The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  It’s Chief Black’s turn, and he swivels his chair to face me. “Or they will if we can deal with our drug problems. We have to produce a sober workforce. Workers ready and able to give a day’s labor for a check at the end of the week. We’re talking about jobs that pay sixty-five thousand a year, with benefits. No slackers allowed.”

  Not being one of the slackers, I’m having a little trouble here. I’m happy for the city, sure, and it looks like I’ll keep my job, which is also good. But I’m still not sure why Meacham’s telling me any of this. What was it that Ben Franklin wrote? Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead?

  “You’re probably wondering why we called you in, Delia.” This from Chief Black.

  “Yeah, I am. I’m glad, of course, about the Nissan factory, although I’m a little worried about you prematurely counting your chickens. But why are you telling me this?”

  “About a year ago,” Black continues, “I started having trouble with my balance. Not every day, but more and more often as time went by. A couple of weeks ago I fell. For no reason. I wasn’t drunk or tired or anything. I simply went from normal to the rug in my living room.” He glances over at his wall of fame. The chief in photos with two governors, a senator, a congresswoman, a dozen business leaders. “I’ll make it simple. I have a brain tumor. It’s not malignant, and it is operable. I could hang on, of course. I could have the surgery and hope the potential for neurological deficits . . .” He pauses long enough to laugh. “Neurological deficits? Well, at least my vocabulary’s improving.”

  “Finally.” This from Gloria Meacham.

  “Always a vote of confidence from Gloria.” Black’s tone makes their past conflicts obvious, but that’s not where the chief’s going. “I’ve had enough, Delia. Last week, my daughter, Veronica, gave birth to a baby girl. Leila’s my third grandchild—there are two boys as well—and my only goal now is to spend time with them while they’re still young.”

  Black lapses into silence, and I find myself filling the void. I still don’t know why I’m being told any of this.

  “So you’re resigning? You’re retiring?”

  “All of the above. And we want you to replace me.”

  I have a big mouth, and I’m not afraid to use it. But now I’m struck dumb.

  Gloria Meacham speaks first. “A new beginning, Delia, for the whole town. But it’s only a beginning. There’s work to be done, including our drug problem and the resulting crime. To be frank, we need an insider who can put a strategy together, then systematically implement that strategy, somebody we know isn’t corrupt. You’ll have help, too. The start-up money includes funding for our police department, enough to put on twenty-five new officers. Each of them, by the way, subject to your approval. There’s also money to expand Baxter’s treatment programs, which gives you another way to go.”

  “What about the cops already on the payroll?” My voice returns as an image of Gloria’s brother, the Dink, rolls into my consciousness. “I’m not gonna name names at this point, but there are cops on the force I wouldn’t hire to weed my garden.”

  “Including my brother?”

  “Especially your brother.”

  I’m again caught by surprise when Gloria reaches across the desk to place her hand on mine.

  “We’re looking to you because we want a professional department. You’ll have compete autonomy. Your only constraint will be the law itself. Don’t start shooting suspects. Other than that, I can promise the city council’s backing. You have my word.” She gives my hand a little squeeze. “I don’t intend to blow this opportunity because my little brother’s an asshole. Do what you need to do.”

  I’m not stupid enough to make any further comment, and the chief takes up the slack.

  “We want to introduce you at the press conference. I’ll say a few words, then call you to the podium. You’ll outline the investigation you headed and take a few questions. Three murders solved. The perpetrator behind bars. On Monday, we’ll hold another press conference, at which time I’ll officially resign. The mayor will then announce your appointment as acting police chief, pending confirmation by the city council.”

  “Which,” Gloria Meacham is quick to add, “I guarantee. Absolutely.”

  I’m almost dizzy as I leave the chief’s office. Of course I’m taking the job. It comes with a twelve-thousand-dollar raise, better health insurance, and a guaranteed pension if I hang on for another fifteen years. And I can’t wait to tell Danny, which I’ll do tomorrow morning, Saturday, when my little inmate’s allowed to have visitors.

