Done for a Dime

by David Corbett

  “There’s a toolbox, behind the seat,” Ferry said as he killed the motor. “Got a bolt cutter inside. Get it out and follow me.”

  He went around back, opened the doors, and took out the first tub. Manny brought the bolt cutter, holding it like a dowsing rod. “What about light? How we gonna see?”

  “Stay close.” Ferry closed the door and headed for the fence.

  Someone—kids again, or vandals, or the same toxic dumpers, Ferry supposed—had cut a passage through the fence along the rear perimeter, the clipped edges of the chain link weathered with rust. A truck yard and loading dock waited beyond. Thistle and blackberry sprouted through cracks in the asphalt. The rusted clamp on the tether on a fifty-foot flagpole chimed metal-to-metal in the wind.

  “First door on the dock, this side, that’s where we’re headed.”

  They crossed fifty yards of busted asphalt, weaving past scattered junk and thorny coils of blackberry bush. Manny stumbled twice, Ferry reaching back each time without a glance to drag him along. Their steps echoed in the silence as they neared the warehouse wall and climbed up the iron stairway to the loading dock.

  “Give me the bolt cutter.”

  Ferry took the tool from Manny and cut the weatherworn padlock on the roll-up door. He eased the door up, one hand on the corrugated metal to keep it from rattling. It snagged a foot from the floor, the rollers thick with rust. He had to work it free with a gentle up and down, needing to clear no more than the distance required to slip in the tub with the flare sticking up. “Don’t just stand there. Help me, work the other side. Gentle. No noise.” Manny joined in. They rocked it up and back, inch by grating inch, till they had the clearance. Pushing the tub in first, they crawled in after.

  “I can’t see. It’s like pitch-black in here.”

  Ferry knelt. “What’s to see?” Pushing the tub against the wall, he eased the lid off, then ripped off the cap of the flare. “Make a wish.” He struck the tip of the flare twice and it caught. A willowy spume of white smoke rose as the flame burned hot and bright. Not pitch-black now. He saw the exposed framing of the wall above the flare. Old dry wood.

  Manny stared at the flame. “Can we stick around, out in the van, I mean. At least watch the first few minutes?”

  “You can’t be that stupid. Come on, move.”

  They slid back beneath the door, jogged across the asphalt. Ferry nudged Manny along, the kid wanting to turn back every few steps. He lost his hat going through the fence, fumbled around in the grass for it. Ferry’d had enough. He grabbed the kid by the ears, hissed into his face, “You fuck around like this the whole damn night, I swear to God, you’ll pay.”

  The space beneath the open roll-up door grew brighter with a rubbery light. The flare had hit the floater layer of diesel fuel.

  “We’ve got five minutes. Run.”

  “You ain’t even trying,” Mooney said.

  “I’ve been trying ever since it happened,” Nadya replied.

  “Not hard enough.”

  “You have no idea how hard I’ve tried.”

  Mooney rose from the couch, tapping the photo of Arlie against his knuckles with growing impatience. Nadya, her face ashen, remained seated.

  “She didn’t see what happened,” Toby said, stepping in to protect her. “There’s no other way to say it.”

  “Oh, well now.” Mooney uttered a caustic little laugh. “That’s deep.”

  Toby sighed and shook his head. “Think what you want.”

  “What I want?” Mooney’s eyes flared. He looked at Toby like he wanted to shake him. “What I want is to set the record straight. I didn’t shoot your daddy. Arlie didn’t, neither. I know. He was with me. But I ain’t puttin’ my head on a chopping block to prove that point.”

  “Course not,” Toby said. “Better to use her head.”

  Mooney stared at him, eyes dull. “Like cops gonna fuck with a white girl says she saw who really killed your daddy.”

  “But something did happen downtown. Between you and Pops. That’s not just made up.”

  Mooney recoiled a little, clenched his fist to his lips, then wagged a finger.

  “Your daddy.” He turned toward Veronique. “I mean no offense now, a’ight?” Back to Toby. “But your daddy, he had a mouth on him. Arlie was just minding his own, outside Fielding’s Liquor’s, no bother to nobody. Up walks trouble. Your daddy, tacked to beat Jesus. To’ up from flo’ up. But he ain’t done for the night. Heads on in, buys himself a pint, then swerves on out and lights right into Arlie. No cause.”

