Gettin place 97814013060.., p.52
Gettin' Place (9781401306069), page 52
They didn’t look up when she knocked and then put the tray down on a table. Charts and maps and papers were spread near the men’s knees.
She closed the door and stood listening. “Okay, you got three phases. Cedar Crest, Willow Crest, Timber Crest. The green, the lake, the whole thing.” There was a long drinking pause. Then Web said, “I’m tired of Connie’s aunt bugging me about this place. You see how she was just now, with this story? She’s obsessed with this place in Treetown—handed me the story like it’s her top-secret lethal weapon.” They both laughed. “She’s sure once they see her little article, the city council and redevelopment can step in and save the day. As broke and slow as government is.”
“The idea’s okay, what she’s proposing?” the other man asked.
“Yeah, Swede, no problem, but this building, where it is—damn, the only solution for a place like that is a nuclear bomb, okay? Level it out and start over. Build a replica. With a different population, you know.”
“If it’s a historic site…”
“Hey, goddamnit, these people aren’t budging, and I’ve offered above market price.” She heard bottles clink against gold rings. “Hey, what about those new smart bombs that take out the people and leave the structures?” Web laughed. Enchantee heard the glass clink wetly onto the tray. “The other place is worthless. A pit. She’s talking petting zoo or something. I say burn it, there’s nothing of value. The other obstacle was like a fucking asylum, worst eyesore around. It needed a crazy bomb. But it’s gone now.”
Moving her feet carefully on the Oriental runner striping the hallway, Enchantee headed for the kitchen. She heard Abby come inside and say, “Let’s go celebrate your contract, babe. I’ll change.”
Enchantee stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Bent was on the phone with someone now. “Marcus?” Enchantee frowned. “You going to work? Hey, meet me at the restaurant, I’ve gotta show you something.”
When he’d gone, she went back to the kitchen, her hands shaking. She hoped she could remember all the words, to tell Demetrius. When Web Matheson came up behind her, she jumped. “That folder’s gone,” he muttered, moving papers on the table. He looked at her. “Where—uh—como? How do you say where?” He sighed. “Folder?”
Enchantee shrugged and turned away.
They were drinking at the outdoor tables when Marcus arrived. “Hey, Kolavic,” Bent was saying to a brown-haired guy. “I’ve been researching this one.”
“Esquire, man, I’m jealous as hell,” Kolavic said. “What’s the title?”
Bent saw Marcus then, and he motioned him over. Abby’s voice was slurring a little, and Marcus couldn’t tell what she was drinking. “Lost and Found—A Bluesman in Southern California,” she read from a piece of paper.
“Hey, this is Marcus,” Bent said, standing up. “He’s…”
Marcus shook his head slightly, and Bent seemed to understand. Marcus didn’t want to talk about The Blue Q. “Can I get you guys something else?”
Abby hadn’t heard. “Well, I love you, babe,” she said to Bent, “but I’m jealous, too. I’ve gotta find some long-lost foods, something buried in obscurity, write about it for Gourmet or something.”
Bent rolled his eyes at Marcus. “Oscar wasn’t buried,” he said, his voice sharp. “He was pretty alive, Abby. That stuff’s pretty strong, huh?”
Abby lifted her glass. “This is medicinal, okay, it’s good for me and the baby. It’s amaro—people drink it in Italy, it’s got herbs and spices. I should get a whole bottle for tomorrow—Easter brunch with Web and Connie. All his political assets—a stupid blond wife who’ll smile and a fat baby on the way. She’s all freaked out over the way it’s still flooded over there.”
Marcus turned, but Bent came with him. “You got a clear table in the back?” Bent said.
He laid out the folder and photos. “I heard Abby’s aunt talking about Thompson land, and I thought she knew some history about The Blue Q, right? I figured they’d freak if they knew I’d been there, but when I saw these pictures—it’s the place where those girls were killed. I had just moved here, and I went with Kolavic to tag along for the story.”
Marcus looked quickly at the photos, then closed the folder and raised his eyes to Bent’s face. The man looked serious. “This is your father’s house?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said slowly. “This is for the paper, right? Can I borrow it for tonight?”
