by Ed Miracle
Parker excused himself and left the building. He had flown to Washington, taken a room, rented a car, and would soon fly home again, at his own expense. But Nick Brayley had personally vetoed his plan.
Early that morning when he told Ms. Lavery he’d failed, she demanded he stop trying to use people and to get Tiffany out of there, meaning the Cardoza ranch. He said he would try to persuade her, but unless Tiffany was being held against her will, there was little he could do. He didn’t elaborate his troubles with Brayley but said goodbye to Ms. Lavery and took the only flight back to Oakland. Thirty-thousand feet over Tennessee, he poured a warm scotch down his gullet hoping to dissolve a clot of self-pity.
Now, as his taxi turned north from the Hegenberger industrial corridor, Prospect Shores appeared ahead. Its sweeping curves and shaded balconies reclined at the bay’s edge, a dark beauty lounging in sun glasses. Whether or not the Machen Foundation built it to subvert its residents, Prospect Shores was the best thing to happen in south Oakland in recent years. After his divorce, keeping his apartment there had been a singular and welcome consolation.
“Check it out,” the driver said. Onto Oakport Street from the Prospect Shores parking garage emerged a trio of canary-yellow Ferraris, little-bird coupes, revving ostentatiously before zooming away. Parker noted their identical license plates and shook his head.
“Glad I’m not a street cop.”
The driver agreed. “Too much fun, heh? I should get me one of those. Some kind of hot Yellow Cab, yeh? Just one passenger, but reeeeeal fast.” She laughed as she circled to the PS drop-off curb.
Parker paid with his Cambiar and tipped her fifty percent. “Short ride,” he said.
Then he drew the tow handle from his case and headed for the lobby, his white London Fog draped over one arm. He’d never seen the place so busy.
Half the visitor’s parking lot was cordoned off for vendors and traders. Foot traffic came and went through a narrow gate on Oakport Street. Prospect Shores security guards were wanding each visitor and inspecting their sacks and boxes while residents marched to and from the building hauling similar bundles.
Had someone set up a Maker over there? Bored vendors were peddling food, clothing, and small stuff from canopied tables, with little success, while the principle activity seemed to be the furtive sharing along a shadowy wall. Those people were animated, excited as kids sharing forbidden things under the school bleachers. In one corner, a chubby white guy in a bright red Aloha shirt was extolling the virtues of a silver Aston Martin to a young Indian couple. Behind him, a navy blue Rolls Royce and a creamy white Bentley stood in reserve. It was some crazy swap meet, but no Makers were in sight.
Across the driveway, that WebNews correspondent, Marcy Johnson, was posing for her Arab cameraman. Before Parker could turn away, they spotted him.
“If you’re here,” she shouted, “he must still be free.”
Parker shrugged.
“Did you come to bust the Freemakers?”
“Turn it off,” he said.
The camera sloughed from Aboud’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” the kid said, but Ms. Johnson was admiring Parker’s London Fog.
“Not much weather today,” she said.
Parker didn’t like this woman, didn’t want to speak with her, yet couldn’t resist.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded. Then she noticed the key card in his hand. “You live here? How does that work?”
“Bit of a comedown for both of us,” he said, indicating the swap meet. “From fugitives to zucchinis.”
She nodded. “Our story is the biggest Freemaker enclave in California.”
He looked again for Makers, while another Ferrari growled onto Oakport Street.
She saw it too. “How about an interview?”
“You know I can’t.”
She crossed the driveway and approached him while Aboud waited.
“We can blank-out your face, disguise your voice. Nobody will know it’s you.”
“No can do.” He jiggled the handle of his case.
“What’s it like these days,” she said, “being an officer of the law? Sworn to serve and to protect, but not so sure who or why?”
He turned for the lobby.
She called after him, “Nobody gives you guys enough credit.”
He stopped, knowing he shouldn’t.
“For having a brain,” she said. “Or a heart.”
Damn. When he looked, she rocked her hips. Backfield in motion, penalty on the play. He abandoned his valise, took out his Cambiar, and laid it in her hand.
