Coldwater

by Tom Pitts

  “Well…” Gary wasn’t sure how to put it. “They’re back.”

  The prowl car didn’t pull up till almost ten. Gary called in sick to work but told them he’d probably be in after lunch. They told him, if he was sick to take the whole day. No use in giving whatever he had to the whole warehouse.

  Gary greeted Delphie at the door.

  “Sorry it took so long. Nonemergency calls get knocked down a few pegs.”

  “You mentioned that last time,” Gary said, trying not to sound annoyed. “Come in. You want a coffee or anything? I can make a fresh pot.”

  “No. Thank you, though. Mrs. Carson isn’t here today?”

  “She had to get to work.”

  Delphie sat once again at their kitchen table and took out his notepad. “All right, Mr. Carson, what happened?”

  “Nothing. I mean, I saw a light this morning.”

  “At the house across the street?”

  Gary nodded.

  “Did you see anyone? Any of the people you saw the first time?”

  “No.”

  Delphie looked up from his pad and sighed. He hadn’t written anything down. “How do you know they’re back?”

  “The light. I mean, someone’s in there. I’ve been watching that house a week now and there’s been nothing. Then, this morning, a light.”

  Delphie got up from the table. “Okay. I’ll go have a look-see.”

  Gary watched from the front door as Deputy Delphie inspected the plywood barrier, then walked around to the side of the house. He waited as the policeman disappeared around back and didn’t return for several minutes. Gary lit a cigarette. By the time he’d finished, Delphie was walking back across the street, rubbing his neck in the increasing heat.

  “Were they there?”

  “Oh yeah, they’re in there all right. I’ve got some bad news though.”

  Gary waited for the cop to finish.

  “They’re squatting in there. They’ve got an electric bill, a water bill, some kind of cable bill too.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means they’re squatting. And it looks like they know what they’re doing. What you need to do now is contact the current owners and let ’em know. If they want to do anything about it, they’ll have to start the process themselves.”

  “If they want to do anything about it? Jesus, what do I do about it? These people threatened me. Threatened my wife.”

  “You said only one of them threatened you.” Delphie took the legal pad out from under his arm and checked the notes. “The man you had a confrontation with. And I know it’s frustrating, but, in California, squatters have certain rights. They can be harder to get rid of than termites.”

  “Rights? What about our rights? You mean anyone can break into an empty house, set up shop, and call it their own. What the hell am I paying a mortgage for?”

  “Listen, if you have any more contact with them, or any other information, call me. I may not be able to come down, but it’s important to build a foundation here. Get something on paper. Something official. That way, if you need it, you have documentation.”

  “So, that’s it?”

  “For now.”

  Gary spent the rest of the morning looking up squatter’s rights on the internet. He sat and read till his eyes burned. The most helpful reading was dry and boring, and the rest was revolutionary stuff, instructions on how to stick it to the man, the evil landlord. Gary remembered his uncle who owned a building in San Francisco, and how much he complained about state laws, how they catered to the tenants and handcuffed the landlord. At the time Gary thought his uncle was just another angry right-wing landowner. Now he understood what the man was complaining about.

  Gary took a break around two. Too tired to fix himself a proper lunch, he toasted a couple pieces of bread and slapped a slice of cheese on each. Linda hated it when he ate like this, bachelor-style, without a plate or any regard to a proper meal. But Linda wasn’t home and he was hungry. Besides, it was fancy cheese, by Gary’s estimation, on top of a heavily seeded piece of whole wheat. The bread was so fortified it weighed almost as much as a steak.

  Halfway through the second piece of Muenster on multigrain, he saw the girl. She stood on the walkway in front of the Perkins’ house, looking up and down the street. She still looked good, thought Gary, in her street urchin kind of way. How did a girl so frail and beautiful end up squatting with lowlifes? The answer, Gary knew, didn’t matter. Her looks and demeanor had nothing to do with her station in life. She was just as dangerous as the son of a bitch who broke into their house with the razor.

  The girl’s attention narrowed to one end of the street and Gary turned to see what it was she was focused on. The mailman. Juliet, or at least that’s what she said her name was, stood vigil on the lawn with her arms crossed watching the mail carrier move languidly from house to house. Her impatience was clear as she lit a cigarette, sat down, smoked, got back up, moved to the sidewalk and back to the house. After a minute she took off her denim vest. Underneath, she wore a red T-shirt with the sleeves torn off. Gary saw a black bra peek out from under her arms when she took off the vest. Probably the same one she’d worn when he spoke to her over a week ago. He could see the lines of bruises along her arm from where he stood. It was a shame she was devastated from drugs, she’d be a striking woman otherwise.

  As the deliveries drew closer, Juliet moved up the street and stood on the sidewalk of the house two doors down from the Perkins. Gary watched her while she watched the mail carrier.

  The phone rang. Linda’s work number. He answered.

  “What are you doing?” Linda asked. Her tone wasn’t pleasant, it was accusatory.

  “They told me not to come in today. I’m doing research.”

  “Research? On what?”

