Done for a Dime

by David Corbett

  The band had insisted they finish with a roof raiser, something to truly conjure the image of the man they’d known as Strong. “God knows he’ll haunt us if we don’t,” Toby’d agreed. The choice was automatic—“Moanin’,” with Francis assigned the missing man’s lead.

  The intro hook resonated eerily with the pastor’s sermon; you could feel the collective shiver up every spine in the place. They built the tune up till its echoes rocked the packed church. Every man took a solo, a final tribute to the man who’d brought them together, and members of the congregation rose from their pews, crying out in praise or grief, lifting their arms above their heads to handclap. The choir followed with “I’m Gonna Walk Right In and Make Myself at Home”, then the choir and band joined together in one of the few spirituals Toby knew had gained his father’s fondness, the old Sister Rosetta Tharpe and Lucky Millinder rendition of “Lonesome Road.”

  The reception afterward was held at the Masonic Temple, with a reprise performance by the church choir. Toby felt uneasy—Veronique held court, queen for a day, the grieving little sister. Rumors of her involvement in Long Walk Mooney’s schemes, the forged deed, had yet to ripple very far outside the police and the family, and Toby was obliged to play along. In return, no more questions were raised regarding his status as his father’s son. It seemed a backhanded victory, given all he’d been through. Even as he accepted the kindness and affection of other family members, struggling with their own grief, and the well-wishing of so many others who’d come so far to pay their respects, he couldn’t shake his sense that there was a grating dissonance, a lie, at the heart of the occasion. It made him feel oddly alone, even with his own family, Francis and Miss Carvela, the players from the band. That, combined with a numbness, an inescapable, leaden sensation in his body and soul, made him realize where he needed to be.

  As the reception wound down, he excused himself, then found his car, drove to Berkeley, and parked outside the music store where Nadya worked. If she didn’t come to the service, she wants nothing to do with you, he thought. On reflection, that seemed cowardly. Let her tell you herself what she wants or doesn’t want. Go from there.

  The store was thickly carpeted and had that bright, clean, polished smell that since childhood had conjured an ineffable sense of welcome. Behind the counter hung a poster from Ernst Krenek’s 1927 opera, Jonny spielt auf, with its jazz-oriented score about a Black musician and his white girlfriend. He and Nadya had always joked about its being a good omen, having that poster right there in the store where they’d met. Even portents can be mistaken, he supposed, or short-lived. He feigned browsing, saw she wasn’t there, nodded hello to Mr. Kurtzmann, the owner, then went back outside, climbing the stair along the alley that led to her tiny two-room apartment.

  Peeking through the window curtains, he saw her at her table eating a bowl of egg noodles with salt and butter, comfort food. He rapped gently on the windowpane, and when her eyes lifted at the sound he didn’t know whether to smile or not. Looking pale, unhealthy, she wore a long-sleeved blouse to conceal the scars on her arm. Her expression seemed grave but uncertain, even a little lost. And yet she put down her fork, came to the door, and opened it.

  “I missed you,” he said. It hung there like a guilty secret, so he added, “At the service.”

  “I wanted to go,” she said, unconvincingly. “Thank you for inviting me. I just felt—”

  “Can I come in?”

  The place was too small for more than the one chair at her table. The only spot for him to sit was the futon they’d shared when he stayed over. He ached for that, wanting it again more than he’d realized. To hold her, be held. His heart pounded as he looked about the room, his eyes registering the plants and the books and the shoes and the arty or cartoonish postcards taped to the walls. He felt returned to the one safe place he’d known lately. He feared it was gone for good now.

  “You belonged there, at the service. As much as anyone. More than most.”

  She picked up her fork, poked at her food. “It’s been difficult.”

  Dark patches rimmed her eye sockets. A slight twitch flickered along her cheek.

  “I’d like to help.”

  She smiled sadly, tucking her shoulder up in a half shrug. “Like it’s been easy for you. Easy for anyone up there.”

  “Doesn’t mean we avoid each other.”

  She looked up finally. For the first time, he saw in her eyes what he’d dreaded he’d find there. Finality.

  “It’s just been very difficult,” was all she said. Then: “I should get back to work.”

  She put down her fork and rose from her chair and straightened her skirt. Toby didn’t move.

  “Can I wait here for you?”

  She seemed confused, like he’d posed a riddle. “I don’t get off till six.”

  He reached out for her hand. “That doesn’t matter.”

  She stepped toward him, placed her hand in his, trying to smile. When he gently pulled her toward him, she knelt down clumsily. Bending to him, she at last rested her face against his breastbone. He felt a shudder ripple up her back, and so he circled his arms around her.

  “I can’t forgive myself,” she whispered.

  “It’s my fault.” He stroked her hair. “I felt so guilty, so jealous. You caught that. I want to help now. Let me help.”

  She was shaking. Her hands gripped his jacket. “I think about what happened day and night. I’m afraid to sleep, I can’t—”

  “Let me help,” he told her again, kissing her hair. You can’t bring him back by killing yourself, he thought, though he understood the impulse. “Then—if you can, if you want—you help me.”

