Cat Chaser by Elmore Leonard
“No, make it ten bucks,” and added, to get the guy moving, “I’m in an awful hurry.”
The attendant, an older guy in greasy coveralls, said, “Everybody’s in a hurry. Slow down, you’ll live longer.”
Moran said, “If I had time I’d explain to you it’s just the other way around.” It amazed him that he was fairly calm. Doing. The guy gave him a strange look as he went out. Moran stood at the pay phone. He knew the number by heart, 442-2300. Then wondered if he should call 911 instead, the emergency number. Which one would an anonymous caller dial? Moran wasn’t sure. The idea had come to him on the freeway—suddenly there in his head without any hard thinking—and it was a zinger: a way to spring Mary without a confrontation with Andres and a way to blow Nolen’s plan at the same time. Christ, and now he wasn’t sure which number to call. He said to himself, Just do it. And dialed 442-2300.
The male voice said, “Coral Gables Police,” and a name that sounded like “Sergeant Roscoe speaking.”
Moran said, “Sergeant, I want to report a bomb that’s gonna go off.”
“Who is this speaking, please?”
“It’s an anonymous call, you dink. The bomb’s at Seven-hundred Arvida Parkway; I think you better get over there.”
“Sir, may I have your name and number, please?”
“Where the dock blew, asshole. The house’s going next.”
There was a pause at Coral Gables Police Headquarters.
“This bomb,” Sergeant Roscoe or whatever his name was said, “can you tell me what type it is and where it’s located?”
“Jesus Christ, the fucking house is going up, people’re in it and you’re asking me where the bomb is! Get over there and find it, for Christ sake!” Then added, for a touch of local color, “Viva libertad! Muerte a de Boya! You got it?” And hung up.
Jiggs Scully got a kick out of these guys that displayed pictures of themselves taken with politicians, celebrities, dignitaries—showing you the class of people they hung out with. Jimmy Cap did the same thing. The only difference, his pictures were taken with stand-up comics in golf outfits, horse breeders and a couple famous jockeys, five-eight Jimmy Cap with his arm around the little guys’ shoulders. Jiggs noticed that Latin-American military gave themselves height by wearing those peaked caps that swooped way up in front, even higher than the ones the Nazis had worn; which showed you even your most hardassed rightwingers had some showboat in them.
He said to de Boya, “I was you, General, you have a sentimental attachment for your pictures there, I’d pack ’em away till we clean this business up.”
“I don’t see how anyone can get inside,” de Boya said, sitting behind his big desk, all dressed up in a gray business suit.
“They don’t have to get in,” Jiggs said. “That’s why I want to take a look around, see how many wires you got leading to the house and where they go. The word on the street, the house’s next.”
“I question that,” de Boya said.
“I know you do, but what if that repair guy wasn’t Southern Bell? It don’t mean anything he showed a card, you get those printed ten bucks a hundred. No, the vibes—you know what vibes are, General? Like an itch, a feeling you get. The vibes tell me we’re sitting on a ticklish situation here without much in the way of protection. I send you a couple of pros and—I don’t mean to sound critical, general, you’re the man in charge, but they aren’t doing us much good in Pompano Beach.”
The general looked like he had a bad stomach, bothered by gas, and the present situation wasn’t going to relieve it any. A very emotional people. He saw de Boya look up: somebody all of a sudden rattling off the Spanish. Jiggs looked around to see Corky, mouth going a mile a minute, telling de Boya something that pulled him right out of his chair.
Altagracia appeared in the bedroom doorway, timid, not certain if she was announcing good news or bad. She said, “Señora, he’s here,” and now was startled and had to get out of the way.
Mary was moving as the maid spoke, out the door past her into Andres’s bedroom, past the two suitcases she hadn’t used, still lying on the floor, to the front window.
Moran’s old-model white Mercedes was in the drive, behind a red and white Cadillac and Andres’s Rolls. Mary pressed closer to the window, the glass streaked with rain, blurred, and saw Moran out of the car, Corky moving out from the house toward him. Mary left the window; she dodged past Altagracia again in the hallway and stopped.
