CHAPTER1
SHANE
“Hey!Get out! You can’t sleep there!” A loud voice broke my sleep.
Adrenaline jolted me upright by the second word. I shoved myself out of my reclined seat. The man peering in the driver’s window of the wrecked car six inches from my face looked furious— flushed and sweaty. He thumped on the glass with a fist. Fortunately, I’d manually locked the old Nissan. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
I scrambled across the seats, gave the man a cheery wave, and slid out the other side, grabbing my pack off the passenger floor as I went and leaving the door open for my cat. The junkyard guy tried to give chase, but I’d chosen a car that was jammed into the ones on either side. By the time he’d figured out how to get through the mess of rusting metal and torn upholstery, I was almost at the fence. I leaped, grabbed. The wire on top dug into my palm but I hauled myself up and over and dropped on the other side.
Mimsy had followed me, like I knew she would. She sniffed at the chain-link, whiskers twitching, then ran up it as easy as climbing a ladder. From the top, she jumped down neatly, her cat paws landing with far more grace than my sneakers.
Turning my back on the shouting man, I sauntered away with Mimsy at my side. Okay, I booked it as fast as I could without running. Running looks bad. I swung my pack onto both shoulders and didn’t turn around when the dude shook the fence. No need to let him get another look at my face.
The junkyard stood on the edge of this little California town— Gaynor Beach— that I’d picked for no good reason except my last ride had been headed close to here, and I liked the word “gay” in the name. Like, screw the haters. Of course, probably Gaynor was some founding dude, but still, I’d seen a rainbow flag near the bus depot where the guy I hitched with let me off. That was a real good sign for a small town.
It was a cute place. Probably had a bunch of B&Bs and motels with names like “Seaside” and “Oceanview” where newcomers could stay. If they had money. Which I didn’t.
Still, being broke wasn’t as much of a handicap here as back home.
“California,” I told Mimsy. “We’re not freezing our asses off in January this year.” I’d slept in abandoned cars before, and let me tell you, they do not keep you warm on a Midwest winter night. Raising my hands like a revival preacher, I intoned, “It’s a miracle, folks.”
A man walking the other way on the sidewalk gave me a startled look, then frowned at Mimsy. I patted my neck and said, “Up.” Mimsy jumped to my shoulder and draped herself around me like a scarf. I glared at the dude—yeah, the pretty cream-and-orange cat belongs to me— and headed on at a brisk pace.
Mimsy licked the rim of my ear, then nipped me lightly.
“Sorry, you belong to yourself. I’m your servant.” I knew she couldn’t really read my thoughts, or understand my words for that matter, but I liked to pretend. When she purred and relaxed, I grinned, like it was a reward for that “servant” promise. Everyone who lives with a cat is their servant. That’s how cat-ness works.
I’d hurried toward town rather than away, in case the junkyard guy came after me. More places to hide, more people to hide among. I didn’t think he’d bother chasing us. I hadn’t damaged that already-wrecked piece of junk, but some people took trespassing real personal.
Five minutes’ walking took me well into the local neighborhood, the junkyard-bodyshop-warehouse-storage-unit vibe changing to housing. What I’d call lower-middle class. Some dumpy apartment blocks, a bunch of weathered single-story homes built close together, a few narrow duplexes. Nothing like the slum I grew up in, but folks here would understand digging in the sofa for change at the end of the month.
Which made it not the best choice for panhandling. Asking for cash was an art, and finding the right spot was a science. A high-traffic location in a touristy area or a middle-class neighborhood worked better. Places like this street, folks were close enough to the edge themselves to hang on to their money. If they’d got a spare ten bucks, they’d have a relative or friend who needed it. They might want to help, but they’d toss quarters. And in the wealthy areas, the residents sailed past in their Mercedes with their noses in the air muttering “Get a job.”
Like it was that easy.
Mimsyprrrped in my ear and I stroked her soft fur. “It’s a glorious morning, my queen. Time for a stroll.”
I’d always liked walking, which was a good thing because I’d hoofed a lot of miles. Gaynor Beach had sidewalks, which lots of places don’t. As we wandered southeast with the early morning sun in our eyes, the neighborhoods got nicer. Houses were bigger, yards had more landscaping, the cars parked in driveways and along the streets got newer.
A narrow bridge with a pedestrian walkway on each side crossed a small river. I briefly considered panhandling at the bridge intersection, but there was only a stop sign, not a light. That made it easy for folks to “not have time” to cough up any money. Instead, I strode across the bridge and on into the even fancier neighborhood on the other side.
I was thinking about heading toward the waterfront, where tourists might be, when I spotted a corner store with a well-kept façade and attractive stands of fruit and flowers out front. Perfect. I studied the situation as I approached with Mimsy still draped around my neck. Young parents, toddlers and preschoolers, some senior folk, no older kids.Must be a weekday.I’d lost track.
For that crowd, I had a couple of routines that could work. I paused on the wide walkway alongside the parking lot. Technically private property, unlike the sidewalk, but I wouldn’t be obstructing customers and there was room for Mimsy to stay safe from cars. I set down my pack, and she jumped from my shoulders to sit watching, her tail neatly curled around her toes.
“Is that a cat?” A little boy tugged on his mother’s hand to make her pause, his wide gaze on Mimsy.
“Looks like it,” I said. Setting out my lightweight cap, I put a five-dollar bill inside. Usually, that would be a seed, because people drop in more bills when they see other folks have. This time, it was a prop. A second child had stopped, so I said to Mimsy, “Keepaway.” It was one of her favorite games.
Standing behind the cap, I began a patter of, “It’s so lovely here, compared to where I’m from…” The words didn’t matter. I flicked a finger, and Mimsy jumped up, trotted to the hat, and grabbed the folded bill in her teeth.
I stopped short and asked her, “What are you doing?”
Holding the bill, she backed up a couple of steps. I turned to the small boy, faking shock. “Did that cat just steal my money?”
“Yes.” He giggled.
Looking at Mimsy, I said, “Put that back!” I pointed to the cap with my right hand, but with the left— which she was watching— I wagged a finger back and forth. She shook her head, whiskers twitching.
