“You flatter us.” Michelle reached out and touched Babs’s forearm. “How do you know we won’t make it worse?”
Babs laughed. “Honey, could it get any worse?”
Driving back to the office in the old big-ass Chevy truck that Jeep had given her, the 454 engine rumbling like a distant thunderstorm, Mags wondered about Babs’s question. She banished dark thoughts. Concentrate on moving forward.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We think of prostitutes as women. We’re wrong.” Patrick Wentworth—dressed in Wranglers, cowboy boots, a Western shirt and boots, and a lined leather vest for the cold—spoke to the camera.
230 Spring Street was behind him.
Knocking back their morning caffeine blast, Jeep and Mags, along with Carlotta, watched the tiny TV in the large kitchen. The huge old round clock read seven-fifteen A.M.
“Brad Heydt, twenty years old, was found dead yesterday by his neighbor, another squatter here in the Spring district. He was a rent boy, a male prostitute, and he died of AIDS. Spring Street is four blocks away from Yolanda Street, Cracktown. Vice is spreading over our city like a stain. Vote for me and I’ll clean up this filth.”
“I will kill that bastard. With my bare hands!” Jeep slammed the table so hard that coffee jumped out of the cup. “He died of starvation. This is an outrage. I will kill Wentworth!”
Carlotta, bracelets jingling, wordless, wiped up the mess and refilled her mother-in-law’s cup. She loved Jeep, had seen all her moods, and knew to keep quiet for a bit.
“Oh, Aunt Jeep, that poor kid.”
“Who did Wentworth pay off to find out that boy’s identity? And where are his next of kin? I will kill. I mean it.” The old lady’s face, now crimson, bore a frightening determination.
“Oh, Momma”—Carlotta twirled her hand upward—“make it slow. Swift death is too good for him.”
After this brought a bark of approval from Jeep, Carlotta winked at Mags while she patted her own heart. Carlotta feared intense emotion might set off a heart attack in Jeep. The fact that the Reed line was notoriously long-lived did not dissuade her from her worry. Carlotta lived to love, to nurture, to fret over everyone whom she cared about, which seemed to include just about the whole world. The moment she’d met someone, anyone, she knew, just knew, they would be good friends. She was right.
Jeep put her head in her hands, then picked it up again. “Mags, we’re shooting our appeal for food today at the TV station. I want to look good.”
“A hint of violet. Oh, she will be so beautiful.” Carlotta loved anything involving color.
“And your Wranglers,” Mags added.
“Bet Wentworth wears the relaxed size.” Carlotta poofed. “My husband still wears the same size he did when we were married and he looks good.”
Both Jeep and Mags smiled because a fellow with a tight butt did look divine in Wranglers. A girl could lose her composure way too fast.
“Should I wear a scarf to hide my wrinkled neck?” Jeep was now getting excited.
Carlotta shook her head vigorously. “No. Your silver necklace that the Navajo chief gave you years ago. The one with the square-cut lapis lazuli.”
“Chief Eddie.” Jeep beamed. “He would be proud of what I’m going to do.”
Chief Eddie, gone to his reward, entertained Jeep many times and vice versa. She adored his outlook on life, his fantastic sense of balance and proportion, and she discovered Navajos can do a lot more than make gorgeous jewelry. Chief Eddie was a wonder in bed.
After seeing that nasty ad, Babs Gallagher picked up her cell and called Asa Chartris. “Asa.”
“Babs.”
“Did you just see Patrick Wentworth’s ad?”
“Yes. Jennifer called me into the den to see it.”
Jennifer was Asa’s second wife, his first dying tragically young, many years ago.
“I had listings on many of those properties and as I recall when you all picked up the pieces of Truckee Amalgamated, you also picked up those foreclosed properties,” Babs said.
“We did.”
“Asa, you, Jeep, and I had a productive meeting about how to revive that area, which is good for me, good for you.”
“I certainly thought so.”
“Patrick Wentworth has just made this a lot harder. He should have stayed focused on Cracktown.”