“Give me your number.”
She keyed ten digits into his directory.
“Can you get us into the meeting tonight?” Her smile turned Playmate-of-the-Month.
He snatched the phone and quirked an eyebrow. “What meeting?”
“The big enchilada—a Maker referendum.”
He missed the intended pocket in his jacket, and his Cambiar slid toward the pavement. “I’ve been away,” he said, as he doubled over to capture the phone.
She smirked. “Seven o’clock tonight,” she said. “Can you get us inside?”
“You’re not members.” He only meant that the media were barred from homeowner’s meetings, but her nostrils flared.
“I see.”
He needed to leave, to not be seen with her. “Have a nice day, Ms. Johnson.”
He pocketed the phone, recovered his suitcase, and towed it into the building. At the far end of the lobby, he swiped his card, passed through a turnstile, and crossed the airy promenade. Sure enough, a middle-aged duo in red-white-and-blue election bibs were manning a table and offering clipboards.
“Sign the petition, sir?”
Their poster said Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and they wore buttons touting the Prospect Shores Barter Club. Signs at the next table urged, Just Say NO to Makers and Recall the Board. A third table—manned by a flock of white balloons—said Freemakers for Peace and Repeal the Ban.
He stopped to phone his neighbor, Mrs. Petzold.
“We need to talk,” he said.
“Are you home, Leslie?”
“Crossing the lobby.”
“Stay there, please.” She used her political voice, the one she wielded at Board meetings.
Two minutes later she strode from an elevator with Prospect Shores’ Security Chief, Sergio Mangabay, in his official blue uniform. The chief’s Filipino tan and spiky crew cut belied the fifty-plus years on his odometer. The men nodded to each other as Mrs. Petzold drew Parker into her wake.
“Follow us, please.”
For a seventy-year-old retired school teacher, Lucille Petzold was a white-haired torpedo in a green pantsuit. They dodged a potted ficus where Parker dumped his belongings, then proceeded outside, across the driveway. Through a gap in the privets, they entered the visitor’s lot. Lucille zoomed straight for the pudgy car salesman, accosting him without mercy.
“Mister Gastelle.”
The man responded amiably until he recognized her.
“Lucille.” His smile turned toward Los Angeles. “Always a pleasure.”
His pleasure vanished entirely when Mrs. Petzold planted her feet and crossed her arms.
“I want that Barter Club Maker of yours out of here today. Muy pronto. Comprende?”
Gastelle affected amusement, glanced at Chief Mangabay, then at Parker.
“You’re calling in The Heat?”
“Shawn Gastelle, meet Special Agent Parker, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Gastelle grimaced.
“Agent Parker does not know the location of your Maker, but if you and Shawn Junior do not shut it down and remove it from the premises by sunset today, I am going to tell him where to find it—and what to do with you.”
“You got me, ma’am.” Gastelle raised a hand. “We are just a little slow to comply, that’s all.” To his left, Marcy Johnson and the Aboud kid had arrived.
“No need for the strong arm,” Gas
telle said, “or the press. We’re loyal, paid-up residents here, just helping folks acquire a fine automobile on a lovely spring day.”
“And don’t leave any messes up there,” Mrs. Petzold said. “I want that area spotless.” She turned and strode away.
Gastelle approached Parker.
“No offense, friend, but are you really a Special Agent?”
Parker checked his watch, glanced at the sun. “One way to find out, friend.”
Gastelle bobbed his head. “Yes, sir. Have a nice day, sir.”
He seemed disappointed that the news team was not filming his cars. He adjusted his collar and retreated to the Bentley while Mrs. Petzold confronted the journalists.
“What are you doing here?”
Marcy introduced herself. “We’re from WebNews. Are you Mrs. Petzold?”
Lucille looked her up and down, then Aboud.
“I got your message,” she said. “You can’t film inside, and you can’t come to the meeting.” She glanced at Parker. “As a board member, I should not be seen with any of you.” She turned to leave.
Marcy called after her, “Would you give us a few minutes, please? Just a short interview?”
