Cat Bearing Gifts (2 page)

2

V
ICTOR
A
MSON'S OLD
gray pickup raced too fast down the steep two-lane, its bare tires squealing around the curves, its headlights glancing off the stony cliff, following the taillights of a big produce truck, drawing close on its tail. The truck driver swerved onto a turnout at the sheer edge of the drop, impatient for him to go on past. As Vic swung into the oncoming lane, he could see the round-faced driver giving him the finger. Prickly bastard. Moving on around him, Vic smiled, grateful that nothing was coming up the hill; though the narrow, winding road didn't bother him. Beside him, his passenger was hunched way over to the center, his eyes squeezed shut with fear. Didn't take much to scare Birely.

Once Vic was free of the truck he sailed right on down the mountain, driving one-handed, his tall, wiry frame jammed in behind the wheel, his lined face catching light from the dash in a cobweb of wrinkles, a thin face, narrow nose, his pale brown eyes too close together. Worn jeans and ragged windbreaker, rough, callused hands. Long brown hair streaked with gray, hanging down, caught on the back of the seat, loosely tied with a leather band. He drove scowling, thinking about those three cops in their patrol cars watching him when he came out of that fence's place.

The damn fuzz might not have been on his case at all but they sure as hell made him cranky, their marked units parked there in front of the Laundromat that the fence used as a front. That had made Birely fidget, too. Birely'd wanted to ditch the truck to get the cops off their trail, steal another car on some backstreet and then hit the freeway, he said they both should have had haircuts, that shaggy hair always set a cop off. Suspicious bastards, he said, and he was right about that.

Having passed the truck, Vic was coming down on a big sedan, shiny black in the wash of his headlights, maybe a small limo, its red taillights winking on and off as it negotiated the winding road, its headlights sweeping along the ragged cliff. When his lights hit it right, he could see a lone couple in the front seat, and what looked like a small dog perched up in the back. On past it, farther down the steep grade, occasional taillights winked, gearing down the steep curves, maybe trucks hauling their loads to one of the small coastal towns that stood like warts down there along the marshy shore. The truck behind gained on him again. Birely went rigid as a fencepost, glancing back, trying not to look down over the steep drop, his faded brown eyes turned away, his bony hands nervously clutching at his worn-out leather jacket that he'd probably picked up at some rescue mission. They had, until they hit the mountain road, been passing the bottle of Old Crow back and forth, but now, when Vic offered the bottle, Birely shook his head, glancing sideways toward the hundred-foot drop and scooting over even tighter against the middle console, his fists tight whenever their old tires let out a squeal. Made Vic wonder why the hell he'd linked up with Birely again after all these years, the guy was a total wuss, always had been. Scared of his own shadow, clumsy, always out of sync with what was going on around him, a real screwup.

Years back, when they were younger and ran together some, any time Vic had something profitable going, Birely managed to screw it up. Every damn time. Make a mess of it, blow the plan, and they'd end up with nothing for their trouble but maybe a night or two in the slammer.

He'd finally dumped Birely, didn't see him for years. Until three months ago, he'd run into him again. That was just after he'd confiscated this current pickup truck from a ranch yard north of Salinas, slapped on different license plates courtesy of a roadside junkyard, bolted on an old rusted camper shell he found dumped back in the woods. As he headed over to the coast, it had started to rain when he ran into Birely outside a 7-Eleven when he stopped for beer. Birely sat huddled on a bench out in front, under the roof that sheltered the gas pumps, sat eating one of them dried-up package sandwiches, and you'd think they were long-lost brothers, the way Birely went on. Bastard was broke, and happy as hell to see him.

Birely said he was headed over to the coast because his sister had died, how he'd read it in the paper. He still had the clipping in his pants pocket, all wrinkled up. Going on about the house she'd left to some stranger instead of to him, when he was her only family, how it ought to be rightfully his. How he meant to confront this woman who'd supposedly inherited Sammie's worldly goods, and how Sammie'd had a stash of money hidden away somewhere, too, way more than just a few hundred bucks, and he wanted to know what had happened to that. Listening to Birely's tale, Vic decided he was glad to see the poor guy after all, decided he'd give his old friend a lift and maybe help him out some. He knew that area pretty well, Molena Point and back up the valley, he'd used to grow a little weed back up in the hills there, break into a few cars now and then, never anything big time, and never did get caught.

Birely'd told him Sammie'd been shot to death, if you could believe it, her body buried right there under her own house. That hurt Birely, but mostly it was the loss of an inheritance, the loss of Sammie's love and confidence, that she'd leave everything to a stranger, that made him mad at the whole damn world. He didn't seem so much mad at the killer as he was mad at Sammie for getting herself killed and for leaving him nothing.

Birely needn't fret that the cops wouldn't find Sammie's killer, they'd already done that, the guy was doing time right now up at Quentin, some local Realtor there in Molena Point killed her, and that was a long story, too.

Well, the house she'd lived in wasn't much, but more than Birely'd ever had or wanted, until now. Sammie's death seemed to change him—he was Sammie's only family, but look how she'd gone and done him, she'd even made a regular will, leaving the big lot with its two small houses to, “Some woman friend of hers,” Birely'd whined. “I'm her own kin. Why would she do me like that, leave it all to this Emmylou Warren? I met that woman once or twice when I came that way up the coast, stopped to see Sammie, just some dried-up old woman, nothing special about her. Who could be so special, over Sammie's own brother?”

“Maybe Sammie thought you wouldn't want a house,” Vic had said, “being a hobo and all. You always said you couldn't stand to live under a roof, to be fenced in, you always said that.”

