“Really? She seemed real shook up the day she called me. Something about her neighbor, wasn’t it?”
“Right.”
“Did she tell you about her husband, Marsh?”
“A little.”
“Never did like that little pissant. She’s well rid of him. Well, if Kathy decides she wants some help after all, you give it to her. Okay, Marsh?”
“If I can, Ruthie. If I can. See you Wednesday.”
Ruthie and I said good-bye. I switched off the light and stood up, then sat back down, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and let it out slowly and willed my muscles to relax. My mind drifted, untethered, a feather on the breeze. I imagined what Teresa Blair would look like, sound like, smell like, when I found her.
“Fire!”
The sound was faint, for an instant indecipherable and unimportant. I remained in hibernation. Then the word was used again, and this time defined itself.
“Fire! Anyone! Get out fast. The building is on fire. Help me! If anyone’s here, come help me. Please!”
I rolled out of my chair and stumbled into the corridor and tracked a ghostly figure down the stairs and out into the alley, which was black at its ends but lit at the center by a flickering orange blot of flame. I yelled at the retreating body and it turned and stopped and then came toward me.
“Marsh. Thank God.”
It was Carson James, the owner of the building; aged, infirm, homosexual, easily frightened. We had met years before, when I had removed one of the many terrors from his life. In return he gave me friendship and reduced rent. “How bad is it?” I asked him.
“Horrible. The flames. They just exploded, a gas leak or something. Look in the window. Mother of God, I could have been killed.” Carson’s pasty flesh puckered at the thought. The rings on his fingers twinkled brightly as he gestured, reflecting fire.
I looked. Flames sprang into the air behind the glass of the rear window, yellow acrobats. I thought of old rock shows at the Fillmore, and of the light shows that swirled behind the performers. “Have you called the fire department?” I asked.
“No. I thought I should alert people first.”
I thanked him. “Is there anything inside that’s crucial?”
“Everything is inside, Marsh. My life is inside. You know that.”
I did. “There’s an alarm box down at the street,” I said. “Go pull it. I’ll go in and call. Is there a fire extinguisher?”
Carson nodded. “Somewhere.” His eyes closed, gray wrinkled curtains lowered against the conflagration before and behind them. “Oh, I can’t think,” he mumbled desperately. “It’s ancient, and I haven’t the faintest idea how to use it, you see, so I kind of … It’s by the back door! On the wall. Right inside.”
What he couldn’t bring himself to ask with his voice he asked with the eyes of a supplicant. “Okay,” I told him. “You go on down and pull the alarm. It’s not too bad, yet. You’re insured, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but …”
There are always buts with insurance, everyone knows that, and all of a sudden I started thinking about whether I should try to save anything of my own. The Klee. The desk, my grandfather’s desk, except it was too big to carry. Peggy’s plants. And nothing else, because the rest was mostly those things we accumulate not because we want to but because our government, our several governments, require it.
And then I started thinking not about the existence or aftermath of the fire, but about its cause. There were a number of possibilities. Carson wasn’t the most stable of men. He could have been careless with the ash from one of his ubiquitous cigarettes, or with the passions of one of his ambitious young lovers. Or it could have been the wiring, or the this or the that, but one of the things it could have been had nothing to do with Carson and a lot to do with me and the case I was on.
I shoved Carson down the alley and turned to face the fire, determined to douse it after first dousing my fear. I struggled with my childhood for a time, and subdued it only by fixing full attention on exactly what I had to do inside the building and how I had to do it.
The rear door opened easily enough, but the heat behind it washed over me like a wave over a reef. I stepped into the smoky kiln of the interior with care if not with confidence, my throat already clogged with dread. I almost ran away, but couldn’t.
The store was crammed with stuff, even more cluttered in the rear where I was than in the front. Sideboards, chiffoniers, wardrobes, and highboys surrounded me like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. When I knew where I was and what was around me, I turned and looked squarely at the blaze that clawed its way up the rear wall of the store.
