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

“I thought,” Lee said, “you were going to drive that booger straight into the ground.”

The young man smiled. “I guess you’re not a pilot. These babies are handy as hell, you can outfly a hawk in one of these.” He looked Lee over. “You look like a horseman. You ever been up higher than a bronc’s back?”

“Never have, never intend to.” In prison he’d watched pilots buzz the walls once in a while, that always brought men out into the yard, staring up, wishing they could grab on, catch a lift out of there. Some guys claimed that in the future huge planes would fly all over the country, more and bigger even than the planes that had helped win the war, planes that would carry hundreds of passengers clear around the world. Already there were a few such flights, out of San Francisco and L.A. But this little yellow plane seemed a different breed, so small and handy it was free to land anywhere, in a pasture, an open field, the pilot could come and go as he pleased.

“It’s a war surplus trainer, a Stearman,” the young man said. “I’m Mark Triple.”

Lee put out his hand. “Lee Fontana. I work for Delgado.”

Triple nodded. “Come take a look.”

Lee moved around to study the big radial engine, then stared into the open cockpit at the worn canvas seat cushion, the black instrument panel with its cluster of dials that looked only confusing to him. He couldn’t imagine leaving the earth in this little machine, a man would have to be crazy. Yet the idea, the freedom such a plane offered, deeply excited him.

“I put a bigger engine on it,” Triple said. “Four hundred and fifty horse. Carries a good load, but I’m going to get a new plane that will carry more dust, handle more fields without reloading. There’s a growing demand for crop dusting.”

Jake had talked about how much this method of distributing insecticides saved in produce, about the higher yield to the fields when the crops weren’t ruined by insects. It looked like a good business, all right. It would have to be, if this young a man, who couldn’t have been in business long, was already buying a new and bigger plane. How much, Lee wondered, would that set him back? Compared to a car or truck, a plane had to cost a fortune. He smiled at the kid, encouraging him. “Looks like you’re doing all right.”

Triple laughed. “Just getting started. Going back to Wichita in a few weeks, there’s an aircraft plant there, and there’s a guy back there wants to buy the Stearman.”

Lee studied the pilot. “Which way will you go to Wichita?”

“Up through Vegas, to say good-bye to a girl there. Then on direct to Kansas.”

“Saying good-bye’s kind of final.”

“I’m going on to Florida, hook up with a friend. Tired of working for others, we plan to start up our own dusting business.”

“You won’t be coming back to California?” Lee asked with interest. “How long would a trip like that take?”

“Here to Vegas, a little over an hour. Vegas to Wichita, given good weather, maybe nine or ten hours.”

“Nice,” Lee said. “Time was, it took folks months to make that journey. I guess, the way you work, on your own and all, you don’t keep time schedules like an airline would, you’re not beholden to anyone?”

Triple smiled, studying him. “I don’t keep any schedules, and I work my own hours. As long as I do the work, my time’s pretty much my own. I have my own hangar, I work when and where I’m needed. I check in with the home office once a week and send them a bill, and that’s about it.”

Lee nodded. “Your hangar . . . You keep your plane nearby?”

“The abandoned military airfield—that flat stretch west of town up on the butte. I contract to Valley Dusters out of San Bernardino. I’m pretty free now, I guess, but I want my own operation, I want to do things my way.” He glanced up at the two men, who had finished the loading. “Have to get moving,” he said, swinging up into the cockpit. “Nice meeting you, Fontana.”

“Will you be back this way?”

“Next week,” Mark shouted, revving the engine. “Dust again next week.”

Lee wanted to ask him more but Triple was on his way, the engine roaring. Lee stepped back beside his truck, watched the yellow plane taxi, gaining speed, watched it lift at the far end of the field like a great bird leaping up, even with the weight it carried. He watched it bank sharply, heading back low, dropping its nose along the far side of the levee, where acres of young bean plants stretched away.

With its wheels just above the green rows it spat a white cloud of dust that settled quickly down on the long lines of bright leaves. At the other end of the field, Triple flew under a power line then climbed and turned, came back under the same line to make another pass. Lee stood with his hand over his nose and mouth, choking on the insecticide—but deep in thought, thinking where that plane could go without any record of takeoff time or destination. Soon he was coughing hard, but the idea that gripped him was more urgent than his sick lungs—a crazy idea, but he thought it might work, and a hot excitement surged through him. Mark Triple and his yellow plane could be, Lee thought, his one sure ticket to freedom.

All the way back to the sheds, driving the straining truck with its load of melons and pickers, and all the rest of that day driving back and forth he thought about Mark Triple, about the airplane that could put him over the mountains clear to Vegas in an hour or so, a four-hour trip or better by car. Looking off toward the hills, where the plane could so quickly vanish, he started counting the days until Triple would return, until he could bring Mark Triple innocently into the scheme he was building. He needed to get into Blythe, he needed to look the town over with more care, and to study the surrounding area. It had been many years since he’d spent any time there, things change, new and different businesses opening up. Now, with the anticipation of a perfect getaway, he found his excitement growing; this heist would not involve Jake Ellson, and that made him feel lighter, easier in spirit. Even his lust for Lucita settled into a dull ache as his common sense kicked in and his thoughts rallied to a more sensible robbery.

In the next days there were fewer times when he couldn’t get his mind off Lucita, fewer nights when his dreams were filled with her, when he tossed and fought his pillow—or when the dark presence returned to wake and hassle him and urge him in his lust. If he did lie wakeful, he would instead sort through various schemes, ever impatient to get into town and take a look, get the lay of the place and pick out a new mark, now that he had an inspired and, he hoped, reliable getaway. And then, on the nights when the dark presence came stronger, pushing him to pursue Lucita more forcefully and to follow the more certain path to the Delgado payroll, the ghost cat would crowd close to Lee. Then, Misto seemed almost to become one with Lee, fighting the dark force, hissing and snarling and even seeming to grow in stature as he sought to ward off the evil that would crush Lee. The power of the cat beside Lee strengthened him so much that some nights he would scoff and laugh at Satan; and as the dark and angry spirit drew back, Lee would stroke the cat’s rough coat, and smile at Misto’s rumbling challenge.

But Lee feared, and perhaps rightly so, that there would be times ahead when his own strength wouldn’t hold, when, alone perhaps, he would be overwhelmed, when he must watch Satan take the lead and, try as he might, Lee would be unable to best him, when it would be too easy to let the dark wraith bully and intimidate him into following the devil’s plan.

18

When Morgan Blake was mustered out of the navy, the minute he got home he had floated a loan to make the down payment on the old Wilson gas station. Working from early dawn through the evenings, it didn’t take him long to convert the building into a spacious automotive shop. He kept one gas pump, removed the other three, turned the remainder of the open, roofed area into parking for his repair customers. The shop itself was a white frame building with two bays and two hydraulic lifts. There was an office attached, a storeroom behind that, and a small bathroom. The little office, with its plate-glass window looking out under the overhang held an old metal desk, three wooden chairs, and a small wooden table cluttered with automotive catalogs. Both the shop and the office smelled comfortably of grease, metal, and the sharp scent left by the arc-welding equipment.