“Maybe. But there's more than the house, there's the damn money, I never said I wouldn't want the money, I just never thought about her dying. Well, the newspaper didn't say nothing about no money, just a will leaving the property. Maybe,” he said, frowning, “maybe this Emmylou Warren don't know about that.”

“Where'd your sister get money?” Vic had said, watching Birely as alertly as a rattler onto a mouse.

“Old uncle left Sammie a wad. Even after all these years, she still had half of it, she told me that's what she lived on. Except for those times she worked at some job, housecleaning, bagging groceries. She was real tight with money. Told me she still had over half of it hidden away different places, right there in the damned house. Old bills left over from the middle of the last century. She never did like banks. Our old uncle, he stole it but she never would tell me much about that. Well, hell, she was just a girl when the old guy sent it to her, mailed it to her in a box, for Christ's sake, from somewhere in Mexico.”

It was such a wild story Vic wondered if Birely'd made it all up, a pie-in-the-sky daydream because he wanted there to be money and maybe because he wanted a reason to be mad at Sammie. That would be like him, mixed up sometimes between what was real and what he thought was real. But hell, whatever was in the poor guy's head, what could it hurt to take pity on him and go have a look.

They'd come on over to the coast, got to Sammie's place, got a glimpse of the old woman who'd inherited the property, living right there in Sammie's house. They'd watched her for a few days, while they lived in the truck, hidden back up in the woods or moving the old pickup around the winding village streets from one small neighborhood to another, sleeping at night in the rusty camper shell and, in the daytime, approaching the old woman's house on foot. They'd watched her for over a week, doing some kind of carpentry on the house during the day but she went to bed early, the lights would go out at eight or nine, and they never once saw her go up the hill through the woods, to the old stone cabin on the back of the property; she seemed to have no interest in the old abandoned two-story farm building that was on Sammie's land, shed underneath, one-room stone shack on top. Birely said Sammie hadn't had much use for it, either, just left it there overgrown with bushes. Said the land was plenty valuable, if she ever needed more money she could sell it but she never had.

Late one night they'd moved into the stone shack when Emmylou was sound asleep, house all dark, and they didn't make a sound, didn't use a flashlight. Vic had picked the old lock, and had jimmied the padlock on the shed, too, hid the truck in there, fixed the lock back so it looked untouched, still hanging rusty against the peeling paint of the old, swinging shed door.

The single stone room had maybe been workers' quarters back in the last century, when there were mostly little scraggy farms up here. At some time, rough planks had been fitted up against the bare stone walls, nailed onto two-by-fours, most likely for warmth. Stained toilet and old metal sink in one corner. Stone floor, cold as hell under their sleeping bags.

It was some days before Birely, lying in his sleeping bag staring at the plank walls, said, “Money could be up here, where no one'd think to look. Maybe Sammie didn't leave Emmylou
all
of it, maybe she left some for me to find, in case I wanted to come looking. Sure as hell she didn't put it in any bank, she got that from Uncle Lee, he
robbed
banks. He told her, never trust your money to a banker. As little as she was, maybe nine or ten when he left for Mexico, I guess she listened.” Birely shrugged. “Sammie lived all her life that way, hiding what she earned and hiding what Uncle Lee sent her. Lived alone all her life, stayed to herself just like the old man did, never got cozy with strangers—until this Emmylou person.”

There were no cupboards in the stone shed to search, no attic, no place to hide anything except maybe in those double walls. They'd started prying off one slab of wood and then another, putting each back as they worked. Used an old hammer they'd found in the truck, had muffled the sound with rags when they pulled the nails and tapped them back in real quiet, moving on to the next board, and the next. Underneath the boards, some of the stones were loose, too, the mortar crumbling around them—and sure as hell, the fifth stone they'd lifted out, behind it was a package wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Unwrapped it, and there it was: a sour-smelling packet of mildewed hundred-dollar bills. Birely'd let out a whoop that made Vic grab him and slap a hand over his mouth.

“Christ, Birely! You want that old woman up here with her flashlight, you want her calling the cops?” But nothing had happened, when they looked out the dirty little window no lights had come on down at the house below.

“Hell, Vic, there's a fortune here,” Birely said, counting out the old, sour-smelling hundred-dollar bills.

Took them several days to examine all the walls. They'd found ten more packets, and made sure they didn't miss any. They came away with nearly nine thousand dollars. But even then, Birely said that originally there'd been maybe two hundred thousand in stolen bills, and he'd looked down meaningfully toward the larger house.

Over the next weeks, whenever they saw the old woman get in her old green Chevy and head off into the village, they'd go down through the woods and search the house, and that tickled Birely, that he still had his key to the place, that Sammie'd given him years back, in case he ever needed a place to hide out from the law or from his traveling buddies.

While they searched her three rooms they took turns watching the weedy driveway so the old woman wouldn't come home and surprise them. Emmylou Warren was her name. Tall, skinny. Sun-browned face and arms wrinkled as an old boot. Long brown hair streaked with gray. She had a couple of cats, maybe more, there were always cats around her overgrown yard and going in and out of the house.

They'd see her drive in, watch her unload lumber that was tied on top the Chevy, all the while, cats rubbing against her ankles. Birely said, “You think that's Sammie's money she's spending for all them building materials? Or,” he said, his face creasing in a knowing smile, “or did Sammie only
tell
her about the money, tell her it was hid, and she's looking for it?

“Sammie would do that,” he said. “Not put anything in writing to keep from paying inheritance. Sammie didn't like the gover'ment any better than she liked banks.

“That's
why she's tearing up the walls,” Birely said, scowling at the nerve of the woman. “Tearing them up just like we're doing, and it's rightfully my money.”