The Big Cat Nap

by Rita Mae Brown

  Harry was restless, though, and thought she might just cruise around and poke into things herself. The WRX STI tempted her. She hopped into the powerful vehicle, putting Tucker in the back. The two cats sat in the seat next to her.

  “This car’s too low to the ground.” Pewter preferred the truck.

  “So are you,” Tucker told her from the safety of the backseat.

  “Ha-ha,” the gray cat sarcastically replied.

  “We can stand on the seat, put our paws on the dash. It’s not so bad.” Mrs. Murphy enjoyed any ride, regardless of cab height.

  “Hard for Pewter to do. Sixty percent of Pewter’s weight is in the rear, like a Porsche,” Tucker said.

  Pewter leapt through the space between the front bucket seats. Tucker bared her teeth, but the gray cat jumped on her back, rendering those fangs useless.

  Harry cut the motor and whapped both dog and cat.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Three weeks of nonstop fussing and fighting. One peep, one tiny little peep, and I am throwing you two out of this car.”

  Both looked up at the angry human. Harry leaned back into the driver’s seat, which felt like a cockpit to her. Pewter returned to the front seat. Harry was falling in love with the car but was in anguish, too, because she wasn’t going to buy it. They weren’t starving—Fair had work, thank heaven, for many didn’t—but money was tight.

  The souped-up 2.5-liter four-cylinder turbo awoke with a pleasant rumble. Its six-speed manual transmission thrilled her. She wished her truck, as well as the Volvo station wagon, had a manual transmission. These days, finding manual transmission wasn’t easy: There were a few models of BMW, but not one Mercedes that she knew of. Most all family cars forced the buyer into automatic transmission, which burned more gas, although manufacturers declared the computer chips saved gas. Harry wondered, did the car manufacturers think that because someone had a family they didn’t like to drive, really drive? One could row through gears without being a maniac.

  She, however, possessed a few maniacal qualities behind the wheel of a heart-throbbing, terrific acceleration machine.

  She and her little family climbed to the top of Afton Mountain on Route 250, turned left onto I-64, and drove to Stuarts Draft. Going left off the Fishersville exit, she turned onto a commercial road filled with big metal-box buildings. Haldane’s Salvage was a small brick building. Outside on the chain-link fence was a big sign: RECYCLED CARS, WE GO GREEN. A big stoplight was painted on the sign, with its green light glowing. She pulled in.

  Mildred expected Harry, as she’d called ahead. Mildred Haldane also expected the pets, which the kind woman allowed in the office air-conditioning.

  Mildred was as round as she was tall, but nevertheless it was with considerable energy that she marched Harry to the huge yard out back. It was bounded by chain link with thin wooden slats inside, the fencing to hide the view of crunched cars, as well as the view of the real cruncher. At the back of the lot, Leyland cypress trees hid some of what many considered an eyesore. Row after row of eyeless trucks, cars, even a few golf carts, greeted Harry. Harry didn’t find the auto graveyard offensive. Some vehicles bore testimony to terrible crashes; others looked tired, with rusting bottoms and paint faded by the sun.

  “Don’t get too many people who are interested in salvage,” Mildred rattled on, coral lipstick shining. “My late husband and I started this business in 1972. Not much out here then, so we could buy a lot of land. We figured there’d always be cars and there’d always be collisions. Little did we know that one-car families would become two- and three-car families. We boomed with that.” Mildred swept her arm over the lot. “Fifteen acres.”

  “Impressive. You and—”

  Before she could finish, Mildred filled in “Drew.”

  “You and Drew had vision.”

  She shrugged but liked the compliment. “Tell you what, young lady, they don’t build cars like they used to. Come on, let me show you.” Mildred led Harry down to a trim yellow shed, hopped into a new golf cart, and drove Harry to the very back. “Now, this is my antiques graveyard. Drew and I never had the heart to crush them when they’d come in.”

  “Look at that!” Harry saw a Plymouth from 1948, then an old Model T Ford—no windshield, no fenders, but unmistakably a Tin Lizzie. A Model A squatted next to the Lizzie. Rolling fenders on Buicks from the fifties were parked next to the old Nashes and old Rancheros, a Ford truck–car combo. They may have been useless, but the design, the bones, gave evidence to the aesthetic of the times.

