“No sir, you don’t have to.”
Guy looking at him funny, like he’s got the wrong man, the air starting to leak out of his sails.
“You’re darned right I don’t have to.”
“We’ve got you a good roofer, that’s the important thing.”
Relief, suspicion, confusion rolling over the guy’s face, one after the other.
Leaving Deal to fight it out with the roofer, or with the insurance company where it was possible, or to simply take it in the shorts and absorb the loss. Some jobs went smoothly, some didn’t. It tended to even out.
The guy on Old Cutler had turned up at Deal’s office, in fact, a month after the job was wrapped, a check for $2,000 in his hand.
“I made the bastards pay,” he said, thrusting the check at Deal.
“What bastards?” Deal asked.
“My neighbors. It was their palm tree busted up my roof in the first place.”
Hundreds of estimates. Dozens of homes repaired, some small jobs, some total redos. And he’d been can-do, even-keeled, unruffled, all the way through. No job too big for Superman. No Kryptonite around here.
Now he stared down the ruined hallway of his own gutted house and felt his resolve vanish. He felt shaky, disoriented, as though he was going to throw up. He saw Janice—stubborn, fearless Janice—dragging herself down the smoke-filled passage, as iron-willed as Deal himself, intent upon finding Isabel, her hand reaching up for the door, the wrong door, and all those flames blasting out upon her…
…and he had to lean against the spongy, crumbling wall at his side to keep from going down. This was how helpless felt, he thought, and just as suddenly felt a rush of anger at himself for being so smug, walking into all those ruined homes, those battered lives, full of pep and vim, don’t worry, folks, we’ll have these boulders out of your bedroom before you know it.…
Christ, that wasn’t all those people wanted. They wanted somebody to sympathize before the heavy equipment came in, they wanted someone to mourn a little.…
“You look a little peaked, son.”
Deal was startled by the voice. He turned to find Driscoll picking his way through the rubble toward him, a sack of what looked like donuts in his hand.
“It’s a mess, didn’t it?” He shook his head in commiseration. “I was over here yesterday, poking around.” He glanced back down the hallway at the fallen door. “I set the door up to discourage somebody just walking in, you know. Looks like it fell down again.”
Deal nodded. He didn’t see the point of getting into it. “It’s a mess, Vernon.” He felt infinitely weary.
“Well,” Driscoll said, “if anybody can fix it up, you can.”
Deal stared at him. Another conversation he was going to pass up.
Driscoll gave him a look. “So what’s going on out there with the water?”
Deal shook his head, puzzled. “The water?”
“That kid out there on the backhoe. Looks like he busted the water main or something.” Driscoll was pawing around in the donut bag. “You like chocolate?”
“Jesus Christ,” Deal said, pushing past him. He could see it now, a spray of water glittering in the morning sunlight, a million diamonds tumbling down onto the place where once a lawn had been. “Jesus H. Christ!”
***
They were sitting on the tiny patio off Driscoll’s apartment now, watching the guy from Metro Dade finish up the patch on the water line Emilio had ripped up.
It was nearing five and Emilio was long gone, off to pull some construction permits down at City-County. The backhoe sat quietly near the pile of soggy debris, its clamshell poised half-open. It looked like a mechanical dinosaur, about to plunge in for a bite.
“You want that?” Driscoll said, pointing at a sugared donut he’d set out for Deal earlier.
Deal had another sip of the brackish coffee Driscoll had brought and shook his head. The coffee tasted like paper pulp. He imagined the donut would taste the same. Driscoll picked it up, polished it off in a couple of bites.
The guy from Water and Sewer was walking toward them. “You got water now,” the guy said. He handed Deal a form on a clipboard to sign.
“Thanks.” Deal nodded. He stood up, inspected the form. “Do I get a bill for this?”
“Naw,” the guy said. “We’ll call it hurricane-related, write it off.”
Deal gave him a look. “After all this time?”
The guy shrugged, jerked his head toward the silent backhoe. “Emilio,” he said, “his cousin married my sister-in-law’s niece.”