“Yes. I suppose he has.”
“Pull your support,” urged Babs. “Your bank has given Patrick Wentworth contributions, has it not? Cut the faucet and publicly disavow him.”
While not brilliant, Asa was a man of above-average intelligence. He grappled with this. He did not want Reno Sagebrush dragged into this. Nor did he want to unduly upset his boss, the bank president.
“Babs, I think I can get the campaign funding cut off. A public disavowal might be more difficult. Let me talk to some folks.”
After he hung up the phone he called his old mentor, Howie Norris, who had yet to see the incendiary ad. Asa explained it all as best he could.
Howie’s reaction was clear. “Cut the cord, just like Babs suggests. Then do nothing. If the bank is publicly attacked for supporting Wentworth in the past, you respond that you support revitalization but believe he is going about it in the wrong way.”
“Did I tell you the dead kid was a male prostitute?” Asa half mumbled.
“No. It won’t make any difference if you think pulling campaign support will bring the wrath of the anti-gay people on your head. Furthermore, they rarely have enough personal funds to upset our assets, so to speak, should they boycott the bank.”
“Right.” Asa tried to sound bolder.
“Can you imagine, Asa, can you imagine being a kid, alone, and dying in a foreclosed house? I don’t give a damn how you’ve had to scramble for a living.”
“No, Howie, I can’t imagine it.”
“People like Wentworth make life more difficult for all of us. The Wentworths of the world love laws. They particularly like enforcing them no matter how specious those laws might be. Never, never forget the Volstead Act, which made drinking liquor illegal. What it cost our nation will never be fully known, but one thing it did cost is a loss of respect for government and law enforcement. It’s like a fever that subsides and then flares up again.”
Asa was not relishing a history lesson about Prohibition. He voiced his agreement, and he did agree up to a point. “Howie, I may need you again.”
“Whatever it takes, Asa. I’ll always be on the Reno Sagebrush team.”
“Thank God,” Asa said, then said goodbye.
As that conversation unfolded, so did a much shorter one. Having gotten hold of his personal cellphone number, Michelle Speransky called Patrick Wentworth.
If Patrick had been less arrogant he would have realized her nimbleness, her ability to pry open closed doors.
“Michelle.”
“Patrick. A good politician does not fail to listen to good advice. You are going to lose this campaign.”
“I’ve heard that before.” He flipped her the bird with his free right hand as his left held the cell to his ear.
“I’m sure you have, but you haven’t heard it from me before.” She hung up.
The person whom this political ad affected the most was Bunny Matthews. Drinking coffee on his living room sofa, he watched it in horror.
“Twinkie.” He’d phoned his workmate.
“Yeah.” Twinkie knew an early call meant Bunny would be late or something was up.
“Cover for me at work. I’ll be in as soon as possible. I’ll explain when I get there.”
“Consider your ass covered.” Twinkie asked no questions. Why? Bunny was his friend. Twinkie considered questions needy. He wasn’t a needy man.
Bunny hopped into his truck and tore down to Spring Street. Parking right in front of 141 Spring Street, he saw some people with cameras shooting the exterior of 230 Spring Street. He didn’t know if they were newspaper people or gawkers. He didn’t much care.
He knocked on the door. “Irene. Irene. It’s Bunny.”
Wrapped in a furry robe, she opened the door. CeCe shot past her to launch herself onto Bunny.
“Oh, Bunny. A man’s been found dead,” said Irene, face drained of color. She looked like fear itself.
“You’re coming with me, Irene. This is no place for you and CeCe.” Bunny walked inside, putting CeCe down.
He spoke to the child, “Get your things, honey.” Then he focused on Irene. “This isn’t safe. I’m taking you where you’ll be safe.”
“Bunny, I can’t pay you any rent. I have nothing.”
“Leave that to me. I could never live with myself if something happened to you and my angel. Now come on. Tell me what to do and we’ll be out of here.”
