The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  There was a knock on the front door, the sort of bold-timid rap that would not be denied. Wooten set off toward it, still half stooped from the pain in his guts. The knocking sounded again just as he reached the door.

  Suddenly furious, he jerked the handle so hard that he could feel something break beneath his closed fist. The lock. He’d forgotten to twist it open before turning the knob. And now it was broken.

  Richard Holmes was in the process of taking a protective step backward when the door flew open. His Vega idled in the driveway behind Wooten’s Ranchero. The unlit mahogany pipe was in its usual place between his clenched teeth. His usually serene eyes were blinking nervously as they stared at the ruined doorknob. There was an EarthWorks envelope in his right hand.

  “Richard. What is it? The twins …”

  “No, they’re fine. Crystal took them to Swensen’s.”

  Wooten waited as Holmes blinked a few more times, his lips nervously working the chewed stem. Then he handed Wooten the envelope.

  “I’m sorry, Earl.”

  Wooten took it from him. The letter was terse. A single paragraph, informing him that he was on indefinite leave as of immediately.

  “It’s not a personnel decision, Earl. It comes straight from Chicago.”

  Wooten folded the letter and placed it in his back pocket. He crumpled the envelope and let it fall into the perfectly manicured shrubs surrounding his front porch. Straight from Chicago. Although he should have anticipated this, it still came as a shock. He was out of a job. For the first time in over thirty years. There would be no AmericaWorks now. No percentage. No piece of the pie. He wouldn’t even be able to finish the city.

  Holmes plucked the pipe from his mouth.

  “I feel bad about this, Earl.”

  “Not bad enough to let somebody else write the letter,” Wooten said, though he couldn’t bring himself to feel the anger his words implied.

  “That’s not fair.”

  Wooten had to smile at that one.

  “Fair?” he asked. “You want fair, son, you best take your show on the road.”

  Holmes stared at him helplessly for a moment, then took the bigger man’s advice and walked quickly back to his idling car.

  She still wore her uniform. Mookie was in his corner, making noises. She stepped aside to let him pass, her eyes tracking him closely. It was strange to think how furious he’d been with her a few days ago. And now it meant nothing. He collapsed on her busted couch, the pangs still gnawing at his guts. She stood uncertainly above him. Mookie gargled a few seconds of meaningless laughter.

  “I heard about your son,” she said softly.

  He looked up at her.

  “I had a cousin raped a white girl down in D.C. Man didn’t get him until he was in Lorton. They said he hung hisself.”

  “I’m hungry,” Wooten said.

  She accepted this as a natural progression in the conversation.

  “I’ll fix you something up. You want eggs? I ain’t got no bacon.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Eggs.”

  She went into the kitchen and pulled a pan from the sink’s stagnant puddle. He stood unsteadily and followed her. She was wiping it clean with a paper towel.

  “You look bad, Earl,” she said.

  “Why did you do it?” he asked wearily.

  “Do what?”

  “Tell about us.”

  “I didn’t have no choice.”

  “No choice?”

  “He told me he would throw us out back to Anacostia.”

  Wooten stared at her a moment.

  “Who?”

  “What?”

  “Who told you he’d throw you out?”

  She turned to look at him.

  “Mr. Swope. Who you think?”

  “Austin Swope talked to you?”

  “Uh hunh. Came here last Thursday and told me I best tell him what was what atween us else he’d cancel my lease and tell the clinic not to see Mookie no more.”

  The pain in Wooten’s guts was radiating to his legs and chest. His head felt light.

  “I don’t understand. Did you write Swope a letter as well as Ardelia?”

  She was holding the pan at her side. Water ran from it onto the blistered floor.

  “What letter?” she asked. “I ain’t write no letter.”

  On the other side of the apartment, the boy started laughing again. Wooten became aware of another sound. A siren, somewhere in the city.

  Swope had been here.

  He stood and walked over to her phone, the pain once again almost doubling him over. Sally answered on the twelfth ring. There was a vague, underwater quality to her voice.