The fire seemed confined to the back of the building, at its most intense beneath the two windows that looked out onto the alley. One of the windows was broken, and the night wind sucked black smoke out into the city. I coughed and pulled out my handkerchief to mask my nose and throat.
Carson had told me the extinguisher was on the wall by the rear door, and I began feeling my way toward where I thought it was. Unseen things tripped and nudged me. When I finally found my prize, its metal sides burned my fingertips.
It took some doing but I finally pried the extinguisher off the wall and moved on into the room, lugging the warm cylinder over my shoulder like it was a fallen comrade. The smoke thinned as I went toward the center of the store, and by the time I got to Carson’s desk and the telephone on it, I could see well enough to dial the emergency number and report the fire. Then I rubbed enough dirt away from the top of the extinguisher to read the directions for its use and headed back toward the flames. By the time I had taken four steps, I heard the eager yell of the first siren.
I got as close to the rear wall as I could, then pulled out the handle of the extinguisher and began to pump. Some milky white liquid finally spurted out. I pointed the hose at the flames and rammed the plunger home. Smoke billowed back at me, my eyes and throat closed against it. The sparks hatched by the spray floated toward the ceiling like runaway stars. I coughed and pumped some more.
The hair on my arms began to crinkle, my skin as dry as parchment beneath it despite the frantic effort of my task. My eyes burned and the tears that rushed to flush them nearly blinded me. The flames seemed alternately calmed and enraged by my labor.
I considered giving up, but I consider it so frequently that I steel myself against the impulse, often to the point of foolishness. So when the stream of chemicals began to dwindle despite my hastened pumps I threw the canister aside and cast about for another weapon. The only candidate was the rug I was standing on. I picked it up and took a breath that was filtered through my handkerchief and my shirt sleeve, got as close to the wall as I could, then rolled the rug and began beating at the flames.
I gulped for more air and moved closer. Heat and smoke swallowed me and refused to spit me out. I beat at the wall as long as I could, then backed off, drew new air into my lungs, and attacked again. The rhythm of my assault became fixed and manic; I sensed neither victory nor defeat, only effort. When I slipped to my knees on the warm effluent from the extinguisher, I continued the fight from there, senseless and ridiculous.
Some time later the rear door flew open and two firemen charged in, black coats flapping, helmets shining with reflected combustion. They pulled me off the floor and ordered me out of the building with sign language, then trained a hose on the wall. I left them to their specialty and stumbled into the alley, feeling hurt and hot and vaguely mad.
“Is it out? What were you doing in there, Marsh? You could have been killed, for God’s sake.” Carson danced like a leprechaun around me.
“I think it’s under control,” I said between resonant gasps. “The firemen are there. It’s still confined to the rear wall. You’ll have smoke and water damage, but that’s all.”
“The rug.”
Carson pointed and I looked down dumbly. I was still carrying the throw rug I’d used to beat at the flames. It was smoking in one corner, wet and tattered in
another; the flag of a badly vanquished foe. Carson was on the verge of tears.
“It’s a Sarouk, Marsh. Priceless.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s irreplaceable.”
“I grabbed the first thing I saw. I’m sorry.”
Carson placed his hands on either side of his neck. “What a heartless thing of me to say. Forgive me, Marsh. You risked your life in there. For me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Of course you did. I saw you. I thought of dragons. Of purgatory. Keep the rug, Marsh. It can be restored, I’m certain of it. I know a man. I want you to have it.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
I was about to continue the dispute when one of the firemen came out of the building and walked over to us. “You the owner?” he asked me.
I pointed to Carson.
The fireman drew his hand from behind his back. In it was a can, a juice can once, grapefruit or the like, but something else more recently. “Arson,” the fireman said simply. “They use these because the fire burns off the paper wrapper and any fingerprints along with it. You’ll have to give a statement to the fire marshal. He’ll be along shortly.”
Carson nodded, speechlessly fearful. I wondered what I should say, and decided to say nothing. The fireman walked away, young, hirsute, godly. Carson’s eyes stayed with him, until he left the alley.
