Shirley Murphy - The Cat, The Devil, The Last Escape

Lee pushed his bankbook across the counter. “Like to draw out my savings, close my account.”

The clerk looked Lee over, then thumbed open the savings book. “It’s been almost a year since the last entry.”

“Something wrong with that?”

“No. Just that most folks have more activity in their accounts.”

“I’ve been traveling. Alaska. I’m in kind of a hurry, the wife’s waiting.”

The clerk started to say something more but changed his mind. “Excuse me for a moment.” When he left his window, disappearing into the back, Lee was ready to bolt, to get the hell out of there.

But his quick departure could blow it, if there was nothing wrong. He didn’t need a suspicious bank clerk nosing around. Waiting for the man to return, Lee began to fidget, glancing out the front window. When the clerk didn’t return, the patrons behind Lee pressed closer, annoyed at the delay. Beyond the big windows, a slowing movement caught Lee’s eye, and a police car slid into view, stopping at the curb. Lee forced himself to stay steady, but he was ready to move as one of the two officers got out.

When the officer headed away, down the street, Lee relaxed. The clerk was gone a long time. Some of the men behind Lee moved to another line. He watched the absent cop return carrying a paper bag and two paper cups sealed with paper lids. The cops were pulling away when the clerk did return.

“Sorry for the delay, Mr. Fontana. We’ve had a bookkeeping change, and what with the move and all . . . It took me a while to find your account and figure up the interest. The total is eight hundred and forty-two dollars. How would you like it?”

“Seven hundreds, the rest in small bills.” Lee waited, still strung tight, while the clerk counted out the money. Stuffing it in his pocket he headed for the street. From the far curb, Morgan crossed over to join him.

They moved along the side street to the refrigerator truck parked behind the bank beside the half-dozen other rigs. There were storage sheds and a small warehouse back there, and the rear doors to the post office and small businesses. The driver stood wiping his mouth from breakfast: a young, ruddy-faced fellow with a short beard neatly trimmed, and clear blue eyes. He nodded to Lee, looked Morgan over, nodded again, and they stepped up into the cab.

T HE RIDE INTOL.A. was quiet, the driver uncommunicative. He drove the long rig like he was on a close schedule and didn’t need any small talk. Morgan, sitting in the middle, looked white and tense, whether from their companion’s aggressive driving or from thinking about turning themselves in, Lee didn’t know. They hadn’t talked much about that part of the plan, about being back inside prison walls. Morgan hadn’t talked too much about facing Falon, but Lee knew he was scared.

Well, hell, they were both nervous. If you weren’t nervous, you weren’t on your toes. Traveling north, Morgan seemed diverted only by the desert. The flat, pale, treeless land fascinated the Georgia boy, who was used to miles of dense pine woods. The endless flat sand stretching away was foreign and strange. The sudden patches of crops laid on the sand as bright as green carpets were even more unnatural. The groves of tall palms flicking by, their precise rows fanning past at dizzying speed like cards shuffled too fast, all was new and exotic.

Lee dozed over Banning Pass and down into San Bernardino. The big diesel ate up the miles until, in east L.A., they parted from the driver at a wholesale warehouse. They found a bus stop and, jolted in their seats and breathing gas fumes, they arrived at last in downtown L.A. Fog softened the low commercial buildings, and it, too, smelled of gas or of some industrial residue. At the first phone booth they came to, Lee flipped through the yellow pages to the attorneys.

It was all instinct now. Jabbing his finger at a name he liked, he dropped a nickel in the slot. It might take a dozen calls or more before he found a lawyer who sounded right, but he had nothing else to go on.

The first five calls, he couldn’t get past cold, officious secretaries. He gave the same story each time: they needed a lawyer to save a man’s life, they could pay up front, and the details of the problem were confidential. On the sixth call the secretary, maybe taking pity on the older man’s stumbling voice, put him through to Reginald Storm.

Storm sounded calm and direct. Lee remained devious, as circumspect as he could be. He laid out only enough of Morgan’s story to stir Storm’s interest. Storm asked a number of questions, as if he might be filling in more blanks than Lee liked. He had to convince Storm to see them, had to hint at their escape without telling him much; he couldn’t let Storm blow the whistle on them. If the feds grabbed them before they turned themselves in at T.I., there was a chance they’d ship them straight back to Georgia. They talked for maybe twenty minutes, and Storm seemed to really listen. But when he said he’d make time right then, that they could come on up, his willingness put Lee off, left Lee nervous again.

Hanging up, he looked at Morgan. “I think he knows more than I told him, he makes me edgy.” He shook his head. “But even so, I like the sound of him. He seems direct and no-nonsense. What do you think, you want to take a chance or forget him, try someone else?”

Morgan thought for only a minute. “We’re taking a chance, no matter who we choose. Let’s go for it.”

Storm had given Lee directions. They walked the seven blocks at double time, Lee praying they weren’t walking into trouble, that they’d made the right decision.

Reginald Storm’s office was one flight up, in a plain redbrick building that looked clean and well kept. A narrow strip of lawn separated it from the street, bisected by a short walk of pale stone. The four name plaques mounted beside the glassed entry were those of Storm himself, a doctor, an accountant, and an estate attorney—all one might need when contemplating the end of life, except for spiritual attention.

“Come on,” Morgan said, heading for the stairs, “before I lose my nerve.”

33

C LIMBING THE INNERstairs, Lee and Morgan pushed through a second glass door into an office paneled in whitewashed oak. A blond secretary looked up from her desk, frowning at the hobo look of them. At the same moment, Storm appeared through an inner door waving them on past her to his office.

Storm was shorter than Lee, a solid man who looked to be more muscle than fat. Square face, creases at the corners of his gray eyes, the top of his head as bald as a mirror above a thick fringe of brown hair. His gray suit coat was off, hung neatly over the back of his desk chair, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his sinewy arms tanned, his pale blue tie loosened crookedly.

This room, too, was paneled in white-stained oak, with shelves of law books along one wall behind the plain oak desk. Two walls were hung with black-and-white photographs of rugged mountains, snow-covered peaks, and close-ups of rocky escarpments. A U.S. flag and a California State flag stood together in one corner. The windows of the fourth wall were open to the yellow-tinged fog. Storm nodded toward four easy chairs grouped around a conference table, and took a chair himself rather than retreat behind his desk. He sat quietly waiting, looking them over, taking stock of them.

Lee had not given his name on the phone; he’d said that Storm would understand why when they met. Now as he introduced themselves, the lawyer’s eyes hardened with recognition.

“Our names were in the L.A. papers?” Lee asked.

“They were. You haven’t seen the papers?”

“We’ve been traveling,” Lee said.