Snitch Factory

by Peter Plate

  thirty

  Gerald saw that I was parched. He picked up a water glass from the table next to the bed and brought the vessel to my lips. I half-closed one eye, took aim, but instead of getting my lips on the glass, I cracked my front teeth on its rim.

  “You certainly are a mess, aren’t you, Charlene? Shall we try again?”

  This time I got a bead on it. Petard stabilized me by putting his other hand behind my neck like a professional nurse would have done. I was able to drink avidly, zealously, ridding myself of the cottonmouth on my tongue.

  I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes again, the sun had moved much further to the west. My boss was sitting in a chair, clean shaven, tie knotted firmly. I tried to lift my arm to reach out to him, but my coordination was trashed. My fingers wanted to move, but they couldn’t, being no more alive than a dead battery in a car.

  “Is she awake?”

  The voice of my husband blended into Gerald’s reply.

  “Yes, she is. Can’t you see her feeble hands trying to wriggle?”

  “What’s wrong with her? Is she paralyzed?”

  “Frank, don’t be naive. She’s stoned to the gills on Percocet.”

  My mom’s dad had overdosed with painkillers when I was a teenager. This melodrama got pushed under the carpet with the rest of the familial debris, leaving me to live out my life in pieces unless I dared to string the story back together again. Someone started knocking at the door, rapping on the wood paneling like they were never going to stop.

  “Who could that be?” Frank asked.

  “Take one guess,” Petard beamed. Looking like the cat who swallowed the canary, he got up from his seat and went over to the door and opened it. He purred at the figure standing before him. “Good of you to show up,” he said.

  A woman in a purple rayon suit stepped inside and walked into the room, materializing by my bedside. She was everything that I wasn’t. Black, leggy and glamorous with a face that had rejected a thousand welfare claims. I smiled ruefully at her, wishing she hadn’t come.

  “Hello, Charlene.”

  Lavoris observed me with no sign of animation on her porcelain features. She leaned over, as Petard had done, her eyes never leaving mine. The Percocet was surfing across waves of nausea in my stomach. She brought her pomegranate-shaped mouth close to my ear, susurrating, “You’re a very fortunate woman, Hassler. Fortunate and stupid.”

  Petard chuckled and said, “She’s doing great, Lav. She’ll be back on the job Monday morning.”

  I suppose everything could have ended there. My leg would heal and I’d go back to work. We’d move forward into the present calendar year, into spring and the summer to see what trials and tribulations were in store for us.

  Petard was talking to Frank and Lavoris, blabbing, “I’m confident we can prevail through this incident, and much more if we have to.”

  “Gerald, I have something to tell you,” Lavoris announced.

  “Let me see…you’re adopting a little white baby. Is that it?” he teased.

  “I might take a new job.”

  The DSS boss folded his arms and grinned. “Aw, don’t keep an old dog waiting. Tell me what it is.”

  “I’m thinking of going over to the Department of Corrections.”

  “Where?”

  “At Vacaville.”

  “Wow, that’s hard-core. Counseling?”

  “The diagnostic wing,” she replied. “The pay is better.”

  “Why not Pelican Bay? That’d be a tasty assignment.”

  “I’d consider it.”

  “I’ll take you to dinner,” Petard suggested. “We can talk about your prospects over a glass of wine, maybe a steak.”

  “Remember what I said about red meat?”

  “You can pick the menu. What do you say? We can leave Charlene with Frank, can’t we?”

  “Yes, please, let’s go. It’s stuffy in here.”

  While Lavoris redid her lipstick, studying her mouth in a silver compact, Petard kissed my husband on the forehead. “Keep an eye on your wife, kid,” he said.

  When they were ready to depart, Gerald turned around and with a hand on Lavoris’s shoulders, he said to me, like the cavalier that he was, “See you later, doll. Give me a call sometime next week. I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

  From the bed, I saw the shape of his sleek head, the cashmere coat on his shoulders. Holding his hand was Lavoris. The two of them made me think of another couple, the retarded bank robbers who’d gotten arrested on Tuesday. I tried to envision how the developmentally disabled criminals were doing tonight, having heard on the news they’d failed to make bail. I thought about one of the alleged thieves, the woman who was dressed in pink capris, and how her white doughy face had looked, trapped inside the window of a police car.

  thirty-one

  You there?”

  “Yeah, yeah, Bart, I’m here. What’s going on?”

  “Ah, nothing much, just kicking back. Thought I’d talk to you. Are you feeling any better?”

  Percocet was a treacherous chemical. I was so woozy, I could hardly keep from biting my tongue, much less hold on to the telephone. The room was going round and round. I was about to black out in a virulent, anti-social downer undertow.

  “I don’t know. I was dozing off on the couch. I’m okay, I guess.”

  “What happened to you, that was something,” Rubio clucked. “It was something else.”

  The social worker’s off-the-cuff remark piqued my interest. What was he jabbering about? It could be one of many things. He might be referring to Eldon, to the gun in the janitor’s hand, or he was talking about the floor where the victim had fallen, a grimy malodorous linoleum surface.

