by Mary Mead
“I meant personally involved. Wouldn’t be the first time someone undercover switch hit.”
I thought about it. “I don’t see it. I guess it’s possible.”
“He and the drugs showed up about the same time. That file you gave him? Never showed up. No one on the task force ever saw it. Not until I took in the one you gave me. So far he’s the only one doing anything suspicious.”
“Paul,” I said, remembering him speaking Spanish on his cell phone. I told John about the incident.
“What was he saying?”
“No idea,” I smiled. “Despite my looks, I’m only half Mexican. My dad insisted we speak English at home. The only Spanish I ever heard was from my grandmother when she visited.”
John grinned. “Guess I’ll cancel my Spanish class then.”
I smiled back. “All I know for sure is he wasn’t ordering food. I know those words.”
“He may have picked up some Spanish. Common here in California.”
I nodded. “I’m tossing out ideas.” I remembered the harsh attitude of Papa and Paul. “What about Papa?”
“Irish Mafia? It’s a stretch, Marlie. About the only thing the sons are guilty of is chasing women. The old man owns half of Monarch Beach, been here a long time. I don’t think he’d take the risk. Lot to lose if caught.”
“No worse than someone gunning for Steve. That’s the biggest stretch of all.”
One of the guys working in the office came out and interrupted, to tell John they were finished with the office and would be leaving shortly. I thanked him and we sat on the bench and watched them leave.
When they were gone, John looked at me with concern, his brows pulled down. “Are you going back to work in there?”
“Not today. Papa Murphy told me to take off the rest of the week. Paul is going to find a replacement for Steve, someone to work weekends. Patrick said he’d paint the office, do some stuff around here. I won’t be going back till Monday.”
“Can they do that? Just close up?”
“They can do anything they want. They own it. Besides, it’s the slow time of month. The current customers can still get in, the gates are working. I’ll change the recording on the phone for a few days, we should be okay till I get back on Monday. Emergency numbers on the front are Papa and Paul, and I’ll be around most of the time.”
“It’s nice of them to redo the office,” John said. “The carpet was the only real loss.” He stopped and glanced at me. “Didn’t mean to sound crude there.”
“I know.”
“Come on, enough of this. If you don’t have to work let’s go get something to eat.” He stood and dusted off the seat of his pants. “Kelly’s has ham steak tonight with fried sweet potatoes and greens. One of my favorites. We’ll both feel better if we get something to eat.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Come on, then. Lock up the office and you can ride with me. I’ll bring you home.”
John was right about the dinner at Kelly’s – it was excellent and led to discussions of past Thanksgiving meals with family. I shared memories of making tamales on Christmas Eve with my dad and the weaving of palm fronds into little boxes to cook rice dumplings called tipat with my mom.
“I like rice,” John said. “That sounds good.”
“Sorry, John. I gave up my frond weaving when I left home. My folks are both great cooks. I tend towards finger foods, like tacos and pizza.”
He chuckled. “At my place it’s anything that can be stuffed between two pieces of bread and hit with mustard. Nothing fancy about it. Also why I eat here a lot.” He motioned around us at the other diners. “My home away from home.”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
“Hey, dinner on me any time I’m here.”
“I’ll remember that, too,” I said. “This was a nice break. Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
The next day I had the apartment clean, the sheets changed and the laundry done before noon. What was I going to do for the next four days? I was suddenly aware of how shallow my life had become. Work, home, work, home. No wonder I had accepted Burke’s company so readily. Was he a friend or a welcome break in a boring routine? I made a peanut butter sandwich, took three bites and tossed it. My snug and comfortable apartment was like a beige and crimson cell with house plants. I locked up and went downstairs.
Signs on the front door and beside the gate notified customers of the temporary closure to the office. The front door stood open right next to the sign saying it was closed.
I went inside. Paint fumes greeted me. The counters were gone and so were the cabinets. Drop clothes covered the floor of the empty room. It looked a lot bigger without furniture. Watching my step I went back to the kitchen where I heard noises.
The office counters, the chairs and most of the missing office furniture was stacked and piled along the walls, leaving a narrow passage to the sink. Patrick Murphy rattled the carafe for the coffee pot under the faucet.
“You want me to do that?” I asked from the doorway.
Patrick started and spun around. “What are you doing here?”
I eased my way along the passage to his side and hip checked him to the side. “I’ll get this,” I said. “It’s tricky if you don’t jiggle the on button.” I put the water in the pot, added the basket of fresh grounds and pushed the on button three times. On, off, on, off and on. For some reason it was the only way it worked. I intended to buy a new one eventually. Steve only drank tea and he used the microwave so there had been no rush.
“That a secret code?”
I glanced at Patrick who had moved back against a stack of boxes. “She’s a girl coffee pot. Temperamental.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“It’s something in the switch. For future reference it’s five clicks and it works fine.” I pulled a couple of mugs from the cupboard above the sink. The smell of fresh coffee swelled around us. “You want sugar? Cream?”
“Blond,” he replied.
I got down the Coffee Mate and pulled a spoon from the drawer.