  His momma the chief of police? He’ll be thrilled.

  Vern looks up as I enter the squad room. He gives me a thumbs-up, and right away I know he’ll be in charge of the antidrug task force I intend to put together. Vern knows the people in Baxter, including the lowlifes. He grew up with them.

  Three hours later, when I’m finally satisfied that every detail has been tended to, including Carl Schmidt’s dinner, we lock it up. I’m retrieving my purse when Vern stops me.

  “We did good work, Delia. Police work. We wrapped it up.”

  I don’t dispute the claim, but I can’t fully accept it, either. That’s because there’s one more task ahead of me. A ride out to Henrietta’s Hattery.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  GIT

  Zack doesn’t comment when I come through the door an hour late. He’s huddled with two men and a woman in the living room. They’re sitting on the edges of their chairs, leaning forward, heads close together. Only the woman looks in my direction. Her gaze is distinctly hostile.

  “That’s my nurse,” Zack explains.

  The woman nods once and gives me a little wave. If Zack says I’m okay, I’m okay. I nod in return, then head for the kitchen and a cup of coffee. When it comes to Zack’s visitors, it’s strictly don’t know and don’t want to know.

  Thirty minutes later, all three are out the door and I join Zack in the living room. I’m assuming he’ll leave his company and whatever they spoke about unmentioned. What with Carl Schmidt’s arrest, there’s plenty to talk about. But this time, Zack surprises me.

  “Big happenings,” he announces. “This city’s gonna explode when the news goes public.”

  “What news?”

  “A factory’s coming to Baxter. A car company? Amazon? Apple? I haven’t got all the pieces yet, but I know where they’re goin’.”

  “The Yards.”

  The response is meant as a joke, but it turns out the joke’s on me. “Exactly right, Git,” Zack tells me. “Once Baxter Packing closes, the Yards will be fully open to redevelopment. Yeah, there are still a couple of thousand residents, but they’re gonna be relocated to the eastern edge of the industrial zone. Like it or not.”

  “And they’re gonna live in what? Tents?”

  “Nope. They’re gonna live in new housing built with money supplied by the feds and the state. Them and another couple thousand new workers. And guess who’s gonna be part of the consortium that builds that housing?”

  “Consortium?”

  Zack laughs until he chokes, which doesn’t take all that long. “Yeah, consortium. If I said that word in a bar fifteen years ago, I woulda got beat up. But it’s happening, Git. There’s a new day comin’ for the Yards. Night when I close my eyes, I see a giant factory runnin’ three shifts. Small businesses lined up along new-paved streets. Traffic jams in and out, morning and night. The future’s on the way.”

  Maybe Zack’s future is bright, a sunrise on a cloudless morning, but it doesn’t help me any. I came home from his place an hour ago, at seven A.M., to find Connor Schmidt parked across the street. I couldn’t miss the car, a Lexus sedan, one of the few (and the only red one) in a town that prefers battered pickups. Connor was slumped behind the steering wheel, his head barely visible. He didn’t move when I pulled into our tiny driveway, got out, and walked into the house.

  Now it’s an hour later, and I’m feeding my daughter. Scrambled eggs with smal
l cubes of ham, apple juice, and two slices of whole-wheat toast. Charlie’s excited. Charlie’s scheduled to leave for a three-day overnight camp in less than an hour. The camp’s not free, but I signed her up because a number of her classmates will also be there. I didn’t want her to lose touch over the summer.

  Stupid? Especially because I’ll be leaving the city in a couple of weeks. But Charlie has yet to understand the consequences of our move, and I’m in no hurry to make them plain. We won’t be coming back, simple as that, and she’ll never see these kids again. She’ll have to make new friends in a town where just about everyone’s richer than her mother. A lot richer.

