Fire Sale

by Sara Paretsky

  I was shocked at the change in Rose’s appearance. She had always been tidily groomed, holding herself well, and even when she was angry with me her face had been full of vivacity. Today, she’d barely troubled to comb her hair, and her head was hunched turtlelike down in her shoulders. The loss of Fly the Flag had devastated her.

  The children marching, or stomping, for Jesus finished their routine and sat down in a row of folding chairs in front of the choir. The man with the bald bobbing head stood next, offering a long tremulous prayer in Spanish, punctuated by emphatic chords from the harmonium and “Amens” from the congregation. Even though he used a mike, his voice was so quavery I could only catch a word here or there.

  When he finally sat down, we had another hymn, and two women passed through the congregation with offertory baskets. I put in a twenty, and the women looked at me in consternation.

  “We can’t make change right now,” one of them said, worried. “Will you trust us to the end of the service?”

  “Change?” I was astonished. “I don’t need change.”

  They thanked me over and over; the woman in front of me who’d welcomed me had turned to watch, and she once again whispered news about me to the people around her. My cheeks turned red. I hadn’t meant to show off; it was one of those moments of blind ignorance where I hadn’t realized how really poor everyone in the church must be. Maybe everyone who said I didn’t understand the South Side anymore was right.

  After the collection, and another hymn, Andrés began his sermon. He spoke in Spanish, but so slowly and so simply I could follow a lot of it. He read from the Bible, a passage about the laborer deserving his salary-I caught the words “digno” and “su salario,” and guessed that “obrero” must be a worker; I didn’t know the word. After that he started talking about criminals in our midst, criminals stealing jobs from us and destroying our factories. I assumed he was talking about the fire at Fly the Flag. The harmonium began playing an insistent backbeat to the sermon, which made it harder for me to understand, but I thought Andrés was urging a message of courage onto people whose lives were hurt by the criminals “en nuestro medio.”

  Courage, yes, I suppose one needed courage not to be rolled under by the wheels of misery that ran through the neighborhood, but Rose Dorrado had plenty of courage; what she needed was a job. When I thought about the load she was carrying, all those children, and now the factory gone, my own shoulders slumped.

  People engaged actively in the sermon, shouting “Amen” at frequent intervals, or “Sí, señor,” which I first thought was an assent to Andrés, before realizing they were calling on God. Some stood in the pews or jumped into the aisles, pointing a hand heavenward; others shouted out Bible verses.

  After the sermon had gone on for twenty minutes or so, my attention began to wander badly. The wood pew was pressing through my coat and my knit top into my shoulder, and my pelvic bones began to ache. I began hoping the spirit would make me spring to my feet.

  It was close to noon; I was wishing I’d brought a novel when I realized people were shifting and turning in their pews to look at another new arrival. I craned my head as well.

  To my astonishment, I saw Buffalo Bill stumping his way up the aisle, walking stick in hand. Mr. William was behind him, his arm supporting an old woman in a fur coat. Despite the coat, and the diamond drops in her ears, she had the round amiable face of a Hallmark card grandmother. This must be May Irene Bysen, the grandma who taught Billy his manners and his faith. Right now, she looked a little frightened, a little bewildered by the noise and the strange setting: her soft chin was thrust out, and she clung to her son, but she was looking around, as I had, trying to spot her grandchild.

  Completing the parade was Aunt Jacqui, her gloved hand on Uncle Gary’s arm. Instead of a coat, Jacqui wore a thigh-length cardigan with bat-wing sleeves. Perhaps she’d chosen thigh-high boots and thick tights to close a gap between her miniskirt and Buffalo Bill or her mother-in-law’s outrage. The effect was eye-catching enough to briefly break the electric current running through the congregation as Andrés’s delivery approached a climax.

  A fourth man, with the bulky build of an off-duty cop, brought up the rear of the entourage. Buffalo Bill’s bodyguard, presumably. I wondered if they’d driven themselves, or if they’d left someone in the Bentley. Maybe they had a different vehicle for the South Side, an armor-plated Hummer or something.