“You didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”
“Habit. Bored. Curious. Pick one.”
Patrick’s lips curved up in a smile, his eyes warm and bright. “I’d bet it’s all three.”
“You might be right,” I said. The coffee pot gurgled, hissed and sighed to a finale. I poured two cups of coffee, added creamer and handed one to Patrick. We had to shift a little to make room for raised elbows and cups in the small space. “You need any help with this?” I indicated the stacks around us. “The painting? Anything I can do to help?”
Patrick blew on his coffee and took a sip. “I got it but thanks. That’s nice of you.”
“It’s my office.”
“I’m sorry about the other guy. Were you close?”
“No, not really. I spent a few days training him, saw him a few times on the weekend, when I was going in or out.”
Patrick nodded and sipped more coffee. “Smart. Getting close to an employee can be trouble.”
“You had that problem?”
I don’t know why I said it. It just popped out.
The warmth in his face, the slight smile died. “Which story did you hear? The one about the gal that tried to kill herself? Blamed me for breaking her heart? Or the one about the gal that smashed up my wind shield down at the pier?”
“I didn’t mean anything, Patrick. I just asked. Making conversation.”
He gave me a long, cool look. “You’re not blushing. You getting used to me?”
“I hope so.”
“Me, too,” he said and the way he said it, the look in his eyes, I felt the heat climb up my neck and fill my cheeks, right to the tips of my ears.
Patrick laughed, a belly laugh, filling the small space we shared. He laughed so hard his hand shook and he spilled coffee down his shirt front. That sobered him up although those blue eyes still sparkled. “Now look what you made me do,” he said, stil
l smiling.
“You deserved it. You’re lucky I didn’t pour mine on you.”
“You would, too. You’re the type.”
“What type is that, Patrick?”
The little air between us changed, became charged and heavy. Patrick’s eyes darkened even as I looked into them. I had nowhere to go, pressed against the kitchen counter with his body blocking the narrow passage between furniture and stacked boxes.
He lifted his cup and set it atop the stack at his side, holding me with his eyes, before he reached for me, his arms sliding around my shoulders. He tugged me closer if that was possible. We were almost touching when all hell broke loose.
The floor lifted and dropped and lifted again before rolling sideways. Boxes groaned, swayed and began to fall around us.
Patrick yanked me against his chest and shoved my head into his shoulder, his head coming down on mine. He lifted one hand to cover my head and shoved me against the tower of boxes while the floor shook and heaved.
Earthquake!
For over a minute we huddled together. My arms automatically wrapped around his waist and held on. There is a dull roar beneath every earthquake. Any Californian can tell you about it. A sudden silence and it’s over.
Patrick still held me against his chest another minute before he raised his head and looked around. I lifted my head and released my grip on him.
The boxes had shifted and fallen into the narrow access space. They looked like a derailed train now, some tilted, some end on end.
Patrick’s breath was warm on my face. “Are you okay?”
I took a breath. Nothing hurt. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“That was a big one,” he said.
Somewhere outside I heard car alarms going off.
“Stay there a minute,” Patrick said, pushing me against the only stack of boxes still in place. “Let me see if I can get us out of here.” With that he tried to turn around which meant me sucking in my belly and pressing hard against the counter while his body rubbed across mine. With a little maneuvering he faced the opposite way, giving me his broad back. I watched the muscles in his back bunch and release as he shoved and lifted cartons to the top of the pile.
It took a while for him to get the path cleared. A few times he passed me a box and I put it behind us so we could keep going forward. We finally reached the short hallway which was intact and paused.
“You sure you’re okay?” He asked when we cleared the kitchen.
“Yeah, but I wish someone would shut off that alarm.”
He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a key ring and pressed a fob. The alarm went silent. “Must have been my truck.”
“Glad it wasn’t mine,” I said. “My keys are upstairs.”
“Come on, let’s see if we still have stairs.” He led the way through the office. Being empty it was easy to see the crack that ran across the ceiling and down both walls it touched. A bright strip of sunlight gleamed through the ceiling, the drop cloths on the floor were covered in dust and plaster bits.
“Watch your step,” he said still leading the way. The front door was still open although the framing was higher on one side than the other. The front wall looked solid without cracks.
A whole section of the roof had fallen forward missing his truck by a foot. Coated in dust and plaster it stood where he parked it. The Mustang had not fared so well – the entire hood was beneath the roof, the wind shield shattered. Dust still floated in the air above it. Roof tiles covered the back seat.
Patrick took my arm and helped me through the debris till we could get clear. Around us the asphalt had split in places and buckled in others. One long crack ran across the driveway, one side of it higher than the other. A geyser of water shot ten feet in the air and splashed down into the crack.
Patrick went along the side of the office. “Where’s the shut off?”
“Somewhere there. It was between the windows.”
The windows were there, the glass wasn’t. Shards glittered in the flower bed beneath the empty frames. The night blooming jasmine had fallen away from the wall and lay in the flower bed, the broken trellis holding it down.