  “Yeah,” he gargled. “I never thought Eldon had it in him.”

  Insulated as I was inside the yellow buzz of the painkiller, I didn’t appreciate Rubio’s way of telling a story.

  “Had what in him?”

  My colleague, a man I’d lent money to, was pleased to get the facts across to me. “The meanness. He was a feral pig, backed into a corner. He had to spring at you because there was nowhere else for him to go.”

  “A wild pig, huh?”

  “Yeah, you should see them out in the hills near Sunol, in the East Bay. Not so many around here. Ornery beasts. They go for your jugular vein when they’re trapped.”

  “But I wasn’t the one trying to get him off the job.”

  “He didn’t know that, did he? Peckerwood like him doesn’t know much. He just feels harassed and jumps like a razorback because he’s got more balls than brains. But let’s get real here. You planning on making charges against Eldon, and getting him fired?”

  An unsavory stew of contempt and pity was cooking in my gorge. I said to him, “You know me better than that. I got him the job, remember?”

  “My ass, Charlene. You didn’t do shit.”

  The rest of our conversation was murdered at some level, because I can’t remember a word we said. I woke up a few hours later to find the sun had gone down behind the transmission tower on Twin Peaks.

  The residents in the neighborhoods of Noe Valley, Diamond Heights and Eureka Valley were saying the tower, which sent out television signals, was a source of cancer. The deformity rates among newborns in those districts had skyrocketed in recent years. Topics like that made coming down from the Percocet a jagged glide. But with a knack of its own, the drug was heightening my consciousness, allowing repressed memories to surface.

  When I was an AFDC kid, a contentious brat in pigtails with a deadbeat mommy and no daddy, I’d witnessed Richard Nixon campaigning for the presidency at an old-style shopping center in Daly City.

  The crowd had been partisan, favorable to him. Nixon was in his prime, wearing a Burberry coat that didn’t hide his bad posture. He didn’t look like presidential material. More like a banker who would remortgage your house and then drop a foreclosure on you.

  I got up to the stage in the parking lot w
here he was, and while my granny held me by the hand, I stared at him. I was awe-struck by his legendary ugliness. He noticed me, too, and rewarded me with a glance, gazing down his stupendous nose.

  “Give them welfare,” he was telling the crowd. He held his skinny arms aloft, the gangly wrists jutting out of the tan coat like arrows. “A guaranteed income for everybody in the republic!” he cried.

  I was too young to savvy what he meant, but when the folks at the rally shouted their approval, I knew what the pith of those words had been: to provide inclusion for everybody, so there wouldn’t be any stragglers. No one would get left out. I began to sob with gratitude, knowing I’d get my money in the future to come.

  Eldon was in the city’s prison pending bail. He’d committed an error; how the circumstances would play themselves out was beyond my control. His arraignment wasn’t going to occur until Monday morning. At which time, he’d be brought down from the sixth floor felony tanks to enter a plea.

  If I didn’t file charges against Eldon, the aftermath of his downfall would go easier for him. Rubio had said the district attorney’s office wanted to pin assault with a deadly weapon on the janitor. If Eldon could get an upbeat pretrial probation report, he might be able to avoid the wear and tear of a jury trial. He could plea bargain to a reduced assault charge and get the weapons part thrown out. He might end up doing only nine months at the county facilities in San Bruno with time off for good behavior.

  Frank said to me,“I couldn’t sleep last night, not after what that guy did to you.”

  “That’s to be expected. You want to tell me about it?”

  I was afraid to turn my head to see Frank’s drawn, pale face because I’d suffer vertigo, and then I might spew.

  “I hate like hell to say it, but I got scared.”

  “How so?”

  “Like if things got fucked up, see? There used to be a thread which kept it together. But after the shit you went through, I’m not so sure.”

  “I wasn’t in trouble, not even close,” I said, emphasizing the verb in my response, giving it a flourish.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry so much,” I chided him, running a hand over his pectorals. I looked down at the bandage on my leg, thinking about the janitor languishing away in the Bryant Street jail. In the next earthquake, the seven-storied prison was going to sink like Atlantis into the marshy soil it was built on.

  thirty-two

  I’d been explaining to Mrs. Dominguez that her documents hadn’t been found yet. They were either in transit to Iron Mountain, or had been axed when the computer crashed during a recent power surge. Worst case scenario: I didn’t mention that her benefits might have gotten stolen in the mail. That would’ve upset her. I said, since she was calling me from a pay phone on Twenty-fourth Street near St. Peter’s Church, forget about the paperwork, get your ass down to the office and I’ll take care of everything.

  The process had taken too long. From the start, there’d been too many obstacles like Simmons, too much red tape. But now on my desk, through some footwork I did, were Mrs. Dominguez’s food stamps for the month of February. Next to them in an unmarked envelope were her Section Eight housing vouchers. It could’ve been a joyous moment; it should’ve been a celebration to persistence, but it was none of that.

  “Your leg, you hurt it?” she asked.

  “A slight accident,” I replied.