  “Oh. Earl. Austin’s not here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “He went to Newton Plaza to deal with the emergency.”

  So that’s what they were calling it now. He began to hang up.

  “Earl?”

  He put the phone back to his ear.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry. About how things have turned out. You know?”

  Wooten hung up without another word. She was still watching him from the galley kitchen. Mookie had begun to rock. It would be hours until he stopped.

  Swope had been here. Swope knew.

  “I have to go,” Wooten said.

  “You don’t want no eggs?”

  “No,” he said softly. “I’m not so hungry now.”

  “You gonna be back?”

  Wooten stared at her for a long moment.

  “I don’t know what I’m going to be.”

  As he stepped out onto the concrete landing the siren’s wail seemed to grow louder. It was heading into the heart of Fogwood. Wooten tracked it heedlessly, still trying to make sense of what he’d just discovered. Swope had been to unit 27. He knew. Which meant that whoever had sent the letter had made good their threat to contact others. Wooten wracked his brain to think of who it could have been. One of the other cafeteria women. Though Alice swore they didn’t know. And the neighbors—Wooten couldn’t even remember setting eyes on a single one during the entire course of his visits. Whoever it was, they’d told Austin, who’d come down to find out for himself.

  Wooten gave his head a rueful shake. Funny how long he’d feared just this happening. People finding out. But now that it was known it didn’t matter. He might as well have been caught jaywalking. Because there was only one thing in his life now. His son was behind bars and he still didn’t know what he was going to do about it.

  A second siren joined the first, this one coming to life somewhere beyond the city limits. Wooten walked heavily down the concrete steps, picturing the moment tomorrow when his son stood before Spivey and admitted his guilt. At least they’d have him home before long. Though what kind of home it would be was anybody’s guess. His father out of work and probably out of the house, permanently unforgiven by Ardelia.

  How did it get so bad, so fast?

  A third siren began to sound as he reached the Ranchero. A fire at somebody’s house, he thought idly. Probably nothing. Some grease flared up or an appliance started smoking. By tomorrow it would be forgotten. He opened the door and lowered himself into the car. But before he could slot the key into the ignition, it occurred to him that he didn’t know where to go. Home was no good and he would never go back to 27. There was Cannon City, or course, though they would want him to decide down there and he wasn’t ready for that. Mary’s Bar BQ, the office—suddenly, everywhere seemed off limits to him. You spend five years building a city and then in the course of a few days you become a pariah in it.

  A noise startled him. Shouts and curses. A half dozen boys had emerged from a stairwell, laughing and hollering as they tore across the parking lot. They were black. Joel’s age. The fisted handle of a pick stuck up from the leader’s head. They moved as if they’d been summoned by the gathering sirens. Wooten watched as they tore past the Dumpsters, joining the bike path for a few yards before turning off into the t
hin scrim of woods guarding Zeno’s Way. He slotted his key into the ignition. But before he could turn the motor over his arm froze, paralyzed by a sudden realization that caused his heart to start pounding in the great cavity of his chest.

  She’d said Thursday. Swope had come by the apartment on Thursday. But Ardelia didn’t get the letter until Friday. Wooten had talked to her late Thursday night and she clearly hadn’t read it, bidding him a sweet good night after quiet talk about daily things. There was no chance Swope would have heard from the mysterious author before her—who-ever wrote the letter had said he or she was only thinking about telling others. Which meant that Austin must have found out some other way.

  Maybe he’d known for weeks. Months. But then why had he chosen just a few hours before Ardelia was told to visit the apartment? And why had he threatened Alice with expulsion unless she told him the truth? It was almost as if his visit was the cause of the letter, rather than the other way around.