“My bag, the small one.”
“I get it,” the maid said.
It gave Mary the moment she needed to take a breath, collect herself. She would be forthright about this final exit, walk out with style in beige linen and if Andres said anything she might give him a look but no more than that. Altagracia came out of the bedroom with her white canvas tote. Mary slipped the strap over her shoulder.
She heard Altagracia say, “Go with God.”
Damn right. With her head up, a little haughty if she had to be. Then hesitated.
Andres appeared in the hall below, moving with purpose toward the front entrance. She saw his back and now Jiggs Scully shuffling to catch up, recognizing the man’s shapeless seersucker coat.
They were outside by the time Mary reached the foyer, on the front stoop that was a wide plank deck, low, only a step above the gravel drive. She saw Moran in a dark sweater in the fine mist of rain, Corky raising both hands to push him or hold him off. Now, Mary thought. And walked out the door past Scully, bumping him with the tote hanging from her shoulder, not looking at him or at Andres as she stepped past them to the gravel drive. Corky turned, hearing or sensing her. But she was looking at Moran now less than ten feet away, his eyes calm, drops of moisture glistening in his beard. She wanted to run to him and see his arms open.
Andres said, “Stop there.”
But he was much too late. Mary walked up to Moran and said, “Boy, am I glad to see you,” in a tone so natural it amazed her.
His gaze flicked past her and back, still composed. “You ready?”
“My bags are in the garage. The door that’s raised.”
He looked over at the garage wing, an extension of the house, three of the doors in place, one raised open to reveal gleams of chrome and body metal in the dim interior. Moran took his time, listening, hoping to hear sirens coming for him twice in the same day—his first success giving him faith to try it again—aching now to hear squad cars screaming down Cutler Road toward Arvida; Mary looking at him like he was crazy. What was he standing there for?
“Mary.” It came as a de Boya command. He stood with hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. “Come inside.”
Moran said, “Stay where you are,” touching her arm. He moved past her a step and said to Jiggs, “You tell him yet?”
It caught de Boya’s attention. Jiggs didn’t say anything; perhaps the first time in his life.
“I’ll tell him if you won’t,” Moran said. “Hey, Andres?”
Jiggs said, “George, you got a problem?”
There it was in the distance, that sorrowful wail not yet related to them here, but it was coming fast and Moran hoped he had enough time to say what he had to say and get out.
“Andres, this guy’s out to take you.”
Maybe it was already too late. Jiggs was looking at him, de Boya staring off, frowning. Was it the wind in the rain, a police siren, what? Jiggs heard it without letting on. He said, “George, you been drinking?”
Now a yelp-type siren chasing the wails, coming from beyond the mass of Florida trees bunched along the road.
Moran said, “Andres?”
He got a glance, still with the frown.
“Jiggs Scully’ll kill you if he gets the chance.”
De Boya’s glance came again, like Moran was the distraction and not the shrill sounds piercing the rain.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you, but if he asks you to go anywhere with him, tell him no.”
There. For what it was worth. He’d lost the attention
She moved without pause, not even a questioning look and he could have taken the moment and kissed her.
Squad cars were coming up both ends of the drive now, gumballs flashing, electronic sirens on high, some wailing, some yelping, giving the scene the full emergency treatment. As quickly as they arrived doors winged open and the police were on the scene, approaching the house.
Andres seemed bewildered.
But Jiggs was staring at Moran.
And Moran had to stare back at him, letting him know without saying a word who’d brought all this down on him.
A uniformed lieutenant was saying to Andres, with that impersonal deadweight of authority, “Sir, I’m gonna ask you to evacuate these premises. I want everybody out of that house.”
Jiggs still hadn’t moved, staring at Moran.
Moran smiled in his beard. Maybe Jiggs caught it, maybe not; it was time to go.