  “You were there.”

  “That point, yeah.”

  “So Arlie wasn’t just minding his business. He was minding yours.”

  Mooney pressed his hands against his chest. “I am a promoter. I stage events. I provide a venue. Arlie and other folks I employ, they bring the people in.”

  Sarina Thigpen sat listening, a sad, faraway look in her eye, like this was the one last thing she needed to believe. Mooney’s two men sat there, too, Mack Silas still rubbing his midriff, Chat Miller tapping his callused fingers together between his knees, otherwise the two of them inert as stones.

  “He’s handin’ out handbills—”

  “Handbills?”

  “Handbills. I go down, check it out. That’s my job. Your daddy, half in the bag, starts callin’ Arlie and his whoadies a bunch of punks. ‘Dumb as ducks,’ he says, I remember that. Arlie asked him nice, ‘Mind your own, old man,’ but your daddy’d have none of that. I step in, try to broker the peace. Your daddy just escalates. Off on me, now. Me, his sister here, calling us names I won’t repeat outta respect for the dead. Took out a matchbook, all theatrical and shit. ‘Tell you what, Mooney,’ he says. ‘You want my house, you put down on this matchbook what you think it’s worth. Then stick it up your ass and strike.’”

  Toby had little trouble picturing the scene. Meanwhile, sensing another scolding on the way, Mooney spun around. “I’m just repeating what he said, Miss Carvela. His words, not mine.” He did a little conciliatory nod, then spun right back around to Toby. “Some point, enough is enough. Arlie stepped in, gave your daddy a nudge.” He demonstrated, hand on Toby’s shoulder, like waking a sleeping bum. “Told your daddy to go on home, before he embarrassed himself.”

  “A nudge,” Toby said.

  “Just.”

  “Then?”

  Mooney shrugged. “Staggered his wackity ass on up the hill and that’s the last time I saw him. Me and Arlie both.”

  Miss Carvela rose from her chair. Tufts of silver hair had sprung loose from their pins; she looked eccentric, fragile. “James Mooney, you will leave now.” She pivoted, made eye contact with Veronique and Arlie’s mother, Mooney’s two men. “All of you.”

  “I told you I meant no disrespect, Miss Carvela. But this business is crucial.”

  “I said get out.”

  Mooney just stood there, like he hadn’t quite heard right or didn’t want to. A meanness crept over his face. His eyes flared and he marched to the window, pointing out into the night.

  “Where’s the money come from, people up here need cash? Millie and Big John Summers need to patch their roof. Serella Jones got to get a new furnace, Mazy Roberts a water heater. Other folks—you want the names, I’ll give you the names—fix the dry rot in the bathroom or the plumbing, build an add-on for the grandfolks they gotta take in. Who, I’m asking. I’ll tell you who. They can go to one of those check cashing joints, like Payday America, get ripped off that way. Or they can sign up with the thieves down at Frontline Financial. Bleed the needy. Christ, you even got real estate brokers coming up here, pushing hard money seconds on people, just so they can foreclose.”

  He scoured every face with those cold amber eyes, making sure everyone was paying attention

  “People can put up with that. Or they can come to me. I’ll pay off Payday America or whoever, so you can get out from under the nine hundred percent yearly vig. You pay me a straight ten percent, no compound interest,
no bullshit fees on top of fees.”

  The vehemence built as he talked. He’d schooled himself. He was proud.

  “You need to refinance, I’ll take a deed of trust, ten percent again, straight as a rod—sure, it’s above market, but you tell me where people up here gonna find a deal like that. You got a dozen houses on this hill sitting empty, people run out of their homes. That ain’t me. Know why? I believe in the neighborhood. Call me names, go on. But hear me out—I am the one source of money on this hill who’s jake for real with folks up here, knows what they go through, how they gotta struggle, gives a good goddamn about it.”

  Miss Carvela locked eyes with him. “To hear such talk. Make yourself out like Jameson Carswell himself.”

  “I can live with that. Man I admire.”