Bent nodded. “You know, you took all that heat for me at The Blue Q, and I owe you. I figured I’d tell Abby’s aunt I got my story folder mixed up with hers. She’s supposed to get this back tomorrow, at brunch. I heard Connie telling Web her aunt couldn’t wait to show it to him.”
Marcus breathed hard, looking at Bent’s tie. “You owe me? Okay. I want to come to brunch. I’ll give this back to you then.” He paused, looking at the afternoon sun gleaming through Chile’s window.
“Hey, it’s like a gated community,” Bent said, chewing on his lip. “But this is half Easter and half fund-raiser. You’d know if you knew Web.”
“I don’t want to know him,” Marcus said. “I don’t want him to know me.” He raised his chin at Bent. “How bout if you call down to the guard? And I’ll try to act like a fund giver.”
Bent shook his head. “Not with these Republican types. Listen—it’s catered. We can deliver some food from here? Chani can call down from the kitchen.”
“Chani?” Marcus frowned.
“Your sister-in-law. She’s bringing Dylan so Abby can help set up.” Bent turned to go outside. “I’m not asking any questions right now, okay? But I’m curious as hell.”
“So am I.”
Sitting at his mother’s kitchen table, Marcus listened while Enchantee tried to remember all the words. Nuclear bomb. Market price. Redevelopment. Petting zoo. Asylum.
“Asylum?” his mother asked, her voice vibrating.
“A place for the mentally insane,” Marcus said. “And it’s gone. The Kozy Komfort.”
“Petting zoo?” Alma whispered.
Hosea nodded toward the story proofs and photos on the table. “In my yard?”
Marcus glanced at the headline again. “Historic Adobe Building Neglected: Crime Site Eligible for County Landmark Status.” He didn’t look at the words. Four large photos paraded down the page.
A dark door surrounded by pale wall, where a large hole was dug out near the cement steps. A blackish patch floated near the screen. Then Alma’s veranda, where bare wisteria vines tangled like thick string and tiny baby dresses hung from a line. Junked cars on the storage lot. And the barn wall, festooned with tools and coffee cups, sawhorses and beer cans near the doorway.
“Where are we?” Demetrius shouted. “I ain’t seen nobody takin pictures.”
Alma’s knuckles pressed her chin like she was holding it onto her face. “She say she from the city, ax can she walk round. She come when I was cookin. Come back and ax me was there problems here lately. I told her no. Then she got in her car and go. Y’all was on a job somewhere.”
Marcus reached for the folder. He looked at Enchantee. “I’ll meet you up there tomorrow. At his place. But I don’t know what I’ll say.”
“I’ve been there once before,” she said. “I’ll get you inside.”
“And what Sissy do when he get him?” Demetrius said. “Talk to him till he drop dead?”
“You can’t take somebody like Matheson out and kick his ass, okay?” Marcus shouted.
“Asylum?” his mother was whispering. “For crazy people?”
“I thought Web hated pearls,” Abby said. She and Enchantee made a nest of blankets on the nursery floor for Dylan, who’d fallen asleep in the car.
“He does,” Connie replied, smoothing the baby blanket in the crib. “But Aunt Carrie’s coming, and she makes a big deal when I wear them.”
“It’s brunch, Connie,” Abby said.
“It’s an opportunity for Web to talk to contributors, and Aunt Carrie is a big help,” Connie said, pausing at the nursery doorway, her silk dress pleated over her belly. Enchantee watched her larger smile set itself into her face.
The nursery was all blue, since Connie knew she was having a boy. The rocking-horse theme, with wallpaper border and mobile and quilt, was cute, Enchantee thought. Abby had groaned and said, “Predictable.”
They walked down the stairs, and Enchantee looked quickly out the window at the cars winding up the long driveway. She bent and unplugged the baby monitor, watching Dylan twitch and dream.
Enchantee saw a pile of brochures on the counter. “Matheson and Associates,” she read. “Is this your husband’s company?” she asked casually.
Connie nodded, arranging silverware. “Except there’s some problem with that tract, a bird or moth or something. I don’t know. He’s pretty upset.” She glared at Abby. “Are you going to answer the door or not?”
