Oh God, Scott thought frantically. Oh God. He tried to say something, found himself stammering, got control by twisting his shock to fit her expectations. He was stunned, he said. It was incredible. It was great. He never expected it. She beamed.
He had to get out of there. She had served up the bodies on the kitchen table like a favorite dessert. Calm, calm, he told himself. You’ve got the money. Get it, get out, get out of town.
The doorbell rang. He jumped up, knocking over his glass. She laughed again, put her hands on his shoulders, sat him down. She took the pictures with her. He could hear her talking to someone, male, deep-voiced, but he couldn’t make out the words, wasn’t sure he’d understand them if he could. Wine ran to the edge of the table, hung there, building, building, then broke and ran, dripping into his lap. She came back into the kitchen and picked up the green leaf bag. Scott leaned forward, reaching, trying to say something, but she cut him off.
“It bought our freedom,” she said. “And it cost us only half of what they wanted.” And she was gone, with the money. His money and Connie’s. And Bennie’s.
He was numb.
But he could still leave.
Connie already had the tickets. That, and the money in her purse, was all they had. They’d had less. It would be hard in Miami, at first, anyway. But when his face healed they could work another scam. Or they could get into something safe, like drug running.
He heard Lucinda say thank you and goodbye, heard the door close. He took a deep breath and tried to gain some kind of control, to appear normal, whatever that was, so that he could leave, so that he could meet Connie, so that he could get the hell out.
Lucinda sat across from him, smiling. “It’s almost over, darling.” She shuddered. “They’re a little scary,” she said. “They said they’d call us later.”
“Call us later?” he said.
“About the girl. They’re going to take care of her, too. Then we really will be free, darling, once she’s gone.”
Scott was thinking about Bennie’s money, about Bennie. He and Connie were through in this town. With Bennie, they might even have to watch their backs in Miami. He realized that Lucinda was talking to him. What was she saying? “Once who’s gone?” he said. “Take care of who?” But part of him already knew.
She reached across the table and took his hand. “There was a girl,” she said. “At the bar. A lookout. One of the blackmailers. She warned them that the police were coming.”
Scott stood up, his ears roaring, room tilting. Lucinda took a sip of wine. Scott turned toward where he thought the door was.
“Maybe you saw her?” Lucinda said.
“Saw her?” he repeated.
“The girl. The one who warned them. Maybe you saw her. They say she was already there when you came in. Sitting at a table just inside the door. Blonde? Pretty? Young?”
He shook his head slowly. He wanted to leave, just to find the door and go through it. But Bennie was out there. He turned and looked at Lucinda. “You didn’t tell your husband.”
She stared at him. “If I told him, he’d make me watch you die before he killed me.”
Scott didn’t know whether to believe her or not. His legs felt wet. He looked down. There was wine all over his pants. He didn’t know what to do.
She wiped up the spilled wine at his place, righted his glass, filled it. “Sit down, darling,” she said.
He sat. He stared down at his empty hands.
“I hope,” she said, a smile flicking across her face, “I hope that I always love you as much as I do right now.” She reached out and stroked his cheek.
It took all of his willpower not to flinch away.
The Black Cat
by Lee Somerville
She was an old cat, coal black, lean and ugly. Her right ear had been chewed and her old hide showed scars, but she had a regal look when she sat under the rosebushes in the plaza and surveyed us with yellow-green eyes.
If the witch cat had a name, we never knew it. Miss Tessie fed it, as she fed other strays. She even let the old cat sleep in her store in rainy weather. But mostly the cat slept under the rosebushes in our plaza in Caton City, Texas. We have a pretty little plaza, or square, here in the center of town. It has a fountain and a statue of a tired Confederate solder facing north, ready to defend us from Northern invaders, and a bit of grass and lots of rosebushes.
Nobody dared to pet the old cat. People gave the cat scraps of bread and meat from hamburgers and hot dogs. She accepted this placidly, as a queen accepts homage from peons. Now and then a stray dog came through our small dusty town, saw the cat, and made a lunge at it. The cat would retreat to the base of the fountain, turn, lash with a razor-sharp claw that sliced the poor dog’s nose. The dog would run howling while townspeople laughed. Our dogs, having learned the hard way, left that cat alone.
When I was fourteen, my mother’s jailbird distant relative, Cousin Rush, came to live with us. My little brother Pete and I had to give up our room to this scruffy relative, but that wasn’t the only reason I disliked him. I despised his dumpy figure and his smelly cigars and his scaly bald head and his way of looking at me with beady small eyes and nodding and winking.
Mama told me to show Cousin Rush the town, and I had to do it. This was the day before Halloween, and half the town was in the theater across the street from the plaza, rehearsing for the Heritage Festival we have every Halloween night. Miss Tessie was at the front of the theater, selling plastic masks of Cajun Caton and Davy Crockett. We have this play about Cajun Caton and a Delaware Indian, Chief Cut Hand, saving the town from Comanches on a Halloween night in the early 1800’s. It ends with Cajun Caton, town hero, leaving his eight children and one wife later on and going off with Davy Crockett and getting killed in the Alamo during the Texas Revolution against Mexico in 1836.
Cousin Rush bought a mask from Miss Tessie. He smiled and flirted and talked of the Importance of History. His face smiled, but his eyes remained cold and scornful, and I could tell he thought this heritage business was hillbilly country foolishness. He’d already told me Caton City was a hick town filled with stupid people. It didn’t compare with real towns.
As we started walking across the plaza, the black cat jumped from the rosebushes and ran in front of us.
To keep walking in a straight direction would have meant bad luck. I sidestepped, made a little circle, and prevented bad luck. I’m not superstitious, not really, but no use taking chances.
Cousin Rush laughed at me. Then, to show his scorn of superstition and black cats, he did a fat-legged little hop and skip and kicked that cat in the stomach.
The old cat doubled up on Cousin Rush’s sharp-toed shoe. She clawed at his sock, then bounced into a rosebush. She landed on her feet, stood there, weaving, hurt. Cousin Rush kicked again, and she dodged. She ran into the street, stopped, looked at Cousin Rush with yellow-green eyes. As he popped his hands together, making a threatening noise, she stood her ground for a moment, then ran into Miss Tessie’s store.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.
Cousin Rush stood there, the October sun beating down on his bald head and his cigar sticking out of his fat face. “You country bumpkins don’t have to act ignorant, but you do. The only way to deal with a black cat running across your path is to kick the manure out of the cat. It’s a callous world, Brian, and the only way to deal with it is to skin your buddy before he skins you.”