Done for a Dime (27 page)

Toby prepared to ring the bell but then noticed the door stood slightly ajar. He glanced at Nadya, who shrugged. It was an office, after all, not just a home, Sunday notwithstanding. He nudged the door open.

“Hello?”

Two large rooms with coved ceilings flanked the entryway, one for waiting, the other a conference area lined with bookshelves. Both were empty, as were the small offices lining the hallway. At the rear, the hallway zagged. A rustic kitchen stood to one side. Toby heard voices, then saw, at the very back, a carpeted stairway leading to the second floor. He turned to Nadya, shrugged—she answered back with a shrug of her own—and led the way up.

Just beyond the landing stood an archway leading to a large, recessed, wood-paneled library with a low ceiling, lit by skylights above, antique sconces along the walls, and Tiffany table lamps elsewhere. A dense oak table dominated the center of the room, piled high with case files, pleadings, three-ring binders, and document boxes.

Four people sat around the table—Tina, two other women, and a man. Atop their heads they wore blue-and-white FedEx envelopes, pulled down to the eyes or pushed back to the crown—all of them laughing giddily, like kids at a birthday party.

“Hello?” Toby said again, Nadya behind him in the archway.

The laughter stopped in halting chirps; everyone turned. “Oops,” someone whispered.

Tina rose, pulled the FedEx envelope off her head, and eased forward, smiling sheepishly. “It’s Sunday,” she explained. “We’re here working, instead of at home. Needed a little boost.” She held the envelope up, to demonstrate. “Rally hats.”

Introductions ensued. The man was Tina’s brother, Dan, who dominated the room the instant he stood up. One of the women, Shel, was his wife, a reedy woman with graying red hair. Something haunted her eyes, Toby thought, and in that regard they reminded him a little of Nadya’s—inviting but uneasy, too. She did not stand; a cane was hooked to the back of her chair.

Tina introduced the last woman as her partner—bespectacled and prim, a thirtyish Filipina with dimples and a pageboy haircut. Joyanne was her name. Toby wondered, Partner in love or law? Taking her small hand, he remembered there’d been only one name on the door. But earlier, when Tina’d mentioned her male mentor, he’d inferred they’d been lovers. Now this. Maybe I got it wrong, he thought. Maybe I’ve got everything wrong.

He put the horn cases down. “Nadya can fill you in on what just happened at the house. You’ll want to know. In the meantime, I need to make a phone call. Is there somewhere private?”

Tina led him to a small office just off the landing, with little in it but a single desk, a lamp, and a telephone console. As soon as she left, he closed the door, selected an outside line, and phoned the number he knew from memory. A frail voice answered.

“Miss Carvela? This is Toby Marchand.”

On the other end of the line he heard a faint gasp, like she’d nicked herself with a pin. “My poor boy, I am so sorry, so terribly sorry.”

At the sound of her voice, the feelings came. He bit his cheeks. “I have an apology to make.”

“Whatever for?”

“The police.”

“They were here. Earlier.”

“Yes, I know, Miss Carvela. I was the one who told them where to come.”

The line went still. Toby filled the silence with recriminations.

Finally, she said, “Oh, in the history of such things, it was hardly too bad.” The cheerfulness seemed forced.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yes.”

“Is Francis—”

“He’s fine, dear. He’s found a place with some friends. I suppose I can tell you that. He asked me not to tell you where. For your sake, not just his.”

It sounded like a lie. Toby said, “I understand.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself. I can only imagine what you’ve been through.”

“No. That’s no excuse.”

“Toby—”

“I didn’t know, they had me alone, I thought—” He stopped himself. No excuse, but listen to me. “I don’t know what I thought. I wish—”

“Yes.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Toby coiled the phone cord around his finger.

She said, “Do you have a place to stay?”

Toby had to think. “I’m guessing Pop’s house, I don’t know. But there’s some talk that the guy who shot him was hiding next door.”

“Oh dear. Take care, you must—”

“I’m at my lawyer’s now.”

Another pause, then: “Would it be too much to ask … Oh, this may be, how shall I … It’s a bit to ask. Would you mind terribly staying here with me?”

It seemed a clumsy touch of grace. Like being forgiven.