  “Here.” Mildred tapped an old Dodge bumper. “Real steel. Go on, tap it.”

  Harry did as she was told. “That could take a bump or two.”

  “Tell you what”—Mildred’s eyes squinched up—“I learned more about motors, car design, and safety while taking cars apart—kind of like construction in reverse. It’s true: No fuel injection, simple engines, and the shocks often left a lot to be desired, but these babies were cars. Real cars.”

  Harry sighed. “You’re right, Mrs. Haldane. Everything’s been cheapened, and the excuse is making cars lighter so as not to consume so much gas.”

  “Call me Millie. Well, if you want to talk about pollution,” Mildred put her hand on a jutting hip, “what about industrial pollution? Plastic, plastic made to look like aluminum, plastic, plastic, plastic. Ugh.” She threw up her hands. “So many alloys in the metals, you can’t call it steel. The public has no idea, no idea at all. Well, I may be a dinosaur, but I lived when the big boys ruled the road, and, honey, it was fab-u-lous.”

  Smiling broadly now that she’d expressed herself in no uncertain terms, Mildred motioned Harry back into the golf cart. “You asked about the Explorer. Let me show it to you.”

  Within two minutes, they’d pulled up to the SUV.

  Mildred climbed out, surprisingly agile given her weight. She bent over, pointing to the wheels.

  “Yes, I see it.” Harry viewed the damaged wheels.

  “No cracks like that if these wheels were made by Ford. These were made in China. Some are made in other Eastern countries, but China has the ability to crank out lots of cheap stuff. They can fool a lot of people. Here, I can prove this to you without a doubt.”

  Back in the cart, Mildred, driving at as fast a clip as the cart could go, pulled up to piles of wheels, a big pile on the left, one on the right.

  “Hope no one ever drops a cigarette here.” Harry’s eyes widened.

  Mildred laughed. “They’d better be more afraid of me than the fire. Okay, the wheels on the left are genuine parts: on the vehicles when sold from the dealership, or, if replaced, then the driver made sure to duplicate the tires recommended by the carmaker. GM, Ford, BMW, Subaru, Chrysler, Jeep … you get the idea. The ones on the right are knockoffs. Now, let me show you.” The short lady picked up a wheel—not light—without a grunt. “You take it.”

  Gingerly, Harry took the proffered wheel, getting as dirty as Mildred in the process.

  Neither woman much cared about the rubber smudges or grease. Two motorheads from different generations had found each other.

  “Should I put it back on the pile?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mildred picked up a wheel, same size, from the right pile. “Try this.”

  The difference in weight, immediately apparent, surprised Harry. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Believe it.” Mildred’s coral lips snapped shut. “Now, looking at these two piles, can you tell the difference?”

  “No, ma’am, I can’t.”

  “Come on.” Mildred pointed to the cart again, and soon they were back in the office. “These are well-behaved animals,” she said, once they’d all settled in.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m well behaved. The others are dreadful,” Pewter purred, rubbing against Mildred’s leg.

  “Honey, like I said, not too many people are interested in my work here, in how cars are made today. They should be. Their lives depend on it. Now they focus on new models, focus
on the makers, but they don’t focus on parts. There are only crash standards for the original manufacturers’ parts. I’m not one for regulation—I think we’re overregulated—but here’s a case where there’s nothing. I can fix your car with a plastic part made to look like metal. Will it hold up in a crash? No.”

  “I had no idea, and I love cars. Until you handed me those wheels, I couldn’t have known what you were talking about.”

  Mildred grimaced. “It’s like the mortuary industry. People don’t want to think about dying, and they don’t want to think about car wrecks, either. It’s not a part of their daily life until it happens to them.”

  Harry nodded.

  Mildred scrutinized Harry, then continued, “Here’s the thing, and I go ’round about this. All carmakers want you and me to replace damaged engine parts with their parts, electrical stuff, and so on. They guarantee those parts. Aftermarket parts are a lot cheaper, so people can get their cars repaired cheaper. Some folks would say that’s good because if you use only, say, GM parts, then GM has squeezed out the copycat, so that’s no competition. The consumer loses. I understand that.” Mildred paused for full effect. “But what’s more important: anti-monopoly or your safety? ’Cause I sure can tell you, the Chinese don’t give a fig about your safety, and I’m thinking the insurance companies don’t, either.”

