Shirley Murphy - The Cat, the Devil, and Lee Fontana

It would take time to work it out, to put every detail in place. But, thinking about the plan as he moved through the mess hall to the pay table, his certainty, his self-satisfaction, was a dark itch within him.

Taking his turn at the table, where Jake and Delgado were dealing out the week’s cash, he collected his three days’ wages, pocketed the meager change and left the mess hall. He could see the cooks working back in the kitchen, could see that supper wouldn’t be set out on the long serving counter until the payroll had all been dealt with. Winding out between the lines of crowding men, he returned to his cabin smiling, liking his plan. He sat on the steps feeling bold and right, watching through the screens the crowd at the long table until a sudden sneeze behind him made him swing up off the steps turning, his fists clenched.

13

But it was only the cat sitting on the rail big as life, lashing its tail, its ears back, glaring at Lee, a gleam in its eye that didn’t bode for good. The big tom’s yellow gaze burned into Lee as if seeing every detail of the plan Lee had embraced. When Lee looked deep, he imagined he saw in Misto’s eyes every image of the robbery that he had envisioned, and none of that knowledge was the cat’s business.

“Make no mistake,” Misto said, “if you follow the passions that were fed to you tonight, you’re lost for eternity, your soul will crumble to dust, there will be nothing left of you to move on and to know the joy of what yet awaits.” The cat sneezed again. “He tells you lies you’re too smart to believe. You’re too smart, Lee, to suck up to the wraith’s passions, when you know they will destroy you.”

“Go to hell,” Lee said. The cat was too nosy, too opinionated, too bossy. Turning his back, he sat down again on the step.

“You know, of course,” Misto said softly, “that young picker’s been watching you, that young Latino man standing in the shadows between the sheds, that young Tony Valdez, watching you with great interest, as you watched Jake and Delgado.”

Lee lifted his eyes to scan the yard, watched Tony move away deeper between the cabins and disappear among the sheds.

“Valdez has a quick mind,” the cat said, “he wonders what you found so interesting. The boy is full of questions.”

Lee thought reluctantly that in the future maybe he ought to listen to the cat, after all, ought to swallow back his defiance and pay attention. And as Valdez disappeared into the night, Lee decided he’d better pay more attention, too, to who was observing him. Had better play it closer to the chest before Valdez had that whole crew of young hotheads nosing into his business.

“Maybe,” the cat said, “you should take a better look at where those dark plans are coming from, before they take you down, Lee Fontana.” The cat’s challenge pulled Lee in one direction, while his thieving desire drew him in the other. Seated on the cabin steps, he watched Jake and Ramon Delgado leave the mess hall, striding away toward the ranch house. On the porch, they paused. Delgado moved on inside but Jake turned back, heading across the dry yard toward Lee’s cabin. Jake paused at the bottom step, his boots coated with pale sand, the band of his tan Stetson dark with sweat. “Come on, Lee, join us for dinner. Just a quick bite before Ramon and I start on the books, he’d like to meet you.”

“Why? I can’t be the first parolee he’s hired.”

Jake looked surprised. “You’re my friend, he said he’d like to meet you.”

“Sorry,” Lee said, rising. “Just tired. I’ll stop by in a few minutes, let me scrape off some of the dust.”

Jake looked him over, nodded, and turned away.

Lee didn’t want to meet Delgado. Besides a prickly conscience, he’d had a long, hard day, his legs ached, sand and dust made his eyes sting, couldn’t Jake see he was beat? Jake took a couple of steps up, reaching to stroke the yellow cat. “Don’t know where this one came from. Dozen cats around the place, new one shows up now and then, keep rats out of the seed and food stores. Most of them are half wild. This one’s friendly enough, he makes right up to a person.”

“Never been much for cats,” Lee said noncommittally, wondering what that was about. He was right, the damned ghost cat was too nosy. He moved on into the cabin, glancing back as Jake crossed the yard and disappeared inside the house. He could see through the lighted windows beyond Lucita’s lace curtains where Delgado sat at the dining table, the lamp lit and a thick ledger before him as if he had already started on the payroll and expenses. On the wall behind him where the lamplight shone, a painting of white roses made Lee think sharply of Lucita.

While he was cleaning up he thought about her, about being in her house surrounded by her little touches, her books, her flowers, her scent. He showered, put on a clean shirt, guessed he’d better wash the other one in the sink tonight. Feeling strangely nervous, he went on over.

The house was just as much Jake’s house as Lucita’s, Navajo rugs, leather chairs, agricultural and cowman’s magazines, but with Lucita’s touches everywhere, brightly jacketed books, potted violets, the lace curtains, the dining room furnished with an intricately carved Spanish table long enough to accommodate a dozen chairs, creamy walls, and above the dark, carved buffet the white roses as showy as Lucita herself. She loved roses, though he hadn’t seen any out in that pitiful, dry yard where roses were never meant to grow. The painting made Lee uncomfortably aware of her, the petals as soft as her cheek, as creamy as the pale silks she liked to wear, Lucita in tight Levi’s, a creamy satin shirt, fancy boots, her black hair sleek and shining, her dark eyes laughing.

Jake had folded back the lace table runner, out of the way, one end covered with a heavy mat, with bowls of beans, rice, and good Texas chili that a Mexican woman brought in from the kitchen. Lee took the empty place Jake indicated, accepted the cold beer Jake passed to him. As they dished their plates liberally, Delgado looked across at Lee.

“McNeil wasn’t real hard time?” he asked casually. “More freedom than, say, Leavenworth or Atlanta?” The big man leaned back in his chair, sipping his beer from the bottle.

Lee nodded, taking in Delgado’s bold, square features. Ramon Delgado might be a hard worker, but he was a man who lived well, treated himself well. What did he know about McNeil? What did he know about solitary, if you came in with a bad attitude, how you were stripped naked and locked into a pitch-black cell, five feet by five, cold as hell, no toilet, no sink, no bed to lie on, and what sleep you got was on the cold, damp concrete. They gave you one thin blanket, took that away in the morning, brought you a dinky little bowl of gruel, and you had to pick the cockroaches out of that. Lee had been in there only once. After that five-day stretch he was real careful, he stayed out of trouble, didn’t make a move or say a word to draw the attention of the guards or, as much as possible, of the other inmates. If he had a beef with someone, he took care of it in a way that couldn’t be traced back to him. After that stretch in solitary, he’d been a model inmate despite the hazing that was laid on him, and pretty soon he got what he wanted. “I worked the farm,” he said shortly. “That part was easy time.”

Though he hadn’t lived in the farm complex like most of those who worked there, he’d gone back to the cell block at night. Even with Lee’s attention to good behavior, he guessed he’d still made the warden nervous. But Delgado didn’t need to know the whole story, the fancy bastard. What did he know about prison, anyway? Delgado’s interest made Lee’s temper flare but he did his best to swallow back his anger.