An open bag of potato chips stood on the floor beside a muddy boot. Wrinkled jeans and T-shirts hung out of an open dresser drawer, and the top of the dresser was a tangle of junk. Joe, leaping up, met his reflection charging at him from within the dusty glass.
The refuse dumped on the dresser must have come from Stamps's pockets, emptied out each night over a long period. He could envision the pile growing until it overwhelmed the dresser, cascaded to the floor, and eventually filled the room. He nosed among half-empty matchbooks, odd nails and screws, a broken pocketknife, dirty handkerchiefs, two crushed beer cans, a rusty hinge, bits of paper, a folding beer opener, a broken shoelace, and a scattering of coins. He pawed open each folded paper, but most were gas receipts, or store receipts, or hastily scribbled nearly illegible lists for hardware supplies and plumbing supplies. At the bottom of the pile lay several wrinkled fast-food bags and flattened, nearly empty packs of cigarettes.
"Why would he leave the list in this mess? What's in the nightstand?"
She stepped around a full ashtray wrinkling her nose. "Greasy baseball cap, a sock with a hole in it. Three candy bars, some half-empty cigarette packs, a paperback book with no cover. Lurid stuff. Just what you'd expect from Stamps."
She jumped down to nose beneath the mattress. She was pawing the sheets away when Joe said softly, "Come look." He stood poised very still, staring at a wrinkled white paper. She leaped up beside him.
Beneath the nails and coins, beneath the tangle of gas receipts and McDonald's bags and wadded paper napkins, lay Stamps's list. Joe smoothed the wrinkled paper and fold marks where he had pawed it open. They crouched side by side, reading Stamps's nearly illegible script.
He had recorded the addresses of the targeted houses, how many people lived in each, the times of normal departure for each individual, and whether they left the house walking or by car. The list might be messy and hard to read, but Stamps's information was admirably detailed. He noted the make and model of each car in each household, noted whether the car was kept in the garage or on the street. He recorded whether there were children to be gotten off to school, underlining the fact that the school bus stopped at the corner of Ridgeview and Valley, at five after eight. He identified any regular cleaning or gardening services, and what days they would appear, and he noted whether there were barking dogs in residence at each address. He had listed what kinds of door locks, what kinds of windows, and whether there was any indication of an alarm system.
"Nice," Joe said. "Messy but very complete." He shook dust from his whiskers. "Too bad we can't take it with us."
She got that stubborn look.
"Dulcie, if he finds it missing, they'll scrap their plan or change it. We'll have to memorize it; we can each take half."
"We really need a copy for Captain Harper, not just another anonymous phone call. Don't you get the feeling that telephone tips make Harper nervous?"
"Of course they make him nervous. They drive him nuts. They have also supplied him with some very valuable information. And we don't have any choice. What're you going to do, type up a copy?"
"Even better. We'll take it up to Frances's office, it's only a few blocks. Run it through her copier and return the original, put it back under the junk."
"And of course Frances will invite us right on in to use her copier. After all, look at the comfort you've given Mama."
She hissed at him and cuffed his ear. "You can distract her. Fall out of a tree or something. While she's busy watching you, I'll nip inside through the laundry window, it won't take a minute. Her copier's pretty much like Wilma's."
"She's sure to have left the window open, thinking you'll be back."
"Of course she's left the window open. Mama's probably fit to be tied, waiting for me. It's nearly noon, and I've been gone since ten-thirty. I'm always there for lunch, so she'll be nattering at Frances to make sure the window's open."
He just looked at her. "Dulcie, sometimes…"
She gave him a sweet smile and nuzzled his cheek. Nosing the list closed along its folds, she took it carefully in her teeth, leaped to the chair, and slid out through the partially open window. Joe followed, keeping an eye on the dog. They scorched past him as he bellowed and streaked away up the hill.
"Maybe he'll hang himself on the chain."
He glanced at her. "You're drooling on the list."
She cut her eyes at him and sped faster. It was impossible, carrying the paper in her mouth, not to drool on it. She held her head up, sucked in her spit, but despite her efforts, by the time they neared the Blankenships' the paper was soaked. She was thankful Stamps had written in pencil and not water-soluble ink. The Blankenships' brown frame house stood above them plain and homely. They approached from the side yard, where the spreading fig tree sheltered the back porch.
At the tree they parted, and, as Dulcie slipped around to the laundry room window, Joe swarmed up into the branches. Situating himself as high among the sticky fig leaves as he could, he looked down between them, straight into the kitchen window. He could see Mama sitting at the cluttered table, sipping coffee. Frances stood at the counter, and she seemed to be making lunch. He could smell canned vegetable soup. He could hear them talking, but their voices were just mumbles; he could not make out the thrust of the conversation. Clinging among the twiggy little branches, he took a deep breath.
Filling his lungs so full of air he felt like a bagpipe, he let it out in a yowling bellow. His screams hit the quiet street loud as a siren. He hadn't sung like this since adolescence, when he fought over lady cats in the San Francisco alleys. He sang and squalled and warbled inventive improvisations. He was really belting it out, giving it his full range, when Frances burst out the kitchen door.
She stared up at him, incredulous, and tried to shake the tree, then looked for something to throw. Joe yowled louder. She snatched up a clod of garden earth, heaved it straight at him. She had pretty good aim-the dirt spattered against the branch inches from him. He ducked but continued to scream. The next instant the back door swung open, and old Mrs. Blankenship pushed out, waddling down the steps in her robe.
"Oh, poor kitty. My poor kitty, my kitty's up there. Oh, Frances, she…"
When Mama saw that it wasn't her kitty, she sat down on the steps, made herself comfortable. As if prepared to watch a good show. She seemed highly entertained by Frances's rage, and it occurred to Joe that Frances might have reached her limit with stray cats.
Frances heaved another clod. "Shut up, you stupid beast. Shut up, or I'm getting Varnie's shotgun."
"He's frightened, Frances. The poor thing can't get down."
"Mama, the cat can get down when it wants down."
"Then why would he be crying like that? He's terrified."
Joe tried to look frightened, warbling another chorus of off-key wails but watching Frances warily. Come on, Dulcie, get on with it. I'll have to skin out of here damn fast if Frances goes for a gun. In order to hold her attention, he pretended to lose his balance. When he nearly fell the old woman yelped. But Frances smiled, and threw another clod.
The moment Joe began to yowl, Dulcie leaped in through the laundry window. Streaking down the hall for Frances's office, she sailed to the top of the file cabinet and hit the on switch of the copier.
She hoped it wasn't out of paper, she didn't think she could manage a ream of paper. She was greatly cheered when the machine's sweet hum filled the room and no panic lights came on. How long did it take to warm up? Seemed like the ready light would never turn green.
But at last the little bulb flashed. She lifted the lid, laid the list inside, and smoothed it with her paw.