“Everything that’s happened, it has me a little, I don’t know, uneasy.” She chuckled sadly. “All those years living alone, then just a few months with Francis here, in the house. See what a spoiled old woman I’ve become?”

When he returned to rejoin the others, he saw his father’s horn case open on the large oak table. The baritone’s pearl keys and nickel-plated body glimmered in the light. Everyone looked up—not a word from anyone, staring at him in the doorway. He wondered if they felt guilty for having stolen a peek without asking first. Silly, he thought. Then Nadya got up, holding a crumpled white envelope, which she held out for him to take.

“They wanted to see your father’s horn. We found this in the compartment that holds the extra mouthpiece and reeds.”

The envelope had “For Toby” written on it, his father’s handwriting. It was sealed. He checked with Tina, who nodded. He worked the seal open. A letter lay inside, written on hospital stationery.

Dear Toby,

It’s been a couple hours since Veronique drove me to the emergency room. The whole time, she’s hounding me about, “Do you have a will? Have you made arrangements?” Like she can’t wait. Drive me straight to the graveyard, not the hospital, if she could.

But it got me to thinking. Before they put me under the knife, I want to say a few things.

I wasn’t the man, the musician, the father to you, or the friend to your mother I should have been. Time like this, that looms large. Wish I could change it, know I can’t, may never get to say I’m sorry.

In particular, I rode you hard, too hard. God knows there’s reasons for that I should be ashamed of, but I wanted you ready. Ready to take on the phonies and the users and the thieves who will hound you throughout your career. I know your mother wants something else for you, can’t blame her. But I sense in you the gift. Sensed that a long time, actually.

I want you to have the house. It’s paid in full, your grandmother took care of that. I built it out so I could practice with the Firefly, but not just that. For you, too. If you want, take over the band. They’re good men, strong players. I think they’ll follow, if you have the spine to lead. Don’t be shy. As they retire or pass away, replace them with players you know, players you respect. Carry on.

Any money or other valuables I leave behind—there won’t be much, I’m sure that’s no shock—divvy them up among the family as you see fit. Don’t let Veronique badger you into something you don’t think’s right. But don’t listen to your mother, neither, just walk away. Please do as I ask. It will give me some comfort, knowing that.

The nurse is here. They’re ready. Please know I loved you, Son. I always have. I have shown that badly. But I’ve paid.

Your loving father,

Raymond Carlisle

Toby read it again, twice, beginning to end, needing to sit finally. He found himself in a strange mental state, not wholly there, not wholly elsewhere, wishing for a time and place he could answer this letter.

Tina walked up, hand held out.

“May I?”

Always the lawyer. Toby passed the letter to her and glanced up at Nadya, who came close, resting her hand gently on the nape of his neck. Her skin felt cool against his own.

“Do you know what this is?” Tina asked.

It seemed a kind of trick question. Toby shrugged.

“We’ll have to verify it’s your father’s signature.”

“I can do that.”

“Someone other than you.”

“Why?”

Tina folded the letter closed and handed it back. “It’s called a holographic will.”

Following Bratcher’s directions, Ferry drove past the rock yards and auto dismantlers and salt ponds lining Green Island Road. At the very end, he parked the van beyond the blacktop at a gravel turnaround rimmed with bulrushes and fennel that had died back with winter.

Rusting track led to the old rail bridge, a two-tower structure of low-carbon steel painted a puke green and tagged with graffiti. The county had taken out its center section, so boat traffic could sail up and down the Napa River at will. Trash littered the muddy weeds leading up to the rail bed. Nice just to be out there, Bratcher had said. Some joke. It was the kind of place teenagers came on Friday night to get ripped or blown, and only foreigners would bother to fish here.

He locked the van and headed toward an old rotting bench, looking across the river. Cattails lined the riverbed, their flower spikes shorn away, harvested by local florists for winter decorations. On the far side, a derelict pleasure boat, complete with paddle wheel, listed to one side in the mud flat. Beyond it, redwood piers tethered with speedboats led up to a line of houses atop the levee. The county loners lived over there, their homes accessible only by water or a two-lane road snaking down from Cuttings Wharf.