  They stayed like that a moment, then with a jerky suddenness she pulled herself free of his arms and rose. “I really do have to get back.” Her face contorted in a wrenching smile and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you decide to leave, please lock the door.”

  “I’m not leaving,” he told her. “I’ll stay. If that’s all right.”

  The merest smile flickered across her lips, at the same time her eyes welled up. She nodded, then fled. He waited a long while, hoping she’d come back. Make some excuse, cut work. Once a half hour passed he knew it was futile, for now. I’ll wait, he thought, like I promised, till six. He lay on his side, curled up his knees. Closing his eyes, he waited for sleep. He needed so badly to dream a convincing dream.

  Acknowledgments

  The author was aided in many ways by many people, without whose assistance this book would simply fail to exist.

  First and foremost, the author wishes to thank his agent, Laurie Fox, and editor, Mark Tavani, whose guidance and advice repeatedly steered him back from woeful errors, fruitless digressions, and shoddy work. Also, Marie Coolman, Michelle Aielli, Mary Seimsen, Kim Hovey, Joe Blades, and everyone else at Ballantine have provided encouragement and assistance on so many levels, in so many ways, and on so many occasions that it would be impossible to overstate.

  A number of individuals provided guidance on factual matters, and if errors remain in the text, it is entirely the fault of the author and not these generous and informed sources. Mark Chubb, Assistant Fire Region Commander of the Transalpine Fire Region, New Zealand Fire Service, and John D. DeHaan, Ph.D.—whose Kirk’s Fire Investigation is arguably the most useful, scientifically sound, and comprehensive text on the investigation of incendiary fires yet to be written—were invaluable in matters concerning arson, the physics of fire, and the specifics of firefighting. Detective Sid DeJesus of the Vallejo Police Department and Reserve Officer Rick Ruffatto of the East Palo Alto Police Department saved the author from many misconceptions regarding police procedure and investigative strategy and techniques. Patrick V. Garland and “Sarge” Hardeman helped regarding life and work as an MP in the 1970s, and Lyle Ferguson shared his Coast Guard experiences so the author could understand better how that agency patrols the Central American coast.

  James Kern, executive director of the
Vallejo Naval and Historical Museum, showered the author with more information than he could absorb concerning the history of the Mare Island shipyards and the community, housing, and culture that arose in the neighboring region. Kathy Blume proved invaluable on matters concerning local flora and fauna. Antonio Rangel’s assistance concerning big rigs and tank trucks is especially appreciated. Brad Hughes, Diana Lang, and Marcus Shelby filled in some of the gaping holes in the author’s musical knowledge.

  Once again, the author was aided in his Spanish usage by Elly Sturm and Ana Ramirez, the latter of whom is also to be thanked profoundly for her guided tour of El Salvador.

  Some of the author’s helpers simply shared events from their lives.

  Jerry Karr provided anecdotal tales concerning growing up at the northern end of San Pablo Bay and hunting and fishing amid the hills, sloughs, and salt flats bordering the Napa River. Linda Bixby shared her experiences concerning traumatic shock that gave the author a personal, visceral insight into how one survives terrifying helplessness. Jacqueline Morgan and her family, simply by being such marvelous friends to the author and his late wife, provided insights the author would never have grasped without their generosity, goodwill, humor, and kindness.

  Tom Rickman, Ann Close, and Mark Childress all read portions of the manuscript prior to publication, and their encouragement and advice helped the author make this a much better book than he could have managed alone.

  Although the textual research for this book covered a lot of ground, a few books proved particularly helpful. As already noted, Kirk’s Fire Investigation by John D. DeHaan (Brady/Prentice Hall) was indispensable. Understanding Police Culture by John P. Crank (Anderson Publishing Co.); Cop Shock: Surviving Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) by Allen R. Kates (Holbrook Street Press); What Cops Know by Connie Fletcher (Pocket Books); and Practical Aspects of Interview and Interrogation by David E. Zulaski and Douglas E. Wicklander (CRC Press) provided crucial insights into police work and life as an American law officer. Slang Dictionary (2001), compiled by the Communication Arts and Sciences Program, Berkeley (CA) High School, provided the author an invaluable source for reasonably current street vernacular.

  Finally, portions of this book were written prior to the death of my wife, Terri. She believed in the book, felt a bond with its characters, and encouraged me to tell their tale. I wish she were here to see the fruits of that support, because I owe her more than I can say, and always will.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The city of Rio Mirada does not exist, but the region in which it has been placed—the hills and wetlands surrounding the conflux of the Napa River and San Pablo Bay, northeast of San Francisco—is real. So much has been altered, however, for the sake of dramatic effect and narrative clarity, that it, too, should be considered a fictional construct of the author’s imagination.

  copyright © 2003 by David Corbett

  Cover design by Angela Lennert Wilcox, Wilcox Design

  This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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