Deal nodded, handing the clipboard back. The guy tore off the top copy, handed it to Deal. “This is a receipt for the new meter. If somebody steals it, you’ll lose your original deposit.”
Deal thought about it, somebody hard up for a water meter, ripping his off in the middle of the night. Pipe wrench, geyser of water…sure, anything was possible.
The Water and Sewer guy was on his way back to the truck now. “Emilio was one good cabinetmaker,” the guy said over his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Deal said, nodding. “That he was.” His voice was nearly lost in the roar of the guy’s departing pickup.
When he turned, Driscoll was shaking his head. “That’s why our taxes are so high,” he said. “All this high-level fraud.”
“Maybe you ought to run for public office,” Deal said. His mind was occupied, trying to figure the odds of all these things happening to him alone.
“It’s a thought,” Driscoll said. “Or maybe I could get one of those TV shows like that Al Whatsisname. You know, he finds out the restaurants where they serve crab salad only it’s really processed sea legs or something?”
“Shame on You,” Deal said absently.
“That’s it,” Driscoll said. “This Al found out laundries’ll charge you a buck for a guy’s shirt, but two seventy-five for a girl’s, just because the buttons are on the wrong side.” Driscoll made a gesture with his mouth. “Guy with my experience, I ought to be able to come up with better stuff than that.”
“Big-time contractor rips off meter reader,” Deal said. “Is that what you mean?”
“You’re big-time now?” Driscoll arched an eyebrow. He was turning something over in his thick fingers, shaking his head. “Naw, I was thinking bigger than that even. What do you figure a guy like Al Shame on You makes?”
Deal shook his head. His stomach had settled again, or at least was back into its familiar knot, same as it had been since he’d awakened in the hospital a week ago. He tried to remember what hunger felt like, or that big, full feeling after a wonderful meal, couple of drinks, a bite or two of some artery-clogging dessert. Dreams from another world. What he had now was a stomach that had pulled itself into the size of a walnut. It would accept some bad coffee, or a couple of drinks, but not much more.
“I’ve got work to do,” he said, turning to Driscoll. He felt very, very tired.
“Sure,” Driscoll said. He was studying the thing in his hands again, seeming to debate something. He glanced up as Deal was about to leave. “I had a look at the fire marshal’s report.”
Deal stopped. He hesitated before he spoke. “Tell me, Driscoll.”
“It was the same thing I told you in the hospital. Electrical short.”
Deal nodded. Electrical short, he thought. One of those catchall phrases you hear after a disaster. Like pilot error, wind shear, act of God. They sound authoritative, but explain nothing. What could explain Janice lying in that hospital bed, every movement bringing her a wave of pain, cutting right through the Demerol, the morphine, everything they gave her?
Why not call it God’s error? God tosses some shit down, maybe it’s intended for a guy on the next block, but it happens to land on you, on your wife. Sure, that makes sense. The only problem was, Deal had miscalculated. He’d been thinking they’d taken all the shit there was to take, for a good long while, at least.
“It was the air condit
ioner, they think,” Driscoll continued.
Deal stared at him. “The air conditioner?”
“The circuit-breaker box, it shorted out.”
Deal nodded, was about to walk away. Then he felt his legs go weak. He pulled a chair out from the table, sat down again. Forget pilot error, wind shear, act of God. The nausea had returned full-bore now. His head was reeling. No mouse in the attic, chewing insulation. No power surge, no random spark. This could be explained, after all. He fell back in his chair, held on to the edge of Driscoll’s patio table with both hands.
Driscoll gave him a puzzled look. “You okay?”
Deal nodded. He was not okay. Way beyond not okay. But how could Driscoll know that? The ex-cop was going on, something about the report and him poking around the apartment…Deal’s head was throbbing too powerfully for him to concentrate.
“…so you take a look,” Driscoll was saying. He tossed the object he’d been worrying in his thick fingers across the table. The thing spun around, fell silent on the white resin top.