  “Why?”

  She exploded, “They don’t care about safety and they don’t want to cover big repair bills.”

  “Yes,” Harry agreed. “Wow, what a mess.”

  “The insurance companies are bleating about consumer choice, the carmakers want to protect their reputations, and maybe they do want to shove out the copycats, but I tell you what, I see poorly made cars; trucks come in here even after stripped and still have blood on them. Gets to me every time.”

  “It would me.” Harry changed the subject. “Are you the only person working here? This is a big place.”

  Mildred leaned against the counter. “No. Have two fellows working here; sent them off to bring me a late lunch and get some for themselves. I have two kids; ’course, they’re in their forties now. Drew and I sent them both to college. They don’t want no part of this business. Don’t want to get their hands dirty.”

  “This is a good business.” Harry emphasized “good.”

  “Young people are different now. Forty is young to me. No one wants to work with their hands.” She peered at Harry again, noting the dust on her jeans, a few pieces of hay in her hair. “Not many want to farm, either.”

  “Millie, I wouldn’t be farming if I hadn’t inherited it. No way could I afford land, the equipment, seeds, and fertilizer and make a go of it.”

  “Sucks,” Millie succinctly responded. “Tell you what, though, your mama and papa sure were lucky to have a girl who wanted to keep the family business going. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I know I should retire, but this is my life. What would I do? Watch I Love Lucy reruns?”

  “She was the best.” Harry grinned.

  “That she was.” Mildred shifted her weight. “When the economy comes back up, I reckon I will sell the business. Don’t rightly know.”

  They chatted a bit more, then Harry thanked her profusely, making a mental note to send over some special canned foods she’d put up last year. Harry knew she’d be back. Something about Mildred touched her. She didn’t dwell on it, she just knew she’d be back.

  Mildred gave her a big hug as Harry put her hand on the doorknob, the three furry friends at her feet.

  “Millie, what do you drive?”

  “Ha.” Mildred clapped her hands. “A big-ass 1962 Impala convertible. They can all get out of my way.”

  Driving out of the salvage yard, Harry pictured the round little lady in the big Chevy.

  Bored with I-64, she drove to Waynesboro the back way.

  “Hey, let’s go to the drag strip. No one’s there.”

  Tucker’s brown eyes registered worry. “You’d better not do anything with this car.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the black WRX STI glided onto the grounds of Central Virginia Hot Rod Track. Harry drove right up to the Christmas tree.

  “That’s a lot of lights,” Mrs. Murphy remarked.

  “I so want to do the quarter mile.” Harry’s hands gripped the steering wheel. “Well, I can’t. It’s not right to do that in a car I haven’t paid for, but how can I do it otherwise? I mean, they’ll never let me race here, and I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t,” Pewter howled. “You do enough crazy stuff.”

  “What the hell?” Harry exclaimed. Coming around the bleachers in front of her at a fast clip was a charcoal Porsche 911. She checked her rearview: Behind her was a yellow Camaro. Harry couldn’t see the drivers, but she knew if she didn’t do something she’d be trapped. She put her foot on the brake, gunned the motor, took the brake off, and shot down the track so fast that the Porsche braked hard.

  “Something’s wrong,” Mrs. Murphy cried.

  Tucker, trying to balance herself, looked through the two front seats. “They’re trying to trap her!”

  Pewter, crouching on the footwell behind the seat, shouted, “Make her stop.”

  Mrs. Murphy summed up the situation. “If she stops, we’re toast.”

  The jet acceleration gave Harry confidence. At the end of the quarter mile, she turned sharply, skidding out, for the Porsche hung hot on her tail. The Camaro driver seemed to hesitate. Perhaps he had the brains to know if he tried to block her she’d plow right through him, maybe killing them both.

  Harry had guts: She called his bluff. The Camaro accelerated out of her way, and she felt the shock waves as she blew by that beautiful yellow tail. As she rocked by the Camaro, she saw Latigo Bly behind the wheel.

  Harry now headed for the state road, praying that someone would see them and call the police. No way could she reach her cellphone.

