Done for a Dime

by David Corbett

  “It’ll spread. We’ve got eight houses that’ll go up quick, the fire source is inside, not out. And they’re gonna burn hot. Radiant heat’ll dry things out as things move.”

  Bratcher’s eyes darkened. “Who’s talking about eight houses?”

  “You’ll have the sewers full of gas fumes. They’ll back up through the drains. All they have to do is hit a pilot light.”

  “Just because you got fumes and a flame source in the same room doesn’t mean—”

  “Fumes back up into a sewer, they find a flame source every time. Ask anybody who’s worked on a flipped tanker.”

  Bratcher screwed up his mouth, shook his head. “Don’t like it. Too soon. No. Feels all wrong.”

  Ferry bit his lip to control his impatience. “You get eight houses, fast full engagement, plus others on top of the—”

  “I understand the plan. I’m the one came up with it. I’m just saying—”

  “You came up with what and where. How and why and when are my department. I’ve got the kind of head that can handle this sort of thing—your words, remember? I’m serious, it’s gotta be tonight.”

  Bratcher rolled all but about thirty feet of his line back onto the reel. Slow. Thinking. “If this chickenshit backwater worked the way it ought to work, none of this would be necessary.” He grimaced, like an ugly premonition had just snuck up on him. “The hoops you gotta jump through anymore,” he muttered, “just to build something, make life better for a place like this.” He turned toward Ferry and shot him a baleful look. “Give most people half a chance, they’ll waste their lives sitting in their own stink. The only thing new and better they’ll ever make is the next excuse for why nothing’s ever their fault.”

  Ferry’d heard this before, or something much like it. In this rendition, though, he detected a hint of regret in Bratcher’s tone. More likely, it was fear. “Not much point worrying over things like that.”

  “Yeah. Sure. True enough.” Bratcher turned back to the water, shook off his mood. “Back to the point—this was supposed to happen in April, you know? After we get Polhemus in, have a majority in place.”

  “Can’t wait that long, Clint.”

  “Fire doesn’t solve squat without the council on board. Haven’t got the votes for the package we want—the right consultants, the bond brokers, the lawyers we need to write up the DDA.”

  “With the way that hill’s gonna look tomorrow morning, the council will come on board in a heartbeat.”

  “What do you know about it?” Bratcher shot Ferry a rum look. “Know what I think? I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  Ferry shook his head, looked off. “There’s a lot I’m not telling you. That’s the way you want it, believe me.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “Get too hands-on, you’ll wear it on your face. I’m doing you a favor.”

  “Don’t worry about what I do or how I handle it.”

  This is getting too strange, Ferry thought. He laid his rod on the ground, turned to leave, then heard a cry from the far side of the river. Something was wrong with the dog; it was struggling in the current. The woman was calling to it, her voice becoming shrill. She crawled down onto the pier and into the water as the little girl began to shriek, sobbing hysterically. Ferry and Bratcher stood there, helpless, watching. Serves her right, Ferry thought, cold as that water must be. Poor dog.

  “One other thing,” he said finally. “This goes tonight, I’m gonna need my money tomorrow.”

  Bratcher laughed. “You nuts?”

  “Route it the same as last time.”

  “No way I can move it that quick. No way I should. That’s insane.”

  “Don’t do this, Clint. Take you thirty minutes, tops, you move it over the Internet. Just like last time. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”

  Bratcher readied to cast again. “Maybe that’s not the point.”

  “Think of it this way: First installment bought performance. Second buys loyalty.”

  Bratcher stopped his cast and shot Ferry a thin, hateful smile. “You trying to shake me down?”

  “I’m letting you know what you’re paying for.”

  Bratcher grabbed his arm. “No. I’ll tell you what I’m paying for. And it ain’t eight houses. It ain’t eighteen houses.”

  16

  No sooner had Murchison arrived back at the station than word came from the front desk that a lawyer wanted to see him. Tina Navigato, he thought, and it put a little kick in his step as he headed toward the lobby. Through the lettered glass of the final door, however, he saw that the lawyer there to greet him was a man. Murchison knew him. His name was Grantree Hamilton and he specialized in civil rights law—suing cops for use of force—in addition to handling the headline drug case now and then, the occasional murder. Murchison had suffered through a few of the man’s cross-examinations and had a grudging respect for him, despite the shaved head.