  Suddenly, Wooten understood. In one of those thudding beats of his heart, everything became clear. Swope had heard the rumor. Of course. This was Austin Swope. Nothing happened in this city without him knowing about it. He’d heard the rumor that Earl Wooten was about to be named city manager and he’d believed it. Just like Wooten had. And he’d found out about the Chicago trip—Wooten remembered turning aside some vague question at the party about his meeting with Savage. Which must have been Swope’s way of probing him. And Wooten had lied. So Swope had hurt him. Found out about 27 and used it. Got someone to write the letter or maybe even done it himself. Thinking he was fighting back. He knew how Swope could be when he was crossed. Dangerous as a rabid animal. He’d seen it a dozen times, watched in awe as he turned his enemies to dust.

  Which meant that it was Swope who’d been responsible for the dozen other small catastrophes that had plagued Wooten this past week. They were no coincidences, no run of bad luck brought on by his infidelity. Swope had been doing this to him. Probably using a security guard or off-duty deputy. All because of a rumor started by Savage to put the fear in Swope and placate the boys in Afro-Am. He’d put the fear in him all right. And Swope sent it right back at Wooten.

  This had to be true. It was the only way the insanity of the last few days made sense.

  Oh, sweet Jesus, Wooten thought. Joel. Swope had done that as well. He’d put Joel behind bars. For some reason Teddy had caused that girl to drown and now his father, possessed by a sudden hatred for Wooten, was making it seem like Joel had killed her. Savings his son and destroying Wooten at the same time. It explained everything. Why he wouldn’t help. Why Teddy had turned against Joel. Why the authorities were so eager for him to plead guilty. Swope had thought he was being betrayed and so he fought back. Wooten was sure of it. He knew how the man thought.

  He started his car and gunned the engine. He had to get over to Newton Plaza and straighten this out before it was too late. Have Swope call off whatever dogs he’d loosed. Let him know that he had nothing to fear. Because that’s all this was. Misunderstanding and fear. There was nothing here that couldn’t be fixed once the truth was out.

  He almost sideswiped a state police cruiser hauling ass toward Fog-wood as he pulled onto the pike. Wooten fell in behind it, using its speed to mask his own. He became aware of more sirens, at least a dozen of them now swirling around Newton. He made a bend and the Pavilion’s canopy came into view. Just ahead the cruiser turned abruptly off the pike onto one of the residential streets lining the lake’s north shore. Wooten looked down the street as he came parallel to it. Flame hovered over somebody’s perfect lawn. A dozen people had gathered around. The police car’s headlights illuminated a man in the process of pulling a garden hose toward the burning lamp. Which would only make it worse. Fool’d wind up knocking off the housing and then there’d be no getting near it. Wooten pulled over to the shoulder, knowing that he had to double back and help these people.

  But a thought struck him as his tires crackled to a stop on the shoulder’s gravel. He was suspended. His son was in prison. There was no time to help anybody. They’d have to figure out how to quench the fire for themselves. His foot found the gas pedal. Tonight, they were on their own. Just like him.

  He passed another fire a few blocks later, this one attended by the same loose congregation of impotent onlookers. There was a Cannon County deputy in attendance, though his activity seemed limited to keeping people out of harm’s way. Once again Wooten felt himself lured toward the crisis, though the feeling was weaker this time, easier to deny. As he passed a third fire at the northwestern corner of the lake he knew that the system was failing. The egghead from Chicago was right. It was in the design. Valves would keep popping now like buttons on a fat man’s shirt until somebody turned off the main trunk line. And even then there would be additional fires as the gas already in the system bled off. The blazes would go on until after midnight.

  He saw the burning man just before he reached the mall. The terrifying image flashed by so quickly it was hard to be sure that it was real. A flaming human figure, arms spread wide as it raced along a small cul-de-sac. Cyclonic afterimages marked its course. Wooten slammed on the brakes and reversed back to the street’s entrance. But by the time he got there the figure was gone. The only movement was a sole ruptured gaslight, burning unattended in front of the street’s last house.

  Just go, Wooten said. Save your boy.