  Bysen didn’t notice me as he muscled his way past the people in the aisles. He found a partly empty pew near the front; without turning his head to see if his wife and children were following, he sat down, hands on his knees, glowering at Andrés. Jacqui and Gary found seats in the pew behind Buffalo Bill, but Mr. William handed his mother in next to his father. The bodyguard took up a position against the wall at the far side of the pew, where he could survey, or try to survey, the crowd.

  The minister didn’t falter in his delivery. In fact, with all the commotion in the aisles, people standing or sitting down, dancing, calling out to Jesus, he might not even have noticed the Bysen party’s arrival. His sermon was building in fervor.

  “Si hay un criminal entre nosotros, si él es suficientemente fuerte para dar un paso adelante y confesar sus pecados a Jesús, los brazos de Jesús, lo sacarán adelante…”

  Andrés stood like the Prophet Isaiah, his voice loud, his eyes blazing. The congregation responded with a surge of ecstasy so strong it carried me along with it. He repeated his call, in such a loud exultant voice that even I could follow it:

  “If there is a criminal among us, if he is strong enough to come forward and confess his sins to Jesus, Jesus’ arms are strong enough to hold him up. Jesus will carry him forward. Come unto me, all you who labor and are heavy-laden, those are the words our Savior spoke. All you who labor and are heavy-laden, put down those burdens-entréguenselas a Jesús, dénselas a Jesús, vengan a Jesús-give them to Jesus, bring them to Jesus, come to Jesus!”

  “Vengan a Jesús!” the congregation cried. “Vengan a Jesús!”

  The harmonium played louder, insistent, urgent chords, and a woman stumbled forward. She flung herself at Andrés’s feet, sobbing. The men sitting with him got up and stood with their hands held out over her head, praying loudly. Another woman staggered up the aisle and collapsed next to her, and, after a few minutes, a man joined them. The electric band was pounding out something with a disco beat, and the choir singing, swaying, shouting. Even Billy was finally in motion. And the congregation kept calling, “Vengan a Jesús! Vengan a Jesús!”

  The intense emotion hammered against my chest. I was sweating and could hardly breathe. Just when I thought I couldn’t take it any more, a woman in the aisle collapsed. My own head spinning, I half rose to go to her aid, but two women in nurse’s uniforms rushed to her side. They had smelling salts, which they held under her nose; when she was able to sit, they escorted her to the rear of the church and laid her on a pew.

  When I saw them pour her a glass of water, I went back to ask for a glass for myself. The nurses wanted to use their smelling salts on me, but I told them I only needed water and a little air; they made space for me on the rear pew: my faintness made me welcome as one of the saved. After a bit, when I thought I could stand without falling over, I went outside-I needed cold air and quiet.

  I leaned against the church door, gulping in air. Across the street stood a giant Cadillac, the size and shape of a cabin cruiser, its motor running. Bysen’s chauffeur was at the wheel, a television screen, or maybe a DVD player, propped up on the dashboard in front of him. In its way, the Caddy was even more conspicuous than the Bentley had been, but I didn’t really expect any punks to attack a cabin cruiser outside a church on Sunday afternoon.

  I stayed outside until the cold seeped through my coat and stockings and my teeth were chattering. When I got back inside, I thought the level of passion in the room was finally dropping. The people at the altar were calming down, and no one else seemed willing to come forward. The harmonium play
ed a few expectant chords, Andrés held his arms out to the congregation, but no one moved. Andrés was returning to his chair when Buffalo Bill got to his feet. Mrs. Bysen grabbed his arm but he shook her off.

  The organist played a few hopeful chords as Bysen charged up the aisle. The choir director, who had sat down and was fanning herself, quickly swallowed some water and returned to her place on the lip of the dais. The congregation began clapping again, ready to stay all afternoon if another sinner was coming to God.

  Bysen didn’t kneel on the platform. He was yelling at Andrés, as far as anyone could see, but of course it was impossible to hear anything over the music. In the second row of the choir, Billy stood stock-still, his face white.