  Murchison wondered if Sarina Thigpen had hired Hamilton to protest Arlie’s treatment in custody. Or maybe Carvela Grimes had retained him on behalf of Francis Templeton; she’d said she’d talk to her lawyer at church and Hamilton looked dressed for Sunday services: cream-colored suit with a double-breasted jacket, sky-blue shirt, navy-blue tie. The shoes were two-tone Stacy Adams, a little touch of old school, still the homeboy. As Murchison finally stepped through the door, the lawyer charged forward, plowing the air with his outstretched hand.

  “Detective, good to see you.”

  He smiled that shameless smile; it could give you sunburn. In contrast, the handshake was limp, indifferent.

  “Mr. Hamilton.”

  “I understand you’re lead detective on the Carlisle matter.”

  “You represent?”

  “Veronique Edwards.”

  Murchison couldn’t help himself, he smiled. “No fooling.”

  “She’s Mr. Carlisle’s next of kin.”

  “Not the way I hear it.”

  “Yes, well.” Hamilton gestured for time, opened his briefcase, sorted through some papers, and withdrew a manila envelope. “I believe this may interest you.”

  Murchison took the envelope, opened it, and removed two photocopied documents. The first was a birth certificate: Tobias Marchand, no middle name. The father was listed as George Prescott Marchand. Felicia Marchand’s signature appeared under the heading “Parent or Other Informant.” The second document was a petition for child support—Felicia Marchand, Complainant; George “Sonny” Marchand, Respondent. One page was marked, where “Children of the Marriage” were listed. There were two girls. And Toby. More to the point, Hamilton had them on a Sunday morning. He and his client had been ready.

  “The petition for support, that’s penalty of perjury,” Hamilton said. “So if there’s been any talk, from Ms. Marchand in particular, that this Toby individual is the decedent’s son—”

  Murchison held up his hand. “Let me stop you, okay? This is the police department. Not the probate division.”

  “You still find perjury under the Penal Code.”

  “It’s a civil matter.”

  “My point is, Detective, this Marchand woman and her son have tried to bleed my client’s brother his whole life. Woman showed up first thing when her marriage fell apart, begging for money. Tried to piggyback her son’s music career onto Mr. Carlisle’s. Since he got sick late last year, they’ve had their eyes on that house up there. It’s not for me, Detective, point the blame—”

  “No. It’s not.” Murchison slipped the documents back inside their envelope. “Even if what you’re saying’s true, it’s not you I need to hear it from. I need to talk to your client.”

  “Of course. Now is impossible, she’s bereft. Her brother—”

  “Everybody’s bereft. They always are. I know, I talk to them. Now, I doubt this next bit comes as a surprise—we got a tip and searched the Victorians to either side of Mr. Carlisle’s property. Owners gave us your client’s name as the per
son to talk to. One was empty, but inside the other we found signs of a guy who was hanging out there, had an obsession with the victim’s son’s girlfriend.”

  “Detective, listen to me. The victim had no son.”

  “Doesn’t change where I’m going. I need your client to come down, fill me in on the property, her brother.” He raised the manila envelope to his ear and shook. “And anything else she thinks I need to know.”

  “Perhaps in a few days.”

  “Try a few hours.” Murchison turned, reaching for the doorknob. “She drags it out, just makes us think. You don’t want that. Right?”

  Stluka, back from four hours off, sat at his desk, wrestling with paperwork. He looked miserable but rested.

  Murchison pulled up beside his desk. “You heard?”

  Stluka glanced up like he smelled abuse on the way. “Yeah, one of the Victorians. Swear to God, Murch. I checked. The place was tight.”

  “I know.” Murchison gestured for him to relax. “The door he used, it was padlocked. We needed bolt cutters to get in.”

  Stluka sat back, looking vaguely relieved. “I like that.” He scratched his ear with his pen. “Find anything? In the Vic, I mean.”

  “No weapon. He’s a firebug. And I say he’s got a thing for this Lazarenko girl.”