The slough-laced wetlands stretched to the south. Ferry spotted a great blue heron in the distance, making one last turn of the marshes before returning to its rookery. It was high tide; the heron scoured the levees, waiting for the mice and voles to clamber for high ground, exposed. It reminded him of Manny. Unmasked. Exposed.

He guessed the kid worked off two core principles:
I am disgusting, even to myself,
and
The world must burn.
With no inkling of how the one fed the other, let alone why. It might almost inspire a kind of pity, Ferry thought, if you weren’t obliged to clean up after him.

Ferry had to make sure Manny’s misadventure of the previous night never reached Bratcher’s radar. Not till payment was in hand, at any rate. Given the big guy’s history, you had to guess he’d find a way to make everybody suffer the cost but him.

Bratcher had begun as a fireman—there was an irony for you, Ferry thought—getting in just before the pay scales skyrocketed. Few people realize how well you can make out as a fireman in California. He moved on to business agent for the union, where he honed his lobbying chops. He liked that, the arm-twisting, the hustles, the brinkmanship. And again, there was money in it. Some of it came in cash.

Cash builds up, you gotta find a way to invest. Only so many new safes in the house you can justify. Looking for opportunities he could monitor firsthand, Bratcher turned to flooring—offering short-term loans to car salesmen who’d left dealerships to open lots of their own. Being salesmen, they wildly exaggerated their chances of breaking even, overspent, and ran to men like Bratcher for cover. He was smart, always demanding a secured debt, and took away a half-dozen homes through foreclosure, right when property values went wild.

Bratcher cashed out, then teamed up with his lawyer to invest in closely held real estate concerns bankrolling motels at South Lake Tahoe during the casino expansions, and high-rise apartment buildings around Sacramento as the state government mushroomed. He hit bliss every deal he made, a knack for timing. Then came his first bad move.

He saw a bargain in some high-rises in south Sac. Too cocky, he figured he could boot all the subsidy tenants. He didn’t foresee the gang upsurge of the mid-eighties. Within three years, his sly investment transformed into two of the tallest crack houses in the West. He spent ten years trying to go through the police, the courts, community groups, only to see every meager victory stolen back within days, hours sometimes.

Bratcher wasn’t the kind to live with that—getting jobbed by the underclass was for social workers—which led to his linkup with Ferry. Bratcher’s lawyer was the one who heard about him—former narc, contacted through the Internet, already wielding a heavy, if slippery, reputation.

Ferry’s strategy was twofold.

One, focus on women in the family. Make it plain—the trouble goes or they go. You get a fight, plant evidence if need be, drop the dime. Women hold the whole thing together. Send the women to jail or put them on the street, the men won’t stand tall—they’ll vanish.

Two, scope it out, see who travels with whom, then pick off a low-rung slinger or tout—better still, a family member—leave a telltale mark on the body if you can, kick off a war. Bodies buy action. The ones left behind kill each other off, get popped in a street sweep, or, with the jacked-up heat, scurry on down to the next relation in line. Home is where they have to take you in: Elk Grove, Rio Mirada, Vallejo, Pittsburg, Richmond, Oakland, Hunter’s Point, East Palo Alto. Skip tracers, bail bondsmen, parole officers, the police—they all knew the circuit well. But for Ferry, all he needed to know was there was somewhere else for Bratcher’s problems to head. As long as they went, problem solved.

That was four years ago. In the interim, Bratcher fended off two grand jury investigations, one into improper campaign contributions (he’d funneled union money to retired firefighters in a scam to skirt spending limits, and laundered developer kickbacks through his lawyer), the other for orchestrating a pattern of HUD fraud, relating to abuse of the Officer Next Door Program.

Cops and firemen and teachers could purchase HUD foreclosures for 50 percent of the outstanding loan if they agreed to live in the house three years. It was a way of getting respectable community members into marginal neighborhoods. But HUD lacked the manpower to enforce the terms; scammers had a field day. Buyers got in low, rented or turned the properties around in just a few months with minor, cosmetic changes, and walked off with a killing. Bratcher, after a decade of hassles with the agency over his drug dealing problems, saw this as sweet revenge. He had his hand in locating properties for willing takers, finessing the back end sales and rentals, keeping tabs on HUD investigations, and again letting his attorney’s client trust account serve as a slush fund for unreportable cash.