They could hear CeCe’s rapid footsteps as she gathered her meagre belongings. She rushed out into the barren living room with her little sweater, coat, and some underpants in her arms.
“Uncle Bunny, don’t forget my ’cycle.”
“Oh, I won’t forget that. You have to teach me how to ride it.”
Squealing with delight, CeCe carefully placed her clothes at his feet, ran back into the kitchen, and rode her little tricycle out, ringing the bell.
“Irene, you’re outnumbered.” A big grin crossed Bunny’s face. “Come on, what do I need to tote?”
Irene had about as much—or as little—as CeCe. They packed the truck and were off in fifteen minutes.
Bunny drove his “two ladies” to his apartment.
He opened the door, unloaded the truck.
“Honey, you’ll be warm here.” He smiled at CeCe.
The little girl ran through every room of the apartment, not a huge apartment but two bedrooms, a nice kitchen, and even a fireplace in a living room with a cathedral ceiling.
Irene looked around, not quite believing this.
Bunny quickly reassured her in a soft voice, “I don’t expect anything, Irene. I just want you to be safe. I—I don’t expect anything.” Then with a sheepish grin, he added, “I’m losing my hair. I’m twenty pounds overweight, and well, I’m not much. I don’t have the money right now to get you your own place but I don’t want you to worry that I expect—well, you know.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, then she sagged against him, sobbing hard. “I’ll be a burden. I’m not smart, Bunny. You fix things. You understand things. I can’t even work a computer. I’m just dumb and now I can’t even get a job at McDonald’s.”
His shirt soaked with her tears, Bunny was bewildered and flattered at the same time. “Now, don’t you worry. You just settle in here. And I’ll take computer classes with you. You’ll see. You’re brighter than you think. You’ve just had a hard go. It makes people lose their confidence.” He patted her back, comforting her while enjoying the feel of a woman hanging on to him.
CeCe ran out into the living room, saw her mother sobbing.
“Mommy!” She ran and hugged her mother.
Irene let go of Bunny, hugged her child. “Tears of gratitude, CeCe. I’m not sad.”
CeCe leaned against her mother. “I hate it when you cry, Momma. I don’t want you to cry anymore.”
Bunny was afraid he might start bawling, too. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get to work. You two girls just do, uh, girl stuff. Irene, I can’t leave you the truck but we’ll work something out. I’ll be home about six.”
By the time Bunny arrived home later that night, Reno Sagebrush had cut off all campaign funding for Patrick Wentworth. Also, Jeep had shot two electrifying commercials, which would begin airing in two days on all channels.
Howie Norris, still delighted by his piece of silver ingot, was doing his best pushing the Steering Committee to hire Donald Veigh and others for the upcoming school bus expo. He seemed quite unconcerned that he’d been shot. While others were debating, he was heard whistling, “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
At day’s end, Bunny stopped short as soon as he entered his apartment. The place sparkled. Flowers—granted, they were silk flowers he’d forgotten were in the closet—had been tastefully arranged on a living room side table. The aroma of pasta sauce filled the house.
CeCe ran out, arms held wide. He picked her up and spun her around. “Mommy says you have to clean up and then we’ll have supper. Uncle Bunny, I’m all washed up, too.”
Irene stuck her head out from the kitchen. “Found a few odds and ends to dress up the place. Hope you like it.”
He kissed CeCe. “I won’t be long.”
In times to come, Bunny would look back on that simple evening of delicious food and good company as one of the happiest in his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Thursday, Mags peered at the computer screen in her small cubicle at Davidson and Fletcher. The information she was amassing about foreclosures in Nevada, and the nation, provided anything but assurance. Her function at the brokerage house was to identify any positive movement in the market with the focus on possible investment. Not every stock is a blue-chip one but identifying good-value start-up companies was vital to economic growth.
For decades there really had been blue-chip stocks. Mags no longer felt that was true, but she kept it to herself. The U.S. government decided what to save and what to cast aside, making the entire concept of blue chip worthless. A company, if it is allowed to perform without undue restriction, lives or dies by the wisdom of its leadership. What appears to be saving a company by federal interference only assures that the incompetent leadership continues. Instead of getting the punishment only free market capitalism can deliver, such management feels unhampered to repeat their mistakes.