  Stluka thought about that. “Or didn’t like the company she kept.” He stretched, a yawn that expanded into a groan. “You look like crap, incidentally. Knock off. I’ll drive the bus.”

  Murchison told him the rest of what the last few hours had produced. When he’d finished, Stluka said, “What I’m hearing, we haven’t given up on this Mooney character.”

  “Too many things lead back to him. The house, I figure, he likes property. That’s motive. We just gotta figure out if he did it on his own or one of these other characters did his bidding.” He shook his head, get the cobwebs out. “The vic’s sister has ties to the guy, and whatever anybody says—she’s got a lawyer already, ain’t that interesting—she’s in this somehow.”

  “Lawyer?”

  “Grantree Hamilton.”

  Stluka smiled. “You’re shitting me.”

  “She’s bereft.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. So hire Hamilton. Guy missed his calling, shoulda been a funeral director. That smells like Mooney, too.”

  “Everything does. Arlie Thigpen has ties to him. Kid who hung out at the Victorian was balling with some of Mooney’s crew, they’re the ones who steered him to the squat. The only ones we haven’t tied to Mooney so far are the son—this Toby kid—and his abscond pal Francis. Which reminds me.”

  Murchison left Stluka at his desk and hunted the squad room for Holmes. No sign. He checked Dispatch, learned Holmes had gone off-duty. Voice mail, he thought. If he’d come up with anything, he’d have left word.

  Murchison went back to his desk, checked his messages. Sure enough, Holmes had come through. His source in Mooney’s circle knew nothing about a Toby Marchand. But Francis Templeton? He was nothing more than an occasional customer, and then all he wanted was pot—dank, Holmes said this guy called it, a new one for Murchison—but the crew knew who he was, and he knew them.

  Murchison came around to Stluka’s desk again. “Got news,” he said, not happily.

  In contrast, Stluka was beaming. “Me, too, oh yeah,” he said, putting down his phone. “You first.”

  “Francis Templeton, Toby’s alibi. He bought his weed from the Mooney crew.”

  Stluka’s smile widened. “Oh, that’s sweet.”

  Murchison couldn’t share the joy. He wasn’t sure, precisely, why.

  “My turn.” Stluka sat back, clasped his hands behind his head. “That dyke who showed up for Mr. Toby, the probate lawyer?”

  Murchison winced. “Why dyke?”

  Stluka shot him a puzzled look. “Don’t tell me she rocked your world.”

  “Jerry, I’m just …” He dragged the word out, not sure what came next.

  Stluka studied him. “I mean, hey, could be wrong. Maybe she’s just confused. Lot of that going around these days.”

  “Can we get back to—?”

  “She comes from a real interesting family. Father was a low-level Mob mutt, tied to gambling in North Beach like decades ago. Disappeared. Nobody knows where. Some folks think he’s dead. And her brother.” He glanced down at notes he’d written. “I’m not even gonna try to pronounce his name, but he was some kind of big-time dope smuggler, did ten years in federal stir, Safford.”

  Murchison glanced down at the notepad, read the name upside down. Dan Abatangelo. “They’ve got different last names. Him and his sister.” He didn’t remember a wedding ring. “She’s divorced?”

  “Nope. Not even. Changed her name.” Stluka grinned, loving it. “Felt ashamed of the men in her family. Disappearing dad. Doper bro. She had an innocent heart and a bar card to protect. Took her mother’s maiden name.”

  “How’d you learn all this?”

  Stluka nodded toward the phone. “Lawyer buddy here in town. A dyke herself, if I may say. No cracks—I’m more broad-minded than people think. Anyway, local bar, it’s very, how shall we say …” He snapped his fingers once, twice.

  “Cliquish?”

  Stluka fluttered his eyelashes. The coquette. “Incestuous was the word I was after, actually.”

  Toby rode in front, Nadya in back, as Tina’s brother, Dan, drove them up the hill to Baymont to stay with Francis’s great-aunt. Darkness tinged the edges of the afternoon sky. The huge trees lining the narrow streets swayed with a strong westerly wind, which carried with it a prickly scent of salty mud from the marshes. It felt strangely warm for February, almost balmy, like spring.