Lucille motioned to Parker, drew him toward a winking display of electronic gizmos.
“She’s that same girl, isn’t she? The one who interviewed you-know-who? I can’t be seen with her, Leslie. People will say I’m taking sides. But I need her to set things straight about Prospect Shores. Would you be a dear? Take them up to your place while I skedaddle?”
“I just got home.”
“Please.” She touched his arm.
“What’s this about a referendum?”
“Maybe more than one,” she said. “But we need this. Steam is building up.” Her knuckles looked pink and healthy today. No gloves. “I’ll join you in a few minutes. I promise.”
“I can’t . . . I just got . . . all right.”
“Thank you, Leslie.” And she was off at full speed, Chief Mangabay in tow.
Parker approached the journalists.
“This is not my idea,” he said. “You’re to come with me, if you wish.”
At the visitor’s desk, the attendant took their photos and thumbprints and issued one-day badges. Their video equipment went into a locker, for which they were given a key. Parker led them through the turnstile, past the petitioners, and gathered his belongings from the stalwart ficus. In the elevator, Marcy broke the silence.
“So, Agent Parker. Are you a Buy-in, or a Move-in?”
He was surprised she knew the difference. Half of Prospect Shores’ 550 units had been donated, via lottery, to Fruitvale District residents who paid only the Homeowner’s Association dues when they moved in, plus taxes. This was popular with Fruitvale but detested by the other members who paid full price.
“Buy-in,” Parker said. “My ex had money.”
“Oh. Sorry. About there being an ex, I mean.”
At floor nine, he led them to his apartment. Lights on, door shut, he dumped his case and strode through the living room to part the drapes. Someone in the estuary below was sailing in zero wind, enjoying the calm. Or cursing it. To the west, a weary sun was casting lines and shadows from the Alameda shore. To his left, a silver airliner ascended from Oakland International and banked away toward the outer bay, the one called San Francisco. He had always loved this view, and it refreshed him now.
Marcy strolled behind him, appraising the silk wallpaper, the damask armchairs, the floral sofa. She stopped at his Tuscan oils.
“Nice digs. Are you gay?”
Aboud staggered behind her.
“My ex had taste,” Parker said, not adding that he had chosen every piece himself. “As for me, I prefer Guinness. Would you care for one?”
“No, thanks.”
Aboud was fingering the granite counter that separated the kitchen from the dining nook. “I’d like one, please.”
Parker repaired to the kitchen and Marcy followed.
“So this is it,” she said. “A Freemaker enclave. Every apartment has its own private view and its own private Maker. Where’s yours, by the way?”
He pointed without looking. “Utility closet, end of the hall. It’s a Pod, not a Maker.”
“I hear your neighbors are using their cones, most of the Move-ins, anyway. What about the Buy-ins?”
Parker handed Aboud a pilsner glass and sipped from another. The cool, thick ale nearly made up for Ms. Johnson’s prying. Before he could respond, however, someone double-tapped the front door. He didn’t need the entry camera to know it was Mrs. P. When he opened the door and she swept inside, one of Chief Mangabay’s huskier constables assumed a vigilant pose in the corridor. Parker nodded to him and locked the door.
“They’re all yours, Madam President.”
“Get a grip, Leslie. They’re just kids.” She joined them at the counter and perched on a stool.
“Here’s the deal,” she said to the reporters. “I talk, you listen. No recordings, no quotations. I don’t have time to argue.”
They nodded.
“Eighteen hundred people live here, and I’m responsible, along with the rest of the Board. That doofus with the Bentley downstairs—”
“Mr. Gastelle?”
“—is one of our more active members. He and his son sell exotic cars through the internet, and they swap them with members of our Barter Club. Before the ban, they took a Maker up to the roof of the parking garage and quadrupled its cone sizes. Anyway, they’ve been copying cars up there even though we told them to stop. Oakland cops won’t touch them because the ban is Federal, and because Oakland has bigger problems. I don’t know if Leslie is supposed to arrest anybody, and I don’t care, so long as Gastelle dismantles that oversize Maker. It’s provocative, and he knows it.”