  Newton Plaza came into view. Although it was almost nine o’clock, lights shone right across the wall of glass. Everybody would be there. Including Swope. Wooten realized he hadn’t figured out what he was going to say when he saw him. If he was going to confront him with the truth or try to outfox him. Though he quickly realized there was no choice. He could never contend with Swope at deception. The last few days had proven that. The truth was the only way. It was all he had left.

  The wild boys reappeared just before he turned into the Plaza’s parking lot, streaking directly in front of the speeding Ranchero. They were still laughing and hollering, giddy with the night’s anarchy. Some carried looted things, radios and clothes. Wooten slammed on his brakes and swerved hard to the left, almost losing control as he wrestled the car into the parking lot. Haphazardly parked sedans blocked the way to his space. He left the Ranchero at a far corner and jogged to the main entrance. The security guard rose from his desk when he saw Wooten crossing the lobby, nervously wiping the palms of his hands on his polyester trousers.

  “Mr. Wooten, I have instructions that you are not to be admitted,” he said uncertainly.

  Wooten stopped and stared at the man. Getting by him would be no problem. But that would be foolish. It would give Swope the excuse he needed to let others handle this for him.

  “I’ve been reinstated to deal with the crisis,” he said sternly.

  “Really? Nobody called down.”

  “They haven’t had time.”

  The guard hesitated.

  “Look,” Wooten continued, “you hear the sirens? They got a new fire every two minutes out there. You want to be responsible for a few more houses burning down or you want to let me through so I can tell them where the goddamned off switch is?”

  “Go,” the guard said, moving aside, even though he wasn’t in the way.

  An elevator door opened the moment he touched the arrow. The ride up seemed to take no time at all. The door to the executive suite had been propped open with a flower pot. Wooten passed the empty reception desk and quickly crossed the shadowy expanse of the secretarial bullpen. Track lighting burned in the corridor leading to Swope’s office. He could hear voices. The door of the hallway’s first office was open, its floor-to-ceiling window affording a view of the northern and eastern parts of the city. Despite his urgency, what he saw stopped Wooten in his tracks. After several long seconds he crossed the empty office to get a better look.

  The city was in flames. There were at least fifty gaslight fires burning in every occupied neighborhood. The sight reminded him of an East Texas oil
field he’d once seen during his road-laying days. The main concentration of fire seemed to be on the trunk line running through Fogwood and Mystic Hills, the flickering flames configured like stars on the belt of some celestial entity. The jagged line of fire crossed Merlin’s Way, where a lamp he guessed to be Martin O’Brien’s burned just a hundred yards away from his own house. There were red and blue lights of emergency vehicles everywhere, moving helplessly among the fires. Wooten began to detect other flames in the city, structural fires whose existence could not be explained by the gas surge. The frames of two unfinished houses. Dumpsters at Fogwood Center and Renaissance Heights. He remembered that rampaging pack, roaming the city with the knowledge that the police had greater things on their minds.

  Urgent voices sounded in the hall, moving quickly away from Swope’s office. Wooten remembered why he was here. He waited in the darkness as a group of men passed. They were mostly engineers, though there were also a few familiar faces from Wooten’s own construction gang. Their voices were both grim and thrilled, like a team about to take the field. When they were gone he stepped back into the hallway and walked silently down to Evelyn’s anteroom. As he entered he could hear a familiar voice speaking being Swope’s half-open door. He stepped into a dark corner just as Chad Sherman emerged.

  “Oh, and Chad,” Swope called after him.

  He wheeled.

  “No need to say anything about that guy who got himself burned.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure you emphasize that the problem is being dealt with by the county authorities. Let people draw their own conclusions about where the blame lies.”

  “Gotcha.”

  After Sherman disappeared Wooten listened for a moment to make sure no one had been left behind. There was only silence. He stepped into the doorway. Swope stood at the far side of the model, staring out the window at the pulsing lights. Smoke from a recently lit Tiparillo wreathed his head.

  “Austin.”

  He turned quickly, his blue-gray eyes flexing in quickly mastered surprise.