  I pushed through the mob packing the center aisle to the far left side, which was empty, and trotted to the front of the church. The band was also on this side. The choir director and the musicians seemed to know that something was amiss: the organist stopped the insistent disco beat of the call to salvation in favor of something more brooding, and the woman began humming in harmony, fumbling her way toward a song. What hymn was appropriate for tycoons haranguing ministers during the service?

  I picked my way through the thicket of electric cords to the choir. The children who’d been marching for Jesus when I arrived were kicking bored heels against their chairs; two boys were surreptitiously pinching each other. The harmonium player frowned at me; the man with the acoustic guitar put his instrument down to come over to me.

  “You can’t be back here, miss,” he said.

  “Sorry. Just leaving.” I flashed a smile and walked behind the Marching Troop for Jesus, past the massive woman in front of Billy, to the Kid himself.

  He was staring at his grandfather, but when I touched his sleeve, he turned to me. “Why did you bring him here?” he demanded. “I thought I could trust you!”

  “I didn’t bring him. It wasn’t too hard to figure out that you might be here-you’ve been worshiping at Mt. Ararat, you admire Andrés, you sing in the choir. And then Grobian told someone he’d seen you on Ninety-second Street with a girl.”

  “Oh, why can’t people just mind their own business? Boys walk down the street with girls all over the world, every day! Does it have to go up on the By-Smart Web site because I do it?”

  We’d both been hissing at each other to be heard above the electronic music, but his voice rose to a wail now. Josie was eyeing us along with the rest of the choir, but while they were frankly curious she looked nervous.

  “And now what’s he doing?” Billy demanded.

  I looked behind me. Buffalo Bill was trying to get to his grandson, but the five men who’d been helping with the service were blocking his path. Bysen actually tried to strike one of them with his walking stick, but the men made a circle around him and moved him from the dais-even the old one with the bobbing head and quavering voice was shuffling along, one hand on Bysen’s coat.

  Mrs. Bysen struggled out the far side of the pew, her arms stretched out toward her grandson. I noticed Jacqui stayed in her seat, wearing the catlike smile of malicious pleasure she put on for Bysen family discomfiture. Mr. William and Uncle Gary knew their duty, though, and joined the bodyguard in the aisle. For a moment, it looked as though there was going to be a pitched battle between the Bysen men and the Mt. Ararat ministers. Mrs. Bysen was being buffeted dangerously in the melee; she wanted to reach her grandson, but the ministers and her sons were squeezing her between them.

  Billy watched his family, white-faced. He made a helpless gesture toward his grandmother, then jumped down from the riser and disappeared behind a partition. I clambered over the riser to follow him.

  The partition blocked the body of the church from a narrow space that led to a robing room. I ran through the room as its second door was swinging shut. When I pushed it open, I found myself in a big hall where women were fussing around with coffeepots and Kool-Aid pitchers. Toddlers crawled unsupervised at their feet, sucking on cookies or plastic toys.

  “Where’s Billy?” I demanded, and then saw a flash of red and a door closing at the far end of the room.

  I sprinted across the room and out the door. I was just in time to see Billy climb into a midnight blue Miata and roar south on Houston Street.

  22 Poverty’s Whirlpool

  “Billy’s been sleeping here.” I made it a statement, not a question.

  Josie Dorrado was sitting on the couch with her sister and the baby, María Inés. The television was on. I had muted the sound when I came in, but, for once, Julia seemed more interested in the drama of her family’s life than in what was happening on the screen.

  Josie bit her lips nervously, pulling off a piece of skin. “He wasn’t here. Our ma don’t let no boys sleep over.”

  I had driven straight to the Dorrado apartment from the church, waiting outside in my car until Rose walked up the street with her children, and then following her to their front door.

  “You,” Rose said dully when she saw me. “I might have guessed. What devil was in me the day I asked Josie to bring you home? Ever since that day it’s been nothing but bad luck, bad luck.”

  It’s always good to have an outsider to blame your troubles on. “Yes, Rose, that’s a terrible blow, the destruction of the factory. I wish either you or Frank Zamar had talked to me frankly about what was going on there. Do you know who burned down the plant?”