  “You should drink comfrey tea. It helps the bones.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Dominguez knew, as I did, that our relationship was convoluted, dysfunctional, and transient. A house of cards in the wind. Considering that we never talked directly about it, we worked well together. And why not? I’d gained my knowledge of welfare with all of its programs from women starting with my mother. You had to start somewhere and with me, I began at home.

  “Are you okay, mi hija?”

  “I’m fine, Frances. Just fine.

  “You had a distant look in your eyes.”

  “Ah, you know. Thinking about my profession.”

  “It’s demanding, isn’t it?”

  Not wanting to give her an opening, I didn’t reply until she asked me:

  “What’s the money like here? Is it rotten, or fair to middling?”

  “Inquisitive, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to.”

  “Sure.”

  “Qué?”

  “It sucks.”

  “And how about me?”she asked.

  “You’re getting the same amount. One hundred and fourteen dollars worth. I tried to ask for more because of your income, but my request was denied.”

  It had taken a considerable amount of diligence to get Frances her food stamps. It wasn’t going to be any easier in the months ahead. She knew it and was prepared; I could see that. Resolve was written in her face. She was stubborn; that much was evident.

  “Did you receive your Muni vouchers?”

  Mrs. Dominguez gave me a glimmer of a smile. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

  “You get things straight with your landlord?”

  “Yes,” she perked up. “He said he could wait for the rent another few days, until after the weekend.”

  “And your friend, the woman who got out of prison?”

  “Oh, Mary Klein? Qué lastima. Too bad for her.”

  “What is it?”

  “She was arrested for boosting underpants at Woolworth’s. Playtex, no?”

  “Who was her lawyer in court?”

  “She got assigned to a public defender. A Cambodian woman from Fresno.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did she do. It had to be a misdemeanor. Was the charge dropped?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Mary violated her parole and she got sent back to Frontera.”

  “Wonderful. Just wonderful. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  I stood up, stuck out my hand for her to shake. She gathered the food stamps, vouchers, her notepad and stuffed them into her purse. My palm was wet, galvanized by electricity. When she took it, my fingers gave her a spark and she jumped.

  “See you next month, Frances.”

  “Yes, I’ll phone you if I need anything.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  I watched Frances recede through the door to the corridor, evanescing into the Pinkertons and the clients. Simmons was carrying a coffee pot to the men’s restroom. I sat down, feeling in my pockets for a cigarette. Before I had a chance to settle back, the telephone rang.

  The person at the other end of the line didn’t say anything when I said hello, like a kid playing a practical joke. But I heard the furtive intake of their breath, the lisp that came from an overbite, and I knew who it was.

  “Gerald?”

  “Charlene? How did you know it was me?”

  “How could I not know it’s you? That would be impossible.”

  “I think you’re trying to appeal to my vanity.”

  “No way.”

  “Well, the important thing is that you’re better, but should you be back here? Is that smart?”

  “I didn’t want to stay at home. The doctor said it was up to me.”

  Petard laughed graciously at my expense. “Don’t be a dunce. I’m not talking about your physical health.”

  He paused and before I could respond, as if he was talking to himself and answering his own question, Petard speculated, “I wonder what you’d have been like as a man.”

  “A man?”

  “You’re more like one than you’re willing to admit. Denial only looks good on some people, and you’re not one of them.”

  “What about Lavoris?”

  “Lav? Funny you should ask. I convinced her not to take that job with Corrections, that’s what I did.”

  “Why the fuck did you do that?”

  “You’re interested?”

  “More than ever.”

  “Hold on for a second, will you?”

  A commotion on his end interrupted our di
alogue. By the sound of it, there were several men in the office with him. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but whoever they were, their voices were aggressive. Petard owed money to a lot of people. Maybe they were from the governor’s office in Sacramento.

  “Hassler?”

  Lavoris had stepped into my office without knocking, and without being asked. There wasn’t much I could do, except to internalize my displeasure, which I did. She was so rude and discourteous, it was obvious she’d never curb herself. Knowing that, I hung up the phone and coated my temper with a layer of cynicism, spouting, “I haven’t seen you for a while.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Doing what?”

  “Who was that woman I saw coming out of here? Haven’t I seen her before?”

  “Yeah, with me. But we aren’t here to talk about that, are we, sweetie?”

  “Give me one good reason why I should tell you anything.”

  “The answer to that riddle is this: because you can always avoid recrimination by telling your secrets to a stranger.”

  “Okay. You know why I turned down that job with the Department of Corrections, don’t you?”

  “Petard talked you out of it.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Not exactly. We didn’t get that far.”

  “He didn’t tell you why he wanted me to stay, did he?”

  “No, he was going to.”

  “He’s such a dick. Anyway, it’s sayonara to food stamps. Doesn’t it make you sick?”

  “Lav, what does he want you around for?”

  “Do you really think I should tell you?”

  “Hell, yeah, you should. This is something that involves me.”

  I already knew why she was staying, why any of us were hanging here. I knew it before she did. We’d come up with Gerald; none of us thought we could be stopped.

  Deflowered, it was inconceivable to think about leaving. We had invested too much in him. Lavoris was afraid Petard would abandon her at the DSS. When she thought of flying from the coop, he brought her back into the flock.