  “Squatter’s rights. That cop, Delphie, he says that’s what they’re doing over there. Squatting.” Every time he said the word, he thought about how Calper Dennings told them they were not squatting. There was something more sinister going on, but they were not squatting. Gary clung to the idea. They had to be squatting. The thought that the strangers had a more legitimate title to the house was too much to consider.

  “Jesus, I didn’t know people even did that anymore.”

  “Yeah, they’re all set up. I’m watching the girl right now. She’s in the front yard waiting for the mail. Just standing there, like she’s lived there all her life.”

  “Don’t watch too closely. You seem a little more interested in her than the others.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, a little teasing to make light of the situation, but Gary felt the jealousy, the condemnation in the comment.

  “Gimme a break. I’m not eyeing the homeless girl across the street.”

  “Technically, they’re not homeless. Not anymore. They’re our neighbors.”

  Gary didn’t laugh. He stayed silent. He heard mundane office sounds in the background behind Linda.

  “I’m serious, Linda. I think they’re stealing mail. I’m watching her take mail from the guy down the street. She’s standing by his driveway, waiting for the mail lady to walk up. I’m not checking her out, for fuck’s sake. She’s committing a federal crime.”

  “I’m kidding, Gare. Lighten up. Stop looking out that window and make yourself some lunch. If you have the day off, I suggest you relax, forget about those fools, and watch a movie.”

  Gary grunted. He thought he’d said all right, but it only came out as a grunt.

  “Okay, grumpy. Oh, and before you settle in, could you take the towels from the wash and put them in the dryer?”

  “Okay, will do. I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  It was rare Stephan invited Taber down to his study. Most of their business was conducted in the upstairs office. So much in fact, it had practically become Taber’s office. The study was where Stephan we
nt for contemplation, a quiet room where he could shut out the constant needy prompts from his many responsibilities.

  When Taber stepped into the small room, Stephan was seated behind a clean desk. Curtains were drawn, blinds lowered, and the daylight was blocked. A low-wattage lamp glowed in the corner and a framed oil painting was lit from below, otherwise the room was appropriately dim. There were pictures on Stephan’s desk, small free-standing frames Taber assumed were photos of his family. But he couldn’t say for sure, he’d never been far enough into the room to see who or what was in the pictures.

  “Have a seat, Ashton,” Stephan said.

  Taber sat in the only available chair, the formality of being called to the room still making him nervous. “What’s up?”

  Stephan drew in a deep breath, preparing for what he had to say. “Our friend up in Sacramento, that’s what. Have you heard from him?’

  “Paulson?”

  “No, not him. Calper Dennings.”

  “Not for a few days, no.”

  “You know, I narrowed your responsibilities for a reason. Your slate has been cleared so you can concentrate on dealing with Jason’s situation.”

  “What about the trust?”

  “Jason’s situation is the trust. They’re one and the same. He’s the monkey wrench. That’s what we’re dealing with. The details of what’s in that document don’t matter until we’ve dealt with him.”

  “I’ve got Calper on it. That’s why we hired him, to take care of the work in the field while I focus on the details of the trust.”

  “I told you, the trust will be null and void. It’s the boy, my goddamn son, we have to neutralize.” Stephan slowly shook his head, reminding Taber—like he always did—that he had no concept of the big picture.

  Taber started to speak, but Stephan held up his hand. “No, no. I understand, you’ve parceled out the labor, and that’s fine. I’m just wondering if you chose the right man.”

  “Calper’s the right man, trust me. It’s not only his discretion involving what he already knows, but his continued discretion regarding whatever might come up. If things get weird or things get ugly, we can count on him not to bail on us.”

  “Isn’t that what happened last time?”

  “Last time was different, the circumstances were different.”

  Stephan spun his swivel chair a quarter-turn and faced the painting on the wall. It was a prairie landscape, wintery and expansive. “I guess what I’m saying is, I’m questioning the soundness of the decision to bring him back on. He’s already worked for us and that job did not go the way we had hoped.”

  “But don’t you see?” Taber felt his vocal cords tighten. He hated it when he pleaded with Stephan. It made him feel like a child. “That’s why he’s the perfect choice. He’s already been in contact with the subjects, so he’s got a working knowledge there, and it means less exposure for us. We’ve already dealt with him. That means we don’t have to take on someone new—we don’t have to trust someone new.”

  “I guess that’s the word that’s making me uncomfortable. We’re putting a lot of trust in this man. If he’s capable—and you say he is—there comes a point when he’s going to put together some of the pieces on his own. Is he still going to feel the same loyalty then?”

  “It’s not to that point yet. Let’s just let him do his job. One step at a time. When I say I’m on it, I mean it. I have a leash on this guy.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Stephan didn’t say anything.

  Taber said, “I’ll call him first thing.”

  Juliet came in through the back of the house. “It’s here,” she said. The other three were sitting on the rug in the living room. Russell read a paperback he’d found in the gutter, Bomber smoked and sipped a warm forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor, and Jason sat cross-legged with the cell phone between his knees.

  “Open it up, let’s see,” Jason said. “Let’s activate that thing.”

