"San Francisco Noir" - читать интересную книгу автора (Maravelis Peter, Stansberry Domenic, Corbet David, Soracco Sin, Gifford Barry,...)IT CAN HAPPEN BY DAVID CORBETTPilgrim watched as, just outside his bedroom door, Lorene handed Robert fifty dollars and told him she wanted to visit personal with her ex-husband for a spell. Robert was Pilgrim’s nurse. He’d been a wrestler in college-you had to be strong to heft a paralyzed man in and out of bed-and worked sometimes now as a bouncer on his off-hours. Robert glanced back toward the bedroom for approval and Pilgrim gave his nod. The big man pocketed the money, donned his hat, and walked out the door in his whites, not bothering with his coat despite the cold. Pilgrim liked that about Robert-his strength, his vigor, his indifference to life’s little bothers. Maybe “liked” wasn’t quite the word. Envied. He lay back in bed and waited for Lorene to rejoin him. His room was the largest in the cramped, dreary house and bare except for the $20,000 wheelchair gathering dust in the corner, the large-screen TV he was so very tired of watching, an armchair for visitors with a single lamp beside it. And the centerpiece-the mechanical bed, a hospital model, tilted up so he didn’t just lie flat all day. Lorene took up position bedside and crossed her arms. She was a pretty, short, ample, strong woman. “Don’t make me go off on you.” Pilgrim tilted his head to see her, eyes glazed. Every ten minutes or so, someone needed to wipe the fluid away. It was a new problem, the tear ducts. Three years now since the accident, reduced to deadweight from the neck down, followed by organs failing, musty skin, powdery hair, his body in a slow but inexorable race with his mind to the grave. He was forty-three years old. In a scratchy whisper, he said, “I got my eyes and ears out there.” “Corella?” Their daughter. “You been buying things,” he said. “Furniture a crime now?” “Things you can’t afford, not by the wildest stretch-” “Ain’t your business, Pilgrim. My home, we’re talkin’ about.” She pressed her finger against her breastbone. “Mine.” Lorene lived in a renovated Queen Anne Victorian in the Excelsior district of San Francisco, hardly an exclusive area but grand next to Hunter’s Point, where Pilgrim remained, living in the same house he’d lived in on a warehouseman’s salary, barely more than a shack. Pilgrim bought the Excelsior house after his accident, when he came into money through the legal settlement. He was broadsided by a semi when his brakes failed, a design defect on his lightweight pickup. Lorene stood by him till the money came through, then filed for divorce, saying she was still young. She needed a real husband. Actually, the word she used was “functional.” The divorce was uglier than some, less so than most. The major compromise concerned the Victorian. He gave her a living estate-it was her residence till she died-but it stayed in his name. He needed that. Lorene would have her lovers, the men would come and go, but he’d still have that cord, connecting them-his love, her guilt. His money, her wants. He got $12,000 a month from the annuity the truck manufacturer set up. Half of that went to pay Lorene’s mortgage, the rest got eaten up by medical bills, twenty-four-hour care, medicine, food, utilities. He had no choice but to stay here in this ugly, decrepit, shameful house. “Know your problem, Pilgrim? You don’t get out. Dust off that damn wheelchair and-” “Catch pneumonia.” “Wrap your damn self up.” “Who is he, Lorene?” She cocked her head. “Who you mean?” “The man in the house I pay for.” Lorene put her hands on her hips and rocked a little, back and forth. “No. No, Pilgrim. You and me, we got an understanding. I don’t know what Corella’s been saying-” “I know you got men. That’s not the point here. You take this one in?” “You got no say, Pilgrim.” “Even folks at Corella’s church know about him. “I ain’t listening to this.” “All AIDS this and Africa that. But he’s running from trouble in Florida somewhere, down around Tampa.” “That’s church gossip, Pilgrim. Raymont never even “Now you spending money hand over fist. That where it’s coming from, Lorene? Phony charity, pass the basket? Finally, fear darkened her eyes. He wanted to ask her: What do you expect? Take away a man’s body, he still has his heart. Mess with his heart, though, there’s nothing left but the hate. And the hate builds. “Pilgrim, you do me an injustice when you make accusations like that.” The words came out with a sad, lukewarm pity. She sighed, slipped off her shoes, motored the bed down till he lay flat, then climbed on, straddling him. “This what you after? Then say so.” She took a Kleenex from the box on the bed and wiped his puddled eyes, then stroked his face with her fingers, her skin cool against his. She cupped his cheek in her palm and leaned down to kiss him. “Why do you doubt my feelings, Pilgrim?” “Send him away, Lorene.” “Pilgrim, you gotta let-” “I’ll forgive everything-I don’t care what you’ve done to get the money or how much it is-but you gotta send him away. For good.” Lorene got down off the bed, slipped her shoes back on, and straightened her skirt. “One of these days, Pilgrim-before you die-you’re gonna have to accept that I’m not to blame for what happened to you. And what you want from me, and what I’m able to give, are two entirely different things.” Robert returned to find Lorene gone. How long she leave Mr. Baxter alone? he wondered, chastising himself. He checked his watch, barely half an hour since he’d left but that was plenty of time to have an accident. And he ain’t gonna blame her, hell no. That witch got the man’s paralyzed dick wrapped around her little finger