It was made of tin, a charred tin cap off something, a can, or a large bottle, maybe. Deal picked it up. “Yeah, so?” He was more attuned to the way his body was shifting beneath him, rearranging itself into various alien configurations, one after the other. At this instant he was feeling weightless, hollow, in fact. A mirage. A hologram with a voice.
“Look inside the top.”
Deal looked at the ex-cop. Sure. Why not. Listen to the nice man. Do anything but think about what has just made itself plain to you, Deal.
He turned the charred cap over. There was a crusted ring inside the rim, where the threads met the top. Most of the crust was undifferentiated ash, but here and there were flecks of what looked like cork. He wanted to be undifferentiated ash.
“You smell anything?”
Smell the cap? Sure. Deal brought it to his nose. The scent of smoke, wet ash, the same as everything else in the vicinity of the ruined apartments. He shook his head.
“Me neither,” Driscoll said, still intent on wherever he was taking the conversation. “I can take it to the lab boys, but it’s been lying out in the rain and all, all this time.”
Deal stared at him. It was time to end this conversation. Get away from Driscoll before he came completely apart. Go someplace to wallow in some heavy-duty self-loathing. “What’s this about, Driscoll?”
“It looks like the top off a gasoline can to me,” Driscoll said. “That seem like a good guess to you?”
Deal had placed the charred cap on the table between them. He stared at it, the thing seeming to register in his mind for the first time. “You found it in the apartment?”
“Outside the apartment,” Driscoll corrected him. “Between the air-conditioning compressor and the wall where the circuit breaker was,” he nodded, “where they think the fire started.”
Deal stared at him for a moment. “It was an electrical short, Vernon. You just said that.”
“Nobody’s saying otherwise, not right now,” Driscoll said. “Of course, it seemed like it spread so quick, nobody heard the smoke alarms, all that’s been bothering me…” He broke off, noticing the expression on Deal’s face. “You sure you’re okay? You want some water…”
“Goddammit, Driscoll, what is it with you? You can’t get a case on your own, you want a job with the fire marshal? Leave it alone.”
Driscoll stared at him, then down at the charred piece of metal between them. “Does this conversation upset you?”
Deal looked up at him. “Does it upset me? You playing detective, suggesting somebody’s torched my apartment? On the basis of what?” He flipped the charred cap away, into Driscoll’s lap. “That thing could have been out there since the time this was a vacant lot.”
“Of course it could have, but wouldn’t it be all rusty?”
Deal stared at him. “Who the hell would want to burn down my apartment building, try to kill me and my family? Have another drink, Driscoll.”
Driscoll raised his hands in surrender. “I think you’re acting a little strange about this.…”
Deal felt it all break loose, finally. He leaned across the table suddenly, grabbed Driscoll by the front of his shirt.
“There’s no mystery here, Vernon. I fucked up. ME!” He stared hard at Driscoll. “I installed that AC unit. I did it because the guy brought the wrong breaker panel and had to knock off at five on Friday and I was in a hurry to move in, okay?” Driscoll stared at him, astonished.
“I went over to Home Depot to pick up the breaker switches and put them in myself. I figured I’d get the electrician back out, go over my job.” He threw up his hands.
“Only the first thing Monday came and I had some other things to do, and every time I thought about it after that, I had a few more things to do, and a few more after that, and finally I forgot about the goddamned things altogether, because if it isn’t the fuck broke then why in the fuck worry about fixing it, and that was over a year ago, okay!”
Deal was nearly screaming by the time he finished. He looked at his hand, noticed he’d crumpled Driscoll’s sport shirt into a wad, and let go, falling back into his seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a whisper.
Driscoll smoothed his shirt front, ignoring the apology. “That’s quite a guilt thing you got going,” he said.
Deal glanced up at him. “Don’t fucking joke with me, Vernon. Not about this.”
“I’m not joking,” Driscoll said. “You don’t want to listen to me, then don’t.”
Deal lifted his gaze. “Do you have the slightest proof that this was arson?”