  Juliet tossed the envelope down to Jason and he tore it open with his teeth. “Emily Perkins. Expiration date, 2017. Nice. Anybody see you?”

  “Just the neighbor guy across the street. He was peeking through his kitchen window.”

  “Fuckin’ pervert,” Bomber said.

  With his feet planted, Jason turned his head toward the kitchen window, toward the Carsons’ home. “Fuck him.” His mouth tightened into a sneer. “What’d he say to you, Juliet?”

  “Nothing. He didn’t say nothing. I just saw his head in the window, that’s all.”

  Bomber sensed the tension he’d wrought and said, “I was kidding.”

  Jason flipped the credit card over and dialed the number on the back. When he reached the automated system, he got up and walked to the bedroom.

  The kid said, “Hey, Juliet. When we go shopping, can we get some stuff for us?”

  “Well, Rus-sell,” she drew his name out long and slow, like she was teasing him, “we’re only supposed to buy big-ticket stuff we can sell, but I’ll ask Jason, and we’ll see if we can tack on a few personal items so it looks better when we reach the register.”

  He smiled at her and, to his astonishment, she smiled back.

  Chapter Ten

  Calper Dennings picked up the phone on the first ring. “Mr. Carson. How can I help you?”

  “They’re back. All of them, I think. I’m not sure how long they’ve been there, but they’re definitely there.”

  “Are they in the house right now?”

  “The girl is. I just saw her get some mail at the neighbor’s house, then she went in through the backyard.”

  “Have you called the police yet?”

  “They were here this morning. They don’t seem to care much. Even after what happened the other night. Said they were most likely squatting and they probably weren’t going anywhere.”

  “I’m on my way over. I’ll call you from the market down the street. I want you to come pick me up. They don’t need to be getting a good look at my car.”

  Surprised by Dennings’ urgency, Gary said, “Sure, no problem. The liquor store, you mean? The one by the donut shop?”

  “That’s the one. Twenty minutes.”

  Calper hit the end-call button on his phone. He hadn’t even returned it to his pocket when it buzzed again. He answered it without looking, assuming it was Carson. He said hello and heard Ashton Taber’s dry, over-articulated voice on the other end.

  “Where have you been?” Taber said.

  “What do you mean, where have I been? I’ve been stuck up in this fucking motel room waiting for them to poke their heads up.”

  “Well, they poked their heads up all right. They went and visited our lawyer friend downtown and nearly killed the poor bastard. He was in the hospital three days.”

  Taber was referring to Kent Paulson, an attorney they kept on retainer in Sacramento. He was really more of a lobbyist than a lawyer. He acted as a political fixer and go-between when Taber couldn’t be in the state’s capital at a moment’s notice. As far as Calper knew, Kent was on the fringes of their loose organization, but had been doing business with them for years.

  “You’re just telling me about this now?”

  “He only just told us. Says he was too out of it to make any calls.”

  “I call bullshit. Unless he was in a coma, there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have been able to pick up a phone.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. We need you to get your ass down there to find out what the hang up was and see what else he’s holding back.”

  Calper let the dig slide. Taber had been snide with him ever since their first meet and he expected nothing different. “Is he still in the hospital?”

  “No. He’s been released, but he says he’s got follow-ups today and he’ll be home tonight. You have the address?”

  “Yeah, but give it to me again. I’m find
ing some holes in the information you two gave me and I want to make sure I’m knocking on the right door.”

  Taber switched gears. “Look, Mr. DeWildt is losing faith in your abilities to get this thing done. You’ve been in town there for almost a week and he can’t understand how this thing with Paulson slipped under your radar. I can tell you right now, I know the man, he’s thinking about bringing in reinforcements.”

  “Reinforcements? What the fuck does that mean?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Calper took this as a bluff. More words from the in-house lawyer. They’d paid him good money and promised him a lot more, why would they hire someone else to do the same job? His opinion of Taber became even more anemic than before.

  He said, “I’ll keep you posted.” But Taber had already hung up.

  Stephan DeWildt was doing more than just thinking of calling in reinforcements.

  He was doing it.

  He sat in his den on the first floor of the Point Dume mansion, an ashtray on one knee and a cell phone on the other. It was a cheap one he’d paid cash for at a 7-Eleven. A throwaway, a burner. He only used it for one thing.

  While he puffed away at one of his beloved Dunhills, Stephan waited for Martek Mosely to call him back on the burner. Martek was an old friend, an employee from a packing plant he owned in Oklahoma. Stephan, who prided himself in spotting unique talents, had groomed Martek for a special position. It’d been years since they’d seen each other face to face, but they still kept in contact, very discreet contact. Stephan funneled money to Martek and expected he would be doing so the rest of his life. But it was worth it. You can’t buy loyalty, but it helps to keep it happy and well fed. Especially if you want it on call.

  The cell phone buzzed.

  “Hello, my friend. Thank you for getting back to me so quick. I’ve got something for you.”

  “I thought you’d never call. I’m crawling the walls out here.”

  “I need you to get up to the Bay Area.”

  “No problem. You want me to drive?” This was Martek’s way of asking if he needed to bring special equipment, the kind you couldn’t fly with.