Mary was behind the wheel. She revved as he jumped in and pulled smoothly around Jiggs’s car and the white Rolls. Squad cars coming with headlights on had to swerve out of the way as she pointed toward the garage and braked the old Mercedes to a skid-stop in the gravel. “My bags,” Mary said.
The three matched pieces stood at the edge of the dim interior. Moran was out again, collecting the luggage, shoving it into the back seat. He took time to look toward the front of the house, the entranceway.
De Boya was holding the police back with his iron will, resisting, objecting, pointing a finger in the lieutenant’s face. No one was entering his house without his permission and he obviously wasn’t granting it. Except to Corky now. De Boya said something to him that sent Corky running inside.
“Moran, will you come on!”
He turned to look at Mary. “Drive out to the street before you get boxed in. I’ll meet you out there in a minute . . . Go on!”
She gave him a look with her jaw clenched and took off, horn blaring now, swinging out on the grass to get around the squad cars stacking up in the yard. There were cops with dogs now heading for the garage.
Moran moved to the off side of a squad car, its lights flashing, radio crackling in a dry female voice on and off. He watched de Boya head to head with Jiggs now. They looked like they were arguing. De Boya at first standing firm, but Jiggs beginning to get through to him. De Boya, impatient now, gestured toward the garage. When de Boya turned and hurried into the house, Jiggs stood watching. Though not for long. Jiggs was moving now, running with a surprisingly easy grace toward the garage. He went in through the opening and Moran’s gaze returned to the front entrance, the cops milling around, servants coming out now with umbrellas. When he glanced toward the garage again there was Jiggs framed in the dim opening.
Jiggs holding a telephone, its long extension cord trailing into the garage, talking into the phone with some urgency as he watched the police in front of the house. Jiggs stepped back into the garage and reappeared without the phone, pushing his glasses up on his flat nose. He took the glasses off now, standing in the rain, pulled out part of his shirttail and began wiping the lenses. When he put the glasses on again, still intently watching the scene, the shirttail remained out, forgotten.
The slob. But look at him, Moran thought, fascinated. The guy was improvising, trying to put his act back together. He could hear Jiggs saying to him in the Mutiny Bar, “Gimme some credit, George,” with that street-hip familiarity, his disarming natural style. He was fun to watch—as long as you didn’t get too close.
Moran wanted to see de Boya again, but knew it was time to go: Mary waiting for him, anxious, Mary dying to get out of here. He moved down the line of squad cars looking back past Fireball flashers revolving slowly, the scene on hold for the time being. At the point where the drive curved into the trees he looked back one last time, hoping, deciding then to stretch it, give himself another minute, and saw de Boya coming out of the house:
De Boya hurrying to his Rolls followed by Corky and one of the maids, Altagracia. De Boya with a briefcase waving now at Corky who was carrying two suitcases to hurry up. Jiggs there now saying something to de Boya and de Boya shaking his head, Jiggs still trying, de Boya turning away as the maid came with a cardboard box in her arms, framed pictures—they looked like—sticking out of the open top, the maid waiting now to hand the box to Corky as he put the suitcases that were exactly like Mary’s into the trunk of the Rolls.
Where was Jiggs?
Moran saw him then, getting in his Cadillac.
De Boya and Corky were in the Rolls now, the car starting up, coming this way across the lawn and Moran stepped into the trees.
19
* * *
“I TOLD HIM, I said don’t go with him,” Moran said. He wanted to believe he had warned de Boya and wondered if he would have to repeat this to himself from time to time.
“You don’t tell him anything,” Mary said, creeping the car toward a police officer in a rain slicker waving them to come on, come on, move it out. They turned off Arvida Parkway onto Cutler Road and the feeling of being released came over both of them at the same time, brought smiles and inside the old Mercedes was a good place to be with the windshield wipers beating and the tires humming on wet pavement. The weather was fine. They passed the fairways of Leucadendra and tennis courts standing empty, left the country club behind with a feeling of starting fresh, on a new adventure. Though Moran’s thoughts would turn and he would see de Boya coming out of the house—”Spook him and make him run,” he’d said to Jiggs in the Mutiny and it was happening.