“Can’t find it,” he said, straightening up and carefully stepping back to where I stood. “Where’s the main?”
“Street,” I said and pointed.
With a nod he made his way across the uneven ground of the parking lot. I saw him kneel and shortly the fountain of water dwindled and died. He stood up again and wiped his hands along his thighs.
I looked at the stairs to my apartment. An advantage to that covered space where the two halves of the building joined– they appeared undamaged. I started for them and Patrick called out. “Leave it for now. Don’t know how sound they are. We’ll check later. We have to check the lot. Was anyone inside?”
“I don’t know,” I said, joining him. Several more cracks broke the asphalt, none of them as deep as the one in front.
One side of the gate had fallen flat while the other stood on its track.
“You have a cell phone?”
I nodded and patted my pocket.
“Come on, let’s see if anyone is hurt.”
“Should I call 911?”
Patrick chuckled. “You and every other person in Jade.”
I felt my skin flush. Of course we weren’t the only ones with damage. I looked at the garage and saw one side of the door had let go while the other side still held. There was a gap between the heavy door and its frame but it looked solid.
Patrick caught my hand and tugged. “Come on, Marlena, there may be someone stuck out here. You take this aisle and watch your step. Stay in the center of the aisle, away from the walls. I’m going down that one. We’ll meet in the back. Remember, stay in the middle.”
When we were through the gate we stopped and looked down the aisle. Buildings One, Two and Four looked okay from here, no visible damage.
The asphalt here was buckled in places, a few cracks running down the driveways. Some of the doors on the units had popped free and lay in front of the gap they had previously covered.
The entire front wall of Building Three had fallen straight out, like it was sliced off with a giant knife. The whole end of that building now exposed was the one occupied by Mrs. Murphy. The roof had dropped on to those rows of cartons we had just stacked there. The cartons held the roof off the ground. The ones on the bottom were squashed down, the sides bowed out. Bending I could see the paths between the rows looked like little tunnels. Roof tiles, pieces of wood and chunks of pink insulation fanned out from the foundation.
“How’s it look?” Patrick called from the far corner where he had made his way to Building Eight. “Seven is okay, Eight has damage. Cracks all along the wall and some doors down.”
“Three is a loss,” I called back. “Whole end of it is down. The others look okay.”
We were yelling back and forth when the aftershock hit. I sat down, right where I was, Indian style, crossed my ankles and dropped straight down on my butt. I wasn’t close enough to a building to get hit with anything. A grumble filled the air, the ground shook and lifted again. Then it was silent. Not even the car alarms went off.
“You okay?”
I got to my feet and waved to Patrick who was making his way back to where I stood. “I’m good,” I called and waited for him to join me. “This is bad,” I said when he reached me.
“It is that,” he agreed, looking around. “Gonna take more than a couple of tarps to cover this. We’ll have to get a building inspector down here before we let anyone in. Don’t want someone to get killed.”
“Insurance?” I asked.
He nodded. “Not sure it’s gonna cover this. Act of God clause, like flooding.” He turned and pointed to the row of vehicles that appeared unscathed. “At least the vehicles and boats survived. I don’t see any damage to them. Good thing they’re out here in the clear.”
“The owners can get them out,” I said. “We can throw some plywood over that bad crack
by the gate.”
“To go where? This was a big one. We’re not the only ones to suffer damage. Owners may just want to leave them.”
I looked at Space 29. “Looks like your motor home is okay. So is Burke’s. That boat trailer has flat tires, otherwise looks good.” We wandered along the row and found no damage to the outside storage other than a couple of flat tires.
I pointed to the end of Building Three. “That’s the biggest damage, your mom’s big unit, the one without the walls.”
Patrick laughed. “Good. Maybe she’ll get rid of all that stuff.”
We turned and made our way back towards the exposed end of the building. Carefully climbing around the fallen wall we got close enough to see the tunnels between rows of cartons and boxes that held the roof off the ground.
“We can’t take the cartons out,” Patrick said, bending to look under the roof. He went to one knee. “Those cartons are supporting the roof. If we try to move them out, it’s gonna fall. Need someone to check it out, see if we can jack it up. I told her fifty times to let me put those walls up. Might not have fallen if they were there for support.” He got to his feet and dusted his hands against his legs.
“There is one bright spot,” he said. “I hadn’t started painting yet.”
I laughed in spite of myself and he joined in.
“All right, let’s go see those stairs.”
“I have to get home. I have nowhere else to go and my car is under the roof of the office.”
Patrick stopped and looked at me. “Hang on a second. Stay right there.”
He turned and jogged back to his motor home and disappeared around the side. I waited, looking at the collapsed end of Building Three.
The ground heaved again, up and down, another aftershock. I crossed my ankles and sat again. Temblers were common after a quake. Sometimes the aftershocks last for days, making the residents jumpy as squirrels on a broken branch. No one would be sleeping well tonight without a chemical blanket.
I stood up again and watched Patrick jog back to me.
He was smiling. “Motor home is good,” he said. “Didn’t even spill the salt.”
I returned his smile. “Good for you!”