  “Why do you care? Will it bring my job back, or return Frank to life, if you find out?”

  I pulled the soap dish out of my shoulder bag. I’d sealed it in a plastic bag, but I handed it to Rose and asked if she recognized it.

  She barely gave it a glance before shaking her head.

  “It wasn’t in the employee bathroom at the factory?”

  “What? Something like that? We had a dispenser on the wall.”

  I turned to Josie, who had peered over her mother’s shoulder at the little frog.

  “You recognize this, Josie?”

  She shifted from foot to foot, looking nervously behind her into the living room, where Julia was sitting on the couch. “No, Coach.”

  One of the little boys was jumping up and down. “Don’t you ’member, Josie, we seen them, they was at the store, and-”

  “Quiet, Betto, don’t be butting in when Coach is talking to me. We seen them-saw them-around, they had them at By-Smart around Christmas last year.”

  “You buy one?” I prodded, puzzled by her nervousness.

  “No, Coach, I never.”

  “Julia did,” Betto burst out. “Julia bought it. She wanted to give it-”

  “She bought it for Sancia,” Josie put in quickly. “Her and Sancia used to hang out, before María Inés came.”

  “Is that right?” I asked the boy.

  He hunched a shoulder. “I dunno. I guess so.”

  “Betto?” I knelt so my head was at his level. “You thought Julia bought it for a different person, not for Sancia, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said, his head down.

  “Leave him alone,” Rose said. “You went and bothered Frank Zamar and he got burned to death, now you want to bother my children so you can see what bad things happen to them?”

  She grabbed his hand and dragged him into the apartment. The other boy followed, casting me a terrified glance. Great. Now the boys would think of me as the bogey-woman, able to get them murdered in a fire if they spoke to me.

  I pushed Josie into the apartment. “You and I need to talk.”

  She sat on the couch, the baby between her and her sister. Julia had clearly been paying attention to our exchange at the door: she sat tense and alert, her eyes on Josie.

  In the dining room beyond, I could see the two boys sitting under the table, quietly crying. Rose had disappeared, either into the bedroom or the kitchen. It occurred to me that the couch had to be her bed: when I was here before, I’d seen the twin beds where Josie and Julia slept, and the air mattresses for the boys in the dining room. There wasn�
�t any other place in the apartment for Rose.

  “So where did Billy sleep?” I asked. “Out here?”

  “He wasn’t here,” Josie said quickly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “When he left Pastor Andrés’s house he had to go somewhere. He drove you to the hospital yesterday. I know you and he are seeing each other. Where did he sleep?”

  Julia tossed her long mane of hair. “Me and Josie shared one bed, Billy slept in the other.”

  “Why you have to go shooting off your mouth?” Josie demanded.

  “Why you have to let that rich gringo stay here in your bed when he could buy a whole house if he want a place to sleep?” Julia shot back.

  Little María Inés began to fuss on the couch, but neither sister paid any attention to her.

  “And your mother was okay with this arrangement?” I was incredulous.

  “She don’t know, you can’t tell her.” Josie looked nervously at the dining room, where her brothers were still staring at us. “The first time, she was at work, she was at her second job, and she never even got home until one in the morning, and then, last night and Friday, Billy, he come in-came in through the kitchen door after she was in bed.”

  “And Betto and your other brother won’t tell her, and she won’t notice? You two are nuts. How long have you and Billy been dating?”

  “We’re not dating. Ma won’t let me date anyone because of Julia having a baby.” Josie scowled at her sister.

  “Well, anyway, the Bysens don’t want Billy dating no spic girl,” Julia flashed at her.

  “Billy never called me a spic. You’re just jealous because a nice Anglo boy is interested in me, not some chavo like you picked up!”

  “Yeah, but his grandpapa, he called Pastor Andrés, he told him he’d report Pastor to the Immigration if he hear Billy going around with any Mexican girls in the church,” Julia shot back. “Wetbacks, he called us, you just ask anyone, you can ask Freddy, he was there when Billy’s grandfather called. And after that, how long was it before he called you?”