The research gave her information that might help her great-aunt, Babs Gallagher, and the others coming on board to save Spring Street.
Gathering up her papers, she walked down the deep-pile carpet of the hall to Greg Posner, a vice president who had earlier asked her to drop by.
Ever the gentleman, Greg stood when Mags entered the room.
“You look chipper this morning.” The fifty-two-year-old man smiled. “Sit in the big chair. I’ll sit in the ladderback. My back.”
She smiled. “That’s the price we pay for walking upright.”
He sat down, offered her some peppermints. Greg would likely have a bag of peppermints in his coffin.
Mags took one and unwrapped it. “Whew.”
“Knock your nylons off.” Greg laughed. “My wife gets them from Germany. There are some things the Germans do better than us and peppermints is one of them. Boy, it’s a beautiful country. Have you ever been there?”
“I have and I was overcome by its wealth.” Mags had made many trips to Frankfurt back in the days she’d been wheeling and dealing in New York City.
Sitting quite upright, Greg dove in. “Any positives?”
“Mr. Posner—”
“Will you call me Greg? Mr. Posner is my father.”
“Greg.” She smiled. “Given the huge number of foreclosures, a million homes are now owned by banks and there are five-point-two million homes still in the foreclosure process. Also, what I saw Tuesday at the courthouse steps intensifies my aversion to recommending investing in banks.”
“I see.” He frowned. Knowing it was bad, hearing the most recent numbers made it all the worse.
“Banks have stopped foreclosure sales in some states as state attorneys examine, with prejudice I think, their loan practices. In my estimation, there is no way that in the next two years those banks can produce honest profits.”
“You might want to leave off the word ‘honest’ and therein lies a greater problem.” Mags looked quizzically at Greg, who then continued. “If you can’t trust your banker, who can you trust? The banker and the banks have always held a central, somber, and stabilizing position in the community. The bank president is a figure of great respect. With their image so tarnished, it’s going to make it extremely difficult to advise clients to put their funds as shareholders in any bank. The bailouts have made them poison
.”
“There are a few bright spots and I would cautiously say that Reno Sagebrush United is one,” said Mags. “Not now, but next year. They, too, have a lot of foreclosed homes on their books because of taking over Truckee Amalgamated. Truckee Amalgamated did take bailout funds. I can’t yet pin down the dollar amount.”
“Reno Sagebrush is still tarred by the same brush. The public doesn’t know the difference between banks that took bailout funds and those that did not.” Greg put his feet flat on the floor. He stood up, stretched his back, then sat down. “Sorry.”
“I wish I could think of something to tell you to ease that pain.”
“I’ve heard everything from papaya treatments to removing a disc to spinal fusions—well, maybe they’re the same. I’m not doing it. I’m holding out for stem cell treatment. Sooner or later it will happen. Anyway, I got you off the track.”
“Any investment in local banks would be ill advised, I’d say, until we know how long it will be before they can sell off those foreclosed homes on their books. My great-aunt and Babs Gallagher have come up with a small but good idea that could have larger applications concerning those toxic assets if, and I believe they are, ultimately, assets.”
“Really?”
Mags told the vice president of the plan, the help already generated by the churches. She also told him the key, and most difficult part of this plan, would be bringing around the utilities to a reduced rate for the squatters with perhaps the banks picking up the percentage of the reduction to make it a full rate.
Greg was silent for a good two minutes. He rapped his knee with his right hand. “It has possibilities. The best part is that it pulls Reno together. The only way this can work is if those utilities, the banks, the casinos, and supermarkets contribute. Well, you said the churches were already helping.”
“They have been wonderful. The problem with Reno and indeed much of Nevada is that a huge number—perhaps forty percent—of the residents were not residents last election. Our turnover is astonishing. That doesn’t help build community.”
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