hot; even on the coast it was up in the high nineties, hot as hell itself, just the way he liked it. On the short flight, and again as he swung into the cab outside the little peninsula airport, he thought about them two village cats. Them talking cats-he’d had his share of those snitches. Hoped they kept their distance, this time.

He sure didn’t want them hanging around him, nosing into his business. Them cats saw too much. They got into too many places, always snooping, damn near as nosy as his sister. And talk about judgmental. Them Molena Point cats…Not judgmental like the black tom who used to run with him, who’d used to break into stores with him. Azrael’d been opinionated, all right, and he sure as hell said his piece. But that black tom, he wasn’t never hot for law and order.

That Joe Grey and his tabby friend, those two thought they were God’s gift to law enforcement.

Somewhere he’d heard, maybe from his ex-wife, there was a third cat hanging around with them. Another snoop, you could bet. Well, he didn’t want no truck with cats, no more than he did with cops. Just wanted to be left to his own affairs, thank you.

N ow, as Joe Grey and Dulcie stood on the scorching rooftops looking up toward the old ruins, Dulcie frowning and wondering, up there among the fallen stone walls, they could see no creature. If they’d been nearer, an occasional small shadow might have been glimpsed flitting through the tall dry grass and brown weeds. But among the ancient oaks, no deer grazed; the deer had left in search of water. Only the wild little cats slipping stealthily among the rubble, only they knew where to find water, deep in hidden cellars and chambers beneath the fallen walls of the crumbling old estate: ten sentient cats prowling through the ruined mansion, wandering through its moldering interiors that now stood open, like ancient stage sets, the faded wall-paper curling down in long, dirty strips.