Behind her, Parker was loading his coffee maker. Marcy took the stool beside Mrs. P.
“Is Gastelle a Freemaker?”
Mrs. P lowered her voice.
“We don’t use that word around here, dear. There’s enough trouble already.”
“Like what?”
Lucille sighed. “Don’t tell Mister FBI over there, but the board has received warnings slipped under our doors.”
“Threats?”
Mrs. P nodded.
“Sergio—our security chief—he thinks it’s just one person, some nutcase. The notes said if we hold a referendum on Makers, we will be shot. The goofy part is, this could be coming from either side, pro or con. It’s that crazy.”
“I checked your Codes, Covenants, and Restrictions,” Marcy said. “The Board can’t stop a plebiscite if the members collect enough signatures.”
Mrs. P nodded, impressed. “Takes a hundred valid signatures to bring a petition up for a vote,” she said. “But we need to do this. So far, it’s been gossip and dirty looks, and the rumors keep escalating on both sides.” She shook her head. “People are letting their imaginations run wild. We have to get them talking sensibly, face-to-face. That’s why we need this meeting, and why I need you to get your story straight.” She eyeballed Marcy. “We also need as many voting members present as possible, just in case.” She glanced over her shoulder at Parker.
He set a steaming mug of coffee before her.
“Thank you, Leslie.”
He took the fourth stool and sipped his ale.
“So what’s the plan?” Marcy said.
“We are going to fight the polarization. Get them talking instead of whispering terrible things about each other.”
Aboud tipped his glass toward her. “When they vote, which side will win?”
“Hard to say.” Mrs. Petzold sipped her coffee. “It depends on which petitions get enough signatures. If none qualify, I’ll push for comments and discussion, sense of the membership, that sort of thing. No matter what happens, we have to get people talking. And listening.”
“How many petitions are circulating?”
“Four, at last count.” In her hip pocket, a Ca
mbiar sputtered like a cicada.
Parker leaped up, grabbed the edge of the counter, and said, “Rattlesnake!”
Marcy drew back.
Mrs. Petzold shoved him and giggled. Her cheeks dimpled as she took up the phone.
“Yes?” She looked surprised and gave it to Parker. “For you.”
He said his name, and a voice responded. “Transferring your call, ma’am.” Then Nedra Gaffin, his long-lost partner, commenced pounding.
“Turn on your phone, jackass. Majers is passing peach pits over here trying to reach you.”
Parker turned away from his guests. “I’m available tomorrow, as per my leave chit, the one approved by His Majesty.”
“All leave is canceled. Headquarters wants every office to enforce the Maker ban, top priority. Majers is putting together a joint task force with the local PD and the U.S. Marshal’s Service. He wants you down here, post haste.”
“I just returned from Washington.”
“The first raid’s tonight. At your place.”
He gasped. Here? He mashed the phone hard onto his ear, so the pressure would quell his urge to argue.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said and pressed End. So we’re going to enforce the law and make an example of my neighbors. Not what he wanted to do tonight, or any other time.
He doubted Majers would send anyone to fetch him. Nedra would not reveal his return unless she was asked directly, so he had a few minutes. Mrs. P was more important than missing the raid briefing, a thought which surprised him, yet there it was.
“We are not Freemakers. Is that clear?” Lucille was urging Marcy. “Prospect Shores has the same issues as everybody else. Except if Congress bans Powerpods, too. Then Prospect goes dark and cold, water pressure falls to zero, and our homes become uninhabitable. The anti-Maker crowd wants us to connect to the PG&E power grid, but that would take months and cost a fortune. Meanwhile, we’re trying to do the best thing here.”
Parker gazed at Aboud. What might he know about Tiffany Lavery?
“Any new faces at the ranch?”
Aboud returned a steady gaze. “Should there be?”
Marcy ignored them. “Can you get us into the meeting, Mrs. Petzold?”
Lucille shook her head.
“No, but Sergio can put you on his staff, as ushers. No recordings or transmissions. You can report everything later when we’re done. You got that?”