“Forget it,” Driscoll said. “I don’t want to spoil your day. Why don’t you go roll around in broken glass?”
Driscoll stood up, stomped through the open doorway into his apartment. Deal sat there for a moment watching the vertical blinds clack together in the wake of the big man’s passing. He heard the sounds of the refrigerator opening and closing, the pop of a can tab.
Driscoll reappeared in the doorway, a beer in his hand. He glanced at Deal as if he’d just appeared on the patio. “You still here?” Driscoll said. “I thought you’d be off whipping yourself by now.”
“Vernon…” Deal began.
“’Course if you want to get into a pissing contest about who’s the most pitiful around here, I guess I got a few marks in my favor.”
“I didn’t mean anything…”
Driscoll waved him off. “You meant exactly what you said. I’m an old boozehound, scared to death without his job to go to. Well, old buddy, I’m sorry I bothered you with my thoughts.”
He raised the can to finish it, but Deal rose up, swinging. He slapped the beer out of Driscoll’s hand and the two of them stood frozen for a moment, watching the thing soar out over the yard, spewing foam like a tiny rocket gone awry.
As Driscoll turned, Deal held his hands up. “I’m sorry, goddammit. I didn’t mean that stuff about you.”
The beer was on the grass now, oozing a few last suds. Driscoll glanced at it, then at Deal, a mournful expression on his face. “That was my last goddamn beer,” he said.
“I’ll buy you a beer,” Deal said.
“You damn bet you will,” Driscoll said.
“I’m sorry about the beer, too,” Deal said.
Driscoll eyed him. “That’s okay,” he said. “You were upset. I seen it happen before. I didn’t handle it very well. I was thinking about this notion of mine and I got a little excited. Maybe you’re right, maybe it was the AC. Maybe it was even something you did. But hell, it’s worth looking into, isn’t it?”
Deal nodded. He could feel his heart racing, but it seemed a distant sensation. Settle into self-pity, it’s hard to find comfort in anything else. “Your notion,” he said to Driscoll finally. “What about it?”
Driscoll made the shrugging expression with his bloodhound’s face. “We got to go to college first. I’ll tell you a few things on the way.”
“I won’t promise anything,” Driscoll was saying from behind the wheel of his Ford, “but if the boys heard about this down at Metro, then it’s worth a try. It’s the kind of thing that draws these people out.”
“You’re the cop, Vernon,” Deal said.
They were headed out Coral Way, bound for the state university. A former colleague of Driscoll’s had tipped him to the program on for this evening, a contingent of “Student Youth for Cuba,” talking about the good life under Communism.
“It ought to be good for a Molotov cocktail or two,” Driscoll called over from the driver’s seat. “You never know when you’ll get lucky. At the very least, you’ll see what gets these assholes all worked up.”
Deal nodded, staring aimlessly out the window. What was the alternative? Sit in his gardener’s cottage and brood like Heathcliff?
He sighed. A lot of traffic lights out this way now, it seemed. And a lot of traffic. Much more development than Deal remembered.
This had been a neighborhood once. Six homes to the acre, two bedrooms, one bath, and a carport in each, good value for twelve thousand dollars. His father had built a block of the houses somewhere just north of where they were.
He gazed out at all the little bungalows that had once been people’s homes, now turned into doctors’ offices, insurance agencies, even a palm reader over there with a brick driveway and a picket fence. Maybe they should pull in, see what Madame Rosalinda had to say about the future.
“You want the air on?” Deal glanced up at the sound of Driscoll’s voice. They were stopped at a light and Driscoll was motioning at the passenger’s window. “It’s a nice evening. You ought to roll your window down.”
Deal nodded. He knew how to get along. He cranked the window handle as they pulled away from the light. It was a nice evening. The humidity had backed off, and it seemed the temperature had as well. A balmy late-summer evening, more like California weather than Florida’s. A couple more weeks, they could start thinking about days in the eighties, nights in the sixties. They would have fall in the tropics.
Raw Deal Page 12