  “He built these homes up here. Built them. What can you honestly say you’ve—”

  “Miss Carvela, don’t push now. There are things you just don’t know.”

  “I shudder to think what happens when people foolish enough to trust you can’t pay.”

  Mooney’s eyes went wild. “How many people up here lost their homes ’cause of me? None. Not one.” He was shouting. Veins bulged in his neck. “Those homes Frontline foreclosed? I sent her”—he pointed at Veronique—“to the bank auctions, tried to outbid the loan folks and the vultures show up at those things, buy back the property so folks could stay put. Had cash in hand, just like they wanted. But every time, property got yanked off the bidding block. Every goddamn time. Not because folks paid up, got a grace period. Unh-uh, nothing like that. Because the properties got sold on the sly. That’s illegal.” He looked to Veronique for confirmation. “Something’s goin’ on, Miss Carvela, I don’t know what, but every one of those houses is just sittin’ on that hill, no fix-up, no turnaround, no nothing. If it was me there’d be people living there. You ought to give me props, thank me, ’stead of trying to shame me way you do.” He pointed again at Veronique. “Ask her, you don’t believe me. Go on. Ask.”

  Veronique winced at the focus, avoiding the glances that turned her way.

  “I’ve got a question.” It was Toby. He stared across the room at his aunt. “What’s all this have to do with the forged deed you recorded?”

  Veronique shot up straight, eyes livid. “That’s a lie. I forged no deed.”

  “Okay, Exeter did.” Toby nodded toward Mooney. “Or he did. Why else would Pops lump you together the way he did, home in on you two wanting the house?”

  Mooney cut in, “Look, look. I’m not saying I wouldn’t like that house. Already own the two Vics either side. Give me three in a row, like Monopoly. Don’t mean I wanted to chalk the place. Beyond that, your daddy, his house, you, the whole family, not my concern. That woman there”—Mooney again pointed to Veronique—“helps me with my paperwork. And that’s all.”

  “Then why bring her here?”

  Mooney cupped his hands. “Seemed right, bring you all together. Got a lot to work out. Or you can piss the whole thing away paying lawyers.”

  Veronique took this as a cue. “My brother, and my mother before him, wanted that house kept in the family.”

  That sealed it, Toby thought. In it together. That old sorry house. Bad as grave robbers. Now they’re scared they’ll get dragged into a killing. If that wasn’t the case already.

  “I’m family,” he said.

  Veronique scoffed, “Hardly.”

  “Check out the will.”

  “There’s a will?” Mooney was stunned.

  “No.” Veronique’s eyes narrowed. “Not one’s that signed.”

  How does she know about the unsigned will, Toby wondered. “Maybe there’s one you don’t know about.”

  For the first time, she smiled. “I know all I need to know.”

  “That’s right. I forgot. You’ve got a key.”

  “A will that cannot be found is presumed revoked.”

  Mooney chuckled. “That’s the law. Woman knows her law.”

  “Yeah,” Toby said. “Probably even knows what a holographic will is.”

  That shut them both up. Toby smiled. “Never much cared for his music, did you? Thought that big old horn was slimy. Vile.”

  “Jesus goddamn man alive.”

  It was Chat Miller, gazing out the window as a muffled, faraway roar made the glass tremble. Everybody jumped, got up, joined him, looking out. He pointed. To the south, on the far side of town along the river, a fireball plumed the darkness. It burned high and white, a huge tapered shock of flame, brightening the night sky. A gas jet, maybe. A broken feed line.

  “Where is that?”

  “Fuck where is it. What is it?”

  “Looks like Dumpers. Near there. Some warehouse.”

  They edged in, clustering at the window to peer out side by side, the last hour forgotten for a moment. Not a word among them as they watched the ragged stitchwork of flames, embers sailing high into the air like rockets. Faraway sirens wailed as patrol cars responded and the engine companies headed out. The eerie keening sound and swirling lights seemed so distant, unreal.

  18

  Manny cranked down the passenger’s side window and leaned out into the wind, craning for a good look back at the flames. Frustrated, he stuck his whole torso through the window, like a sheepdog, perched sideways on the seat. Ferry marveled at the sheer girth of the kid’s butt as he snagged the back of his massive overalls, pulled hard, and dragged him back in.