tight as a yo-yo. He’s gonna lay blame on me. That was pretty much the routine between them. Bitch rant scream, beg snivel thank. Return to beginning and start again. Even so, Robert knew he had the makings of a good thing here. He didn’t want it jeopardized. Mr. Baxter wasn’t long for this life, every day something else went wrong, more and more, faster and faster. The man relied on Robert for all those sad, pathetic, humiliating little tasks no one else would bother with. If Robert played it right, made himself trusted and dependable-the final friend-there could be a little something on the back end worth waiting for. Everybody working in-home care knew a story. One woman Robert knew personally had tended an old man down in Hillsborough, famously wealthy, and he scribbled on a napkin two days before he passed that she was to get $40,000 from his estate. The family fought it, of course-they were already inheriting millions, but that’s white people for you-claiming she’d had undue influence over his weakened mind. The point was, though, it can happen. Long as you don’t let the family hoodwink you. Venturing into the bedroom doorway, Robert discovered Pilgrim trembling. His breathing was ragged. “Mr. Baxter, you all right?” Edging closer, he saw more tears streaking down the older man’s face than leakage could explain. “Good Lord, Mr. Baxter? What did that woman do?” Pilgrim hissed, “Call my lawyer.” Marguerite Johnstone had gone to law school to escape Hunter’s Point but still had clients in the neighborhood-wills and trusts, conservatorships, probate contests, for those who could afford them. She sat parked at the curb outside Pilgrim’s house, waiting a moment behind the wheel, checking to make sure she had the address right. The place was small and square with peeling paint and a flat, tar-paper roof. In back, a makeshift carport had all but collapsed from dry rot. Weeds had claimed the yard from the grass and grew waist high. How in God’s name, she thought, can a man worth three-quarters of a million dollars live in a dump like this? It sat at the corner of Fitch and Crisp-“Fish amp; Chips,” they used to call it when she lived up the hill on Jerrold-the last residence before the shabby warehouses and noxious body shops rimming the old shipyard. The Redevelopment Agency had big plans for new housing nearby but plans had never been the problem in this part of town. The problem was following through. And if any locals, meaning black folks, actually got a chance to live in what the city finally built up there, it would constitute an act of God. Meanwhile, the only construction actually underway was for the light rail, and that was lagging, millions over budget, years behind schedule, the muddy trench down Third Street all anyone could point to and say: The rest of the neighborhood consisted of bland, crumbling little two-story houses painted tacky colors, with iron bars on the windows. At least they looked lived in. There were families here, holding out, waiting for something better to come-where else could they go? And with the new white mayor coming down all the time, making a show of how he cared, people had a right to think maybe now, finally, things would turn around. But come sunset the hoodrats still crawled out, mayor or no mayor, claiming their corners. Making trade. Marguerite made a mental note to wrap things up and get out before dark. Robert led the lawyer through the bedroom door and Pilgrim sized her up. A tall, freckled, coffee-skinned woman with her hair pulled back and tied with a bow, glasses, frumpy suit, and flats. Be nicer-looking if she made an effort, he thought. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “You come well recommended. This here’s my daughter.” Corella sat at the end of the bed, dressed in black, down to the socks and shoes, her hair short like a man’s. His other daughter, Cynthia, was the pretty one, but she wasn’t Lorene’s child. Cynthia lived with her mother far away-St. Louis, the last anybody heard. Corella would never move away. She was Daddy’s little princess, homely like him. Marguerite extended her hand. “Pleasure.” “Obliged,” Corella said. Pilgrim shooed both Robert and his daughter from the room. Robert went quick, Corella less so. “I got the feeling,” he said, “way your voice sounded over the phone-” “You were right, there are problems.” Marguerite removed a thin stack of papers from her briefcase, copies of documents she’d discovered at the County Recorder. “With the Excelsior property.” She explained what she’d found. Six months earlier, the IRS had filed tax liens for over $300,000 in back taxes against a Raymont Williams-who came with a generous assortment of aliases. Soon after that, Lorene, who worked at a local credit union, recorded the first of three powers-of-attorney, forging Pilgrim’s signature and getting a notary at the credit union to validate it. Then, acting as Pilgrim’s surrogate under the power-of-attorney, she took out a loan for $120,000, same amount as the oldest of the tax liens, securing it with the Excelsior property. But no release of lien was ever recorded. Apparently, when Lorene realized how easily she could phony up a loan, she got the fever. The IRS could wait for its money. Two more loans followed for increasingly shameless sums from hard-money lenders. The house was now leveraged to the hilt, the total indebtedness over $600,000, and that was just principal. Worse, though Lorene had made a token effort to cover her tracks, keep up with the payments, she’d already slipped into default. “Expects me to come to the rescue,” Pilgrim guessed. “It’s that or lose the house to foreclosure,” Marguerite said. “All that happen in