  Going back a day, that was my greatest fear. That we’d never belong, that Charlie would become a perpetual outsider. Now I’ve got Connor sitting across the street, and I’m thinking maybe he’ll solve my Charlie problem. Permanently.

  “Mommy, will Samantha be there?”

  Samantha is Charlie’s current best friend, her fourth this year.

  “Her mom says yes. I called yesterday.”

  “Can I have some more juice?”

  “Take your glass into the kitchen and pour it yourself. Carefully. Then get dressed. We have to be out of here in forty-five minutes, and you haven’t decided what you want to wear.”

  Charlie jumps off the couch, probably assuming the sooner she gets dressed, the sooner we’ll leave. The girl’s not big on clocks.

  “Connor’s gone,” Mom tells me once Charlie’s out of the room. “He drove off a couple of minutes ago.”

  “He never should have been here in the first place.”

  “There was no other way.”

  “Way to do what?”

  “To leave this town without having to look over your shoulder for the rest of your life. Or do you think New Jersey’s so far away that Connor won’t be able to find it?”

  “Nobody recognized me, even after the cops showed my photo.”

  “Except Henrietta. You know, the woman who made the hat? The woman you bought it from, using a credit card in your own name? And even if she doesn’t rat you out to Connor, that cop, Mariola, is sure to find her. If she hasn’t already.”

  She’s right. And Henrietta’s not the only one who’s seen me in the hat. A month ago, I wore the hat to a wedding. Have any of the guests phoned the cops? Has Henrietta? I don’t know, and I can’t ask. But I do know that if the cops identify the woman in the hat, they won’t keep it a secret. They can’t. Not after the press conference.

  The waiting has me on edge as I flash back to a day long ago. I’m nine years old, just a bit past Charlie’s age. Mom’s passed out on the couch, wearing a bra and panties. Her latest boyfriend’s drunk, too, but awake. His name is Harmon, and he’s sitting in a chair next to the couch, staring at Mom with a look in his eyes I already know well. I’m watching television in our minuscule living room. Watching television and definitely in the way. Harmon, he’s not the sort of guy who resists his impulses, probably why he’s been to state prison twice.

  “Get the fuck out of here, kid.”

  “It’s my house.”

  A casual kick to my shoulder sends me spinning. It also sets me straight. I’ve seen Harmon beat the crap out of my mother—who was giving almost as good as she got—and I want no part of the damage. I run out of the trailer and onto the tiny plot of cleared land around it.

  Now what? We’re more than a mile from the nearest house, and it’s midsummer. Aside from a small woodlot behind the trailer, the surrounding land is cultivated. Long rows of head-high cornstalks extend from all sides, narrowing in the distance to what seems like a solid wall. The most prominent distraction is a fallen oak, a giant torn up by a passing thunderstorm a few months earlier. The branches have yet to wither. They hold the trunk off the ground, creating a dark tunnel beneath. My cave.

  The property holds another attraction for me at age nine. A large pile of discarded junk. Not garbage, but ordinary household articles. Chipped dishes, cups with broken handles, a three-legged table, a wooden chair with no legs at all, a pair of cracked lamps, a collection of bent and battered pots.

  The best of these items have already been salvaged. I’ve arranged them in my cave to form what I think of as my other home. A home for me. A home for my imaginary friends.

  My cave home is especially enticing on this particular afternoon. The deep shadows beneath provide a refuge from the heat and from the sounds pouring through the trailer’s open windows.

  Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.

  The saddest part is that I know what those sounds mean. At nine years old.

  An opening among the tightly packed branches serves as my front door. There’s a rug on the ground, one end burned off, and a stained tablecloth on top of the rug. Cups and saucers, dinner plates, a teapot with no spout, bent knives and forks and spoons adorn the tablecloth. I’ve created a dining room that’s as close to the dining rooms I’ve seen on television as I can get it. A family’s dining room, peopled with the television-inspired community that fuels my imagination.