I became conscious of a bell ringing, and looked up toward the sound. It came from my office phone. I told Carson I would be right back and trudged to the second floor for the second time that night.
My office smelled of smoke, wet wood, and fabric. I hoped Peggy would know what to do about it. I picked up the phone.
“Let me talk to Tanner.” The voice was flat and hard, like runways and I-beams.
“You are,” I said.
“Been busy, Tanner?”
“Some.”
“Cooling off a little now?”
“Some.”
“Lay off Mrs. Blair.”
“Who?”
“You heard me, pal.”
“Why?”
“She don’t want to be found.”
“Says who?”
“Says someone who can drop the building you’re in any night of the week. Take me about ten minutes. Kentucky Fried Shamus.”
“Don’t try it, friend. You’ll wish you’d never learned to strike a match.”
The voice laughed a real laugh. “They say you’re smart, Tanner, but you don’t sound smart.”
“You told me that before.”
“Oh, no, Tanner. You ain’t heard nothing from me before. But if you don’t quit nosing around in El Gordo you’ll hear from me again. You can make book on it.”
I dropped the receiver as though it were a thing long dead. At home, in bed, I dreamed of a hell with many devils.
11
Winthrop Avenue skewered the sclerotic heart of El Gordo and constituted its oldest neighborhood. Two blocks east was the El Gordo Mission, established by Serra himself, and four blocks north was the Winthrop mansion, built by railroad profits and the land grants that accompanied them. The eucalyptus trees that lined the street were in their prime, but the neighborhood that nested beneath their peeling skin was not.
The houses were massive and dark and set well back from the street, but on closer inspection the impression of sedate tranquility gave way to one of fortified dilapidation and disrepair, of life in a state of siege. Winthrop Avenue had been abandoned by this generation, which equated newness with status, progress with quality. The old money had moved to Hillsborough or Portola Valley if it wanted to stay in the area, to Palm Springs or La Jolla if it didn’t, and the new money had built its A-frames and split-levels high in the hills. The only thing left to Winthrop Avenue was its heritage.
Number 649 was a square red brick structure that was, I guessed, close to a century old. Some transplanted easterner had tried to duplicate a New York town house out of some half-baked and halfhearted Georgian motives. Now the cornices were chipped and the pilasters were missing, the once subtle symmetry had been skewed by the settling of the foundation and the disappearance of most of the frieze. An earthquake or two had doubtlessly contributed to the tilt. I pulled up next to the curb and stepped over a recumbent bicycle and walked toward what I hoped was the home of a woman named Mary Quilk, a woman who for at least a year had been receiving six hundred dollars a month from her sister Teresa Blair.
The front yard was bordered by an untamed oleander and was bare in spots and overgrown in others and littered everywhere with children’s toys, most of them broken. The side yard was littered with toys as well, grown-ups’ toys—workbench, grinder’s wheel, trash barrel, tool chest, car jack, creeper. Three grease spots marched up the center of the dirt driveway. A pair of legs stuck out from under the pickup truck parked in front of the garage at the back of the house. The feet at the ends of the legs were gnarled and bare and black on the bottom. I decided to leave them where they were.
The front door was on the far side of a small open porch, painted white but peeling. One of the posts supporting the portico was missing entirely and the other was on its way. More toys were scattered over the porch—guns, dolls, cars—reality in miniature. I stepped on one of them without meaning to, but the little yellow truck was impervious to my bulk. Before knocking, I looked for a name by the mailbox. There wasn’t one.
After my third knock the door opened onto darkness. The woman who stood like a prioress within didn’t speak or otherwise inquire, but watched me with thin, unblinking eyes. She was large, a single undulation between legs and neck, her blue print dress falling over her the way sheets fall over ghosts. She was out of breath and laboring to get it back.
I asked if her name was Mary Quilk. She hesitated a minute, her body vibrating around her exhalations. “Why? What’s wrong now?” Her words passed through a barrier between us that was as tangible as a screen door.