He said, “If he lets Jiggs follow him or take him somewhere he’s crazy. I told him. You heard me, you were standing right there.” He had to stop thinking about Andres. But then asked, “Where do you think he’ll go?”
“Well, he owns property all over. Apartment buildings, even farms, land he’ll develop someday. He could go down in the Keys, anywhere.” Mary glanced at Moran. “If you’re worried about him, don’t be. Andres takes care of number one, the son of a bitch. And if Corky has to give his life Andres will let him.”
Right, it wasn’t something new to these guys. Moran looked at her staring straight ahead at the windshield wipers sweeping, clearing the glass every other moment. He loved her profile. He could see her as a little girl.
“You’re a good driver.”
“Thank you.”
“How’s your mouth? Is it sore?”
“Not bad.”
“The way your lower lip sticks out, it’s kinda sexy.”
“You want to bite it?”
“I believe I might. Did you hit him back?”
“I hit him first. It only made him madder.”
“There you are,” Moran said. “The first rule of street fighting, never throw a punch unless you can finish it.”
Mary said, “What are you, Moran, my trainer or my lover?” She felt wonderful and wanted to say corny things about being free at last and tell him something that would bring amazement and he’d say “I don’t believe it” in that way he said it. But that could wait.
De Boya sat half-turned in the front seat holding his briefcase on his lap. He would look back through the mist the Rolls raised in its wake and see Jiggs Scully’s car holding the pace, less than a hundred meters behind. They were on the freeway northbound, passing the Fort Lauderdale airport off to the right, a jumbo jet descending out of the gray mass almost directly in front of them.
Corky said to the rearview mirror, “I can put my foot into it and leave him.”
“No, we bring him along,” de Boya said. “He knows something.” They spoke in Spanish.
“You’re sure of it?”
“We’ll find out. He wanted to take me to Boca Raton. He tells me a very safe place. I’m supposed to say yes, of course, and put myself in his care.”
“He has little respect.”
Corky followed the exit ramp, his eyes on the mirror. “He’s coming.”
“I hope so,” de Boya said.
They drove west for several minutes past fenced land that was desolate and seemed remote, resembling an African plain. There were no houses in sight until they got off on a dirt road turning to muddy pools, passed through a stand of pine and tangled brush to arrive in the yard of a cement-block ranch painted white, flaking, lifeless in its dismal setting. De Boya had bought the house furnished, as is, surrounded by ninety acres of scrub; the house would serve as a jump-off if needed, close to the Lauderdale airport; the property could always be developed someday, turned into a retirement village.
“He’s coming,” Corky said, steering toward the garage that was part of the house.
De Boya looked back to see the red and white Cadillac creeping into the yard. The car stopped and Jiggs got out to stand looking around, hands on his hips. The rain didn’t seem to bother him.
“Stay with me,” de Boya said.
He got out of the Rolls with his briefcase and approached Jiggs who was moving to the back of his car now, looking at his keys as though to open the trunk, then glancing at de Boya.
“This is it, huh? General, I got to tell you you’d be a lot more comfortable this place in Boca. Belongs to Jimmy Cap. Got a sauna, everything.” He was bending over the trunk now.
“What do you have in there?” de Boya asked.
Jiggs straightened. “I got a forty-four Mag and I got a twelve-gauge pump gun, a Browning. I got flares and a five-gallon can of gas. What else you need?”
De Boya motioned to him. “Let’s go inside.”
“I thought you’d want some protection.”
“Get it later,” de Boya said.
As they started for the house Jiggs said, “You want me to help with your bags?”
“No, we’ll get those later, too.”
Jiggs said, “I was gonna say, General, I don’t think you needed to pack those grips. Bomb squad’ll take the day—we shouldn’t be gone more’n one night. We can call ’em now you got a phone, see what they found.”