  Toby had wanted to drive up alone, but Tina wouldn’t have it. “Think about what they’ve found out. This character next door, hiding. He may think Nadya, or you, saw him come and go. Maybe saw the shooting. I’d feel better if Dan was with you. He’s been through some trouble in his time. He can handle things.”

  Toby wondered what “trouble” meant, but he had to admit, there was an almost hypnotic gravity to her brother. Not just because of his imposing height, his build. He had wise eyes. Like he’d figured out and put behind him every single thing you were still too scared to face.

  As they reached the top of Baymont, turning onto Miss Carvela’s street in Home in the Sky, Toby glanced around at the drama. Tatted-up muscle—gripping bottles, blowing smoke—slouched on porch stoops. Hood rats perched on cars. Illogic’s “Hate in a Puddle” thundered from a tape deck as a throng playing roundball hustled around a portable hoop planted in a tire. They stopped playing as the car approached, parting lazily as it passed, a few of them leaning down to get a good look, flash some hooride cheese through the glass.

  “We’re making an impression,” Toby said, reading in their eyes the same message he’d heard most of his life: Only fools, cowards, and children bother to befriend white people. Sonny, his stepfather, breathed fire on the subject. Toby’d recoiled from the rant. Not that he didn’t see the truth to it—he wasn’t stupid—but it was a small, mean truth.

  Besides, he wasn’t immune. He played his own games. Jazz crowds were overwhelmingly white; you didn’t play long and not figure out how to angle that. Most white people wanted so badly to be liked you could get them to agree to almost anything, while the others either kept their distance or wanted to be congratulated for hating you. And, of course, there was Nadya. He felt ashamed sometimes, how easy it was. I’m not just different, he thought. I’m exotic. If I can’t figure out what to say, I’m not just sitting there stupid—I’m mysterious. Even a nitwit stammer comes across somehow quaint. He wondered sometimes who he hated more, her or himself, for getting away with all that. Just as he wondered what had possessed his father to bare the uglier family secrets to his white woman lawyer.

  Stop doing this to yourself, he thought as he pointed out Miss Carvela’s house. Dan pulled the car to the curb in front. As he did, one of the ballplayers cakewalked behind,
to laughter from his friends. He was shirtless, lean but muscular, boxers hiked up, painter pants tugged down, his hair in a fade. As the car stopped, he stopped. Leaning down, he feigned stupefaction at what he saw. Snapping back straight, he called out over his shoulder, “Yo, money, check this shit out. Coulda sworn Zip Coon come on up, pay his props, blackface and all. Him and his Babylonians.”

  As some of the others laughed again, one called back, “Stop choppin’, fool. Come on, Spoonie. Play ball!”

  “No, no, serious now. This nigger’s black as Clarence Thomas. Come look.”

  Inside the car, Toby said, “I’ll go up alone first. Miss Carvela, she’s older. I want to make sure she’s ready for us to come in.”

  Dan, eyeing the young man just outside the car, said, “You’re sure—”

  “You think I’m scared?”

  Dan’s face went blank. “I didn’t—”

  Toby opened the passenger door. “I’m fine.”

  As he got out, the one named Spoonie circled behind the car to meet him. Toby eased up to him, not shunning eye contact and even offering a sly little smile, the jokester, his usual defense. His voice, though, was cold and low. “You looking for Swanson,” he said, “you need a new nigger. We straight?” The young man’s face snarled up in puzzlement as Toby slipped on past. He was halfway to the top of the steps before, from behind, Spoonie recovered.

  “Hey, Clarence! Left your flossy little boo behind! What’s up with that?”

  Nadya watched Toby climb the cracked cement steps that led uphill from the street to the old saltbox house. Dan, watching as well, said, “I could have handled that better.”

  “We’re both a little on edge. Don’t take it personally.”

  He turned around in his seat, cast a glance at the young men outside in the street, then said, “Actually, I’m glad we’ve got a minute alone. I wanted to speak with you.” He fixed her with his eyes, a stare somehow intimidating but not frightening. “My sister, Christina, filled me in on what happened, what you did. It’s difficult to describe for people what it’s like. See someone die like that. Not like TV.”