“I’ve come from the Silver Season,” I said importantly, accurate in every sense but the ethical.
“Where? Oh. There.”
The woman was middle-aged and thoroughly wearied. Grayed hair leaked down her temples like the detached webs of spiders. Her eyes seemed wary of closing, for fear of what might happen in the darkness. So far, the only link between Mary Quilk and her sister Teresa was a senile allegation. When she took a step backward, I stepped in to share the darkness with her.
Her weight caused the floor planking to grumble. I was close enough to see the hair that sprouted from the mole on her chin, to smell the sour musk of her breath and body. Although she was offended by my penetration of her house, she quickly abandoned any impulse to defend her rights. The surrender was clearly habitual.
“Is Mama all right? Has she had another stroke?” Her voice lacked the precise pitch of certain emotion, as though she was unsure how she wanted Mama to be.
“It’s nothing like that, Mrs. Quilk. It is Mrs. Quilk, isn’t it?”
She nodded and I paused for a moment and struck a pose, a bureaucrat in possession of mysterious facts, frightening powers, arbitrary and capricious potential.
“Is it the money?”
I didn’t respond.
“The money was supposed to be taken care of. She promised it would be.”
“Who promised, Mrs. Quilk?”
“Teresa. My sister. Isn’t Teresa paying for Mama anymore? Oh, she swore and swore she would.” Her hands clenched at her waist and she took two steps backward. I followed to keep her face from disappearing.
“Ted and me can’t do it, if that’s why you’re here,” she went on, her voice a reedy whine. “Ted’s been laid off over at the plant for two months, now. He tries to make do by fixing cars, but times are bad. Teresa promised she’d pay so long as we did the other. She promised, mister. But I suppose it don’t mean nothing, since I ain’t got it in writing. Ted said I should have got it in writing.” Her sigh was a bleat of betrayal.
“What was it
you agreed to do in return?” I asked.
I didn’t get an answer. Instead, Mrs. Quilk turned and led me deeper into the crepuscular interior, to a room only a few tints brighter than the foyer.
The furniture was sparse and featureless, the patterns scraped off by parades of days and of bodies. The rug was eroded according to the traffic pattern of the house; the velveteen divan was zebra-striped and could only have been purchased during a fit of sexual ardor. The chair behind me was draped with an antimacassar of a vintage that reminded me of the women languishing in the Silver Season. The single picture on the wall was framed in gold. I assumed it was the Son of God, but when I got closer I saw it was the king of rock ‘n’ roll.
Mrs. Quilk saw me notice it. “I seen Elvis once,” she said simply.
“Where?”
“At the airport. He was on his way to Hawaii to do a show. He was sitting in a big red limousine and all the windows on it but the front was blacked out. I could tell it was him, though. He waved at me, too. I’m dead sure he did, no matter what Ted says. The diamond on his pinky was as big as a bean.” She smiled. “I got twenty-one of his albums,” she added, tabulating her devotion. “Blue Hawaii’s my favorite.”
Mrs. Quilk took a seat on the faded zebra stripes and I sat on the chair across from them and asked again about her sister’s promise to pay for her mother’s care.
“She did promise. When Mama got sick, Teresa said she would take care of everything.”
“When was that?”
“Back in ’seventy-six. The year after I seen Elvis.”
“What did you agree to do in return?”
She didn’t hear my question. “It just don’t seem fair, somehow,” the woman mused. “Not after what we done for her.” She shook her head. The rest of her hair flew loose from its pins and fell to her shoulders, shoe-brown and gray, the length and color of old mops.
“You want some coffee?” she asked me, patently hoping that hospitality might deflect me from my mission, whatever my mission might be.
I shook my head and asked again what it was that didn’t seem fair about the arrangements to care for her mother. I tried to sound neutral and curious and sympathetic. I also tried to sound as though I had the power to rearrange the world.
State’s Evidence Page 12