“I’ll put these in the great room,” Enchantee said. She looked at the brochure. The text read: “On the sun-drenched, oak-covered hills of southern California, a unique gated community of magnificent proportions is evolving, a place of incredible beauty and Old West charm, but devoid of modern-day problems and pressures. This hidden paradise is Heritage Oaks. Two-acre estates, five exciting floor plans. No expense has been spared in planning construction of these lovely Old-World estate homes for your family…”
She saw the lots laid out in puzzle formation. A crowd of people had come into the room, and Abby led them outside to the deck. She came back to peer over Enchantee’s shoulder. “That’s where I was trying to talk Bent into buying, if he gets a book contract. And he isn’t going for it. He likes downtown.”
“Where is he?” Enchantee said nervously, watching Web and another crowd of people come in.
Abby smiled. “He said he’s bringing some food just for me, from Chipotle Chile.”
Enchantee nodded. She watched Web greet people in the great room, on the deck, at the door. “Yeah! A boy! I can’t wait to teach him to play golf! Yeah, I know, Connie’ll have to try for her girl next. Dresses and all that stuff. Hey, you look great!”
He moved through the rooms like a pinball in a machine, Enchantee thought, seeing him bounce deftly from an elbow to a hand to a shoulder, touching, turning, clasping lightly, always smiling. She heard Bent’s voice in the kitchen, and she saw that he and Marcus were paused in the doorway. Marcus wore his Chipotle Chile work clothes, and he raised his chin slightly to her.
Web had finally approached the two older women on the couch, their hair as puffed and insubstantial as dandelions. Enchantee walked over to Marcus, saying, “Go into the guest bathroom, hurry up. Open the door under the sink and plug in the receiver. Hurry up.”
After a few minutes, she saw Carrie Smith Donohue and Bent gliding up the stairs.
When Marcus plugged in the receiver to the baby monitor, the static spat at him so loudly that he hit his head on the sink when he jumped up. Turning it down, he stared at the locked bathroom door, sweating, hearing voices eerie and liquid. Demetrius would love this, he thought, Sissyfly holdin a baby walkie-talkie. And what I’ma do? Daddy said at least listen and try to see if they got a plan. Okay.
Bent was saying, “So this is your home office, huh, Web? I’d love to have this much space.”
“Abby tells me she wants to buy in Heritage Oaks,” Web said. “Lots of space.”
“Yeah.” Bent must have moved. “So I’m sorry I took your folder by accident. This story’s coming out Wednesday?”
“Yes,” Carrie Smith Donohue said. Her voice was dismissing. “Thank you.”
“See ya down there, Bent,” Web said.
Marcus crouched near the bathtub, pushing the rug near the door crack with his shoe, hoping no one had to pee. “He picked up my folder by mistake yesterday,” she said. “He’s very absent-minded.”
“Yeah—he’s a liberal asshole who likes rap music,” Web said. Marcus could hear shuffling papers. “I hadn’t seen the place before, not close up. Damn—it looks like hell.”
“I agree. That’s why I’m bringing it to the public’s attention.”
“But if you do the story now, and the city goes for landmark status, the price goes up,” Web said.
“You only worry about money,” she said impatiently. “This place is going to be a museum attraction.”
Marcus heard someone pouring a drink. “Museums are never profitable, okay?”
“The barn and outbuildings are ideal for gift shops and boutiques, and the adjacent property for parking, if nothing else. There’s your profit.” She paused, and Marcus heard footsteps outside the bathroom. He got up and turned on the sink tap. “What are you drinking?” she asked.
“Glenfiddich,” Web said. “Classy enough?” Marcus heard him walk, a series of muffled thumps on the monitor, and then he said from a distance, “I can’t believe you know everything, the history of the whole damn area, and you’ve been up here before, and you couldn’t bother to mention the fucking lake.”
“Your mouth, Web,” she said.
His voice was closer again. Marcus imagined him leaving the window. “I’m serious, they tell me this lake’s been here before. But not wrecking homes on the seventh tee.” He paused. “What? What are you staring at?”
“Your house has no aesthetic value, really, Web. It’s worthless architecturally. There are hundreds like it.”
“You old bitch,” Matheson said softly, and Marcus heard the consonants pop.