  My eyes close in the middle of an imaginary party, and I drift off. When I open them again, it’s well past sunset. Rising winds, a harbinger of thunderstorms I can hear in the distance, stir the drying leaves of the fallen oak. Farther away, the branches on a mix of birch, oaks, and aspens rattle like colliding bones, now loud, now fading. The moon as it dances along the edge of a fast-moving cloud throws vague and grotesque shadows across the patch of dirt behind the trailer. I’m hungry and scared, and young enough to believe in demons and devils, not to mention the flesh-eating zombies who populate Harmon’s favorite DVDs.

  Unable to move, I watch the corn sway back and forth, driven almost to the ground by gusts of wind that whip the branches on the trees into a frenzy. Hoping that Mom will come to get me, I look toward the trailer. I’m not comforted, though. Nor is my courage boosted by the appearance of an animal, a raccoon, at the edge of the yard. The coon rises on its hind legs, its nose extended, holding the pose for a few seconds before dropping to all fours. A moment later it vanishes into the forest of corn that surrounds us.

  At nine, I still think raccoons are cute. But there are other things out there as well, including coyotes and badgers that might want to eat a nine-year-old girl. I have to get inside.

  It’s about then that I notice that Harmon’s car is gone. Its absence boosts my courage. I no longer have to choose between Harmon’s temper and becoming a meal for a pack of hungry coyotes. Now all I have to do is cross fifty feet of hard-packed dirt and circle around to the front of the trailer. Where anything might be waiting.

  The wind picks up, and the first drops of rain speckle the dirt. That’s enough. I crawl between the branches, skyrocket around the trailer, and explode into the house. I find Mom in the bedroom, snoring away, but no sign of Harmon. There’s a third reward in the refrigerator. Two slices of American cheese and a plum, withered but still fresh enough to eat.

  A half hour later, I strap Charlie into the car seat. No sign of Connor as I pull away, heading uptown on Baxter Boulevard. Beside me, Charlie’s mouth doesn’t stop moving. What games, she wants to know, will they play? What will they eat? Who will be there? What if it rains? When does she have to come home? I alternate between working the mirrors and the vague answers distracted parents always give their children.

  I want Connor to be tailing me, and I don’t want Connor to be tailing me. I want to pretend that he’ll go away, but there’s no use pretending. I’m a woman with no man to protect me. A woman with a sick mom willing to rat her out and a young child who needs protecting of her own.

  Easy meat.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CONNOR

  I’m thinking I made a mistake. Rushing in. It’s too close to my father going down, too close to Mariola’s threats. Mariola wants me in prison—it’s like a crusade—and judging from her press conference, she’s gonna have the authority to pursue her ambitions. Chief Black and the mayor practically kissed her bull-
dyke ass. So maybe what I should’ve done after talkin’ to Celia Graham was step back and let things cool down before I went after the money. Because the money’s mine, no issue, no question about it. Maybe the broad—Gidget or whatever her name is—stole it from Bradley, but the money was never his. It was always mine.

  So I gotta do something, right? But I don’t gotta do it right now. Except I have to do it right now because I parked in front of her house, like the asshole I am, and the bitch saw me out there. She didn’t look like much, a mouse really, like her mom claimed. And the way her head jerked back, that fear look in her eyes? Bein’ in the loan-shark business, I’m real familiar with that look. I’ve seen it on the faces of a hundred trapped deadbeats. It turns me on, actually, and what I’m thinkin’ now is I can get my money back, no problem, if I catch her alone.

  The phone rings while I’m workin’ my way through a bowl of cereal instead of Mom’s waffles. It’s Augie. He’s got a line on a manager at Baxter Packing who wants a loan. This foreman claims he can provide exclusive access to Baxter workers if we ease up on his vig. And me, the first thought to work its way into my little brain? I’m bein’ set up. That’s how bad Mariola’s gotten to me.

  “How’d you meet this guy, Augie?”

  “At the Dew Drop. Frankie introduced him.”