just six months?” Pilgrim chided himself for not seeing it sooner. Hadn’t even known about this Raymont fool till recent. Why hadn’t Corella told him? She went to see her mother from time to time-not often, they didn’t get on, but often enough. Daddy’s homely, clingy, bitter little princess was playing both sides. But she’d pay. Everyone would pay. Marguerite said, “You’ve got a very strong case against the notary, pretty strong against the lenders, though the last two are a step above loan sharks. I don’t know what Lorene told them-” “Woman can charm a stump.” “But they’ll want their money. They’ll know they can’t go against Lorene or this Raymont individual for recovery. And they could say they had a right to rely on the notary and turn on her, but her pockets most likely aren’t that deep either. So they’ll come after you. And my guess is they won’t be nice about it.” “How you figure?” “It’ll suit their purposes to stick with Lorene and her story, at least for a while. She’ll say she had your full authority to do what she did and now you’re just reneging out of jealousy. It’s not an argument that’ll carry the day, not in the end, but the whole thing could get so drawn out and ugly they could grind you down, force a settlement that still leaves you holding a pretty sizable bag.” “Maybe I’ll just walk away from the house.” “If you’re okay with that, why not do it now? Save yourself my legal fees.” Pilgrim cackled. “You don’t want my money?” “Not as much as some other people do, apparently.” Pilgrim blinked his eyes. He could feel the water building up. “And this Raymont Williams, this phony preacher, he walks away clean.” “I call it the Deadbeat Write-off. Meanwhile, for you, this could all get very expensive, particularly in addition to the other work you mentioned.” Pilgrim glowered, trying to shush her. He figured Corella had an ear pressed up to the door, trying to hear his business. “Expensive is lying here doing nothing. I can’t move. Don’t mean I can’t fight.” That night Pilgrim dreamed he had his body back. He and Lorene were in the throes, the way it used to be-give some, not too much, take a little away, then give it back till she’s arching her spine and making that sound that made everything right. Damn near the only good he’d done his whole sorry life, pleasure that woman-that and turn himself into a quadriplegic piggy bank. But no sooner did she make that gratified cry in his dream than the whole thing changed. He heard another sound, a low fierce hum, then the deafening broadside slam of the semi ramming his pickup, the fierce growl of the diesel inches from his bleeding face through the shattered glass of his window, the scream of air brakes and metal against metal, then the odd, hissing silence after. His head bobbing atop his twisted spine, body hanging limp in the shoulder harness. The smell of gas and smoldering rubber and that Raymont Williams, dressed in pleated slacks and a cashmere V-neck, Italian loafers, and silk socks, heard the doorbell ring and glanced down from a second story window. A fluffy little white fella, baggy suit, small hat, stood on the porch. Something wrong with this picture, he thought. White people in the neighborhood didn’t come to visit. Raymont lifted the window: “Yeah?” The man backed up, gripping his hat so it wouldn’t fall off as he tilted his head back to see who was talking. “Reverend Raymont Williams?” No collar, Raymont thought, touching his throat. “You’re who?” “Name’s William Montgomery. I live down the block. I received some of your mail. By mistake. The names, I guess.” He tugged on the brim of his puny hat. “Kind of similar in a backwards sort of way.” “Shove it through the slot.” The man winced. “There’s a bit of a snafu.” He looked at the wad of mail in his hand, like it might catch fire. “One of the letters is certified, I signed by mistake. I don’t know, I didn’t look carefully, I just…” He scrunched up his face. “I called the post office. I have to get your signature, too, next to mine, then take the receipt down to the main office on Evans. It’s a hassle, I realize-” “That don’t make sense.” “They were very specific. I’m truly sorry, Reverend.” The hairs on Raymont’s neck stood up. He flipped open the mail slot from inside. “Okay, slip it through.” The little man obliged. Raymont took the bundle of paper, at which point the voice through the mail slot said, “Reverend Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymont Williams, a.k.a. Raymond White, a.k.a. Montel Dickson-you’ve been served with a summons and a complaint in accordance with state law and local rules of the California Superior Court. You must appear on the specified date or a default judgment may be filed against you. If you have any questions, you can call the number that appears on the summons.” Why you schemey little bug, Raymont thought. He pulled himself up, booming through the door: “How dare you! Coming here, full of hostile intent and subterfuge. I am a man of the cloth. What’s the difficulty, tell me-the difficulty in simply ringing the bell like a decent man with honest business?” Beyond the door’s beveled glass, the white man grinned, his eyes hard. He didn’t look so fluffy now. “Yeah, right. Straight up, that’s you.” He turned and started down the steps, saying over his shoulder, “You’re served.” Raymont threw the door open, came after him, one step, two. “You listen-” The little man spun around. “Go ahead. Lay a hand on me, I’ll sue you for every cent you’re worth.” Raymont cocked his head, perplexed. “Will you now?” He reached out, lifted William Montgomery or whoever the hell he was off his little white feet, and tossed him down to the sidewalk. His head hit