“There’s no class in this design,” she went on. “The old Mission Revivals, the old Craftsmen, they have class. Truthfully, if water ruins something over here, across the bridge, it isn’t worth saving.”
“There isn’t any goddamn bridge yet.”
She continued like he hadn’t spoken. “Even the Archuleta adobe is worth more architecturally than your whole development here.”
“Yeah, well,” he began, but she cut him off, her voice sharp.
“The waste of that whole area, the filthy shacks and dirt, and oh, the Archuleta place breaks your heart. Wrecked cars, a sea of mud. Not a blade of grass. I’d planned a garden. My father always said, ‘Where Negroes go, grass won’t grow.’ ”
Web began to laugh, and Marcus put his own hand over his mouth. “You can’t call them Negroes now.” Marcus heard him set down a glass on a tabletop. “Look, the whole schedule is off now. After all that, I thought the guys would either be dead or in jail and the women would sell the place. But the pale one? With the shack? She’s past unreasonable. The last time I tried her, I said, ‘A good-looking woman like yourself, you’d probably rather live in the city, closer to shopping and salons, I know my wife does.’ And the woman goes nutso, she says, ‘Get out my kitchen,’ like it’s a goddamn country club.”
Aintielila, Marcus thought. Matheson went on. “I wanted something acquired by February and cleaned up by May, so I could use it in the campaign. A guy who gets the job done fast, no government bullshit. rescued from blight by private enterprise. But if this historic gateway plan goes through, the city can condemn the lots and do eminent domain.”
“You can still use it if you stop talking and start thinking,” she said, impatient again. “The city council takes it up next week, and they can set it aside in committee for a short time, and you can go back to negotiate. I’m sure the woman would rather deal with you than with the city.” Marcus heard her sigh, and then feet trod past the monitor, as light as a wary bird.
He turned off the receiver and put it back under the sink. When he pushed open the door, a woman frowned at him and turned to let him pass. Marcus’s face was hot. He saw Bent in the kitchen then, holding Dylan in his arms. “Hey, Marcus,” Bent said. “I had to get this little guy for Abby. Did you get to talk to Web? Or Abby’s aunt? Or did you want to?”
Enchantee stood near the refrigerator, shaking her head slightly, her gaze hard. “I didn’t want to,” Marcus said. He looked at Bent’s gray eyes, behind glasses like his own. He couldn’t explain this to Bent, couldn’t trust him yet. He knew what his father would say. “I didn’t feel so hot.”
Abby was saying, “I wish I had a sorbet, after all that great spicy stuff, Chani, you know, to clear the palate.”
Marcus slipped out the kitchen door without looking at anyone. Sorbet. Sherberts. Pastel, sweet, grainy-dissolved, instantly gone. He could taste the lime in his throat. To clear the palate for the next new taste. No mingling.
Alma had craved the watery blue. She’d painted and stood back to breathe the wet. She’d raked and trimmed and touched the sea-urchin purple window frames.
“She talk about the blue in here,” Hosea had said, looking at the article.
Alma had read most of it. The woman mentioned a garish shade of paint visible for miles, a color historically inaccurate. And the forlorn photos—Alma knew them with her eyes shut. “She talk about she can see them old cars on your lot for miles,” Alma said, her throat heated. “How they a eyesore.”
Her hands, swimming among the canning jars in the sink now, were as numb as padded oven mitts dangling from her wrists. She had pruned the roses, scrubbed the floors, oiled all the heavy wooden furniture Archuleta had left them. She couldn’t feel anything below her elbows. She could pick up a hot-handled pot with no towel.
But the woman with cotton-candy hair hadn’t taken photos of the roses, or the gleaming carved furniture, or the Madonna amid her candles and dried flowers in the arched plaster hollow made just for her.
The house was immaculate. It was the men’s things all over the property that had attracted the attention. Their cars and tools and cups and trash. That looked so bad in the pictures. No one could see how she kept her house in that article. After living in a station wagon, in the seas of mud and overflowed outhouses, how would she keep her house anything but perfect?
Demetrius and Octavious came into the kitchen now, their boots shedding dirt onto her floor. “Take your plate and go!” Alma shouted. “Look what you doin to my floor! Always bringin in a mess.” When she looked up, she saw Sofelia peering out the window.