  “There some kinda blue ribbon for dumbfuck I don’t know about?” The van veered as Ferry got control of the wheel again. Then he reached out, slapped at Manny’s head. “Come on. Answer.”

  “What the—stop it. What’s wrong with you.” Manny scuttled back against his door, arms up to protect his head.

  “Face front. Shut up.”

  “All right, okay, all right. Jesus.” Manny sank into his seat. He lowered his arms from his head, but just a little. “You know, calling you an asshole is an affront to assholes everywhere.”

  Ferry laughed. “That’s good. I like that.” He thrummed his fingers against the steering wheel, thinking, Nothing hones the instincts like abuse.

  He turned into the stonework gate at the bottom of the hill to Baymont. As the street formed a T at the panhandle, he turned again—not left, but right. Toward St. Martin’s Hill.

  “Hey,” Manny said. “This is the wrong way.”

  “We gotta clean up your mess.”

  He climbed the hill beneath the Monterey pines and eucalyptus trees, following the narrow, tightly curving streets. Already dark, still windy, people kept inside, this part of town especially. No witnesses walking about.

  He passed the Carlisle house and the Victorian where Manny’d holed up. With a major fire on the south of town, they’d called away the patrolman stationed outside. Ferry turned at the end of the block, then turned again, heading back up the alley behind the properties. Tall fences and ramshackle garages flanked the alleyway, making the van all but invisible, but dogs barked here and there. He pulled up behind the Victorian and killed the motor, then reached behind the seat for the bolt cutter again and took a wrench from the tool chest.

  “I don’t like being here,” Manny said. “This feels bad.”

  “Get out.”

  Around back, Ferry opened the doors and took out a five-gallon tub, handed it to Manny. “You take the Vic.” He passed on the bolt cutter next, pocketing the wrench for himself, plus a roll of duct tape. “If they didn’t just ram the door, they changed the lock. Cut it off. It’s important to get inside. Place your tub downstairs. You got a low ceiling, lots of exposed wood framing there. Near the furnace or the water heater—you know where they are—so the welding melts on the gas jets.”

  Manny scrunched up his face. “Won’t that kinda be like throwing a Bic into a bonfire? I mean, a gas plume in the middle of something like this, what’s the point?”

  Ferry took out a second tub for himself, closed the van’s doors. “Stop wasting time.”

&n
bsp; “Meanwhile, you do what?”

  “Smack you again, you don’t do what I tell you.”

  “Wait. Wait. This just—” Manny pounded the side of the van softly with his fist. “This wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “Not before you offed the old spade, no.”

  “They’re gonna know it’s me.”

  “They already know it’s you. I told you. You’re not gonna be safe because that’s a secret. You’re gonna be safe because you disappear. Get a new life. That’s where I help. Now go. Do it.”

  Ferry turned toward the back gate of the Carlisle property. From behind, with juvenile gall, trying for tough, Manny said, “You’re gonna just leave me here, aren’t you?”

  Turning around, Ferry felt stunned by the kid’s face. Moon eyes, almost teary, but a clenched frown, too, the kind that told the world you knew you were gonna take some punishment, but you weren’t scared.

  “If not leave me here, somewhere.”

  “I need you,” Ferry told him. “I’m not gonna just leave. Not now. Not later.”

  “You’ll wait.”

  “Five minutes, yeah, I’ll wait. Don’t fuck around. Now go. Get it done.”

  Ferry tore away the crime scene tape at the back gate to the Carlisle yard, threw the latch, and headed in. The rain had all but washed away whatever gravel had once covered the path to the back door. Just a muddy aisle through a muddier backyard. He aimed for the grassy patches, hoping for better traction, but even so almost slid the last few yards. He taped one of the windowpanes on the back door, tapped with the wrench till the glass gave way, then picked away what larger pieces he could, reached in, and threw the lock.

  He felt his way through the dark. Eyes adjusting, he found himself in a vast open room with egg crate foam on three walls. A banner he couldn’t quite read hung from the back wall. Rolled-up carpet smelled of mold. He didn’t see a furnace.