  She was running for her life, very glad the seat belts were good.

  She hooked left, skidding out again. This time the Camaro disappeared, only to reappear emerging from the back way into Central Virginia Hot Rod Track.

  Fearlessly, Harry aimed straight for him again. Latigo backed up in a hurry, stones flying from under the wheels.

  As they were not yet near housing or commercial buildings, her two pursuers had two miles to bring her down. Given the quality of their cars and the skill with which they handled them, they just might succeed.

  Sweat poured down her forehead, between her breasts. Senses razor-sharp, she’d never felt more alive than at this moment.

  She heard the beautiful yowl of the 911 coming up on her right, on the lip side of the road, which was wide enough to take the car. She recognized Victor Gatzembizi in the gorgeous 911. On her left, the Camaro hurtled down a paved two-lane road. Both cars closed in. She was between them now. She couldn’t take her eyes off the road for an instant.

  The Porsche bumped her as the Camaro swerved close to her. The smaller car shuddered but took it. The pursuers drove about a foot away, then came toward her again to slam the hell out of the WRX STI. Harry hit those brakes, which bit into the pavement. The screech of the wheels had to have been heard in Richmond. So quickly did the pocket rocket stop that the Porsche and Camaro crashed into each other. The big Chevy shouldered the Porsche right off the road at such a high speed that the Porsche plowed into a field, but it didn’t turn over. The Camaro, right fender now bent into the right wheel, made a screaming sound as the tire blew. The car spun around, stopping like a wounded animal. Latigo leaned out the open driver’s window with a gun and fired a shot Harry’s way. He missed, the bullet skidding over the Subaru hood.

  Harry took off, speeding toward Waynesboro. Eventually she slowed, grabbed her phone, dialed 911. After giving the location of the two wrecks, she pulled into the Rite Aid parking lot to calm down.

  “That was close.” She reached over, putting Mrs. Murphy in her lap and turning to pet Tucker.

  “I could have been
killed,” Pewter cried.

  “Pewter, come on up here. Come on.”

  Wobbly-legged, the gray cat, belly low, slunk into Harry’s lap. She’d peed on herself, but neither Harry nor anyone else said a word. They’d near done it themselves. Then Harry called Cooper.

  “Coop, I’m in Augusta County—Waynesboro, at the Rite Aid. Victor Gatzembizi and Latigo Bly tried to kill me. I’m safe, I think. Will you come get me?”

  “Hang on.” Harry heard Coop hit the siren and start roaring through Albemarle toward Augusta County.

  By the time Cooper reached Harry, the animals were cleaned up. Harry had gone into Rite Aid to get bottled water for everyone and had bought a little plastic bowl and some paper towels for cleanup. Behind the counter Belinda—a pug owner and animal lover herself—pretended not to notice the cat-pee smell on Harry.

  It wasn’t until Harry saw Coop that she about cried, her relief was so great. Coop shot out of the squad car, saw the scar marks on the right side of the Subaru, the thin bullet line on the hood.

  “Jesus Christ, Harry, what happened?”

  Harry explained as best she could, from the beginning. “How did they know I was there?”

  “Easy, neighbor. Someone slapped a tracking device on your car. Same thing as on hunting-dog collars. They’ve known where you are ever since Victor Gatzembizi dropped off this car.” Cooper leaned into her squad car, called the Augusta sheriff’s department.

  She identified herself and gave the location of the accident, asking if anyone was there. If so, were the drivers safe? Could they give her a positive ID?

  She clicked off the phone. “Victor Gatzembizi and Latigo Bly.”

  “I was so stupid. So incredibly stupid!” Harry leaned against the car, put her head in her hands. “How could I not have known?”

  “Hindsight is always clear.” Coop put her arm around her friend. “The good news is you’re alive. Mrs. Murphy, Pewter, and Tucker are alive.” She looked over the car. “I think you can drive this thing home.”

  “This car saved my life.”

  “That and the fact that you can drive.” Cooper hugged her with the arm draped over her shoulder. “Wish I’d seen it. We’ll get this figured out. Those two will have their asses in the slammer. Rick and I will pay them a visit later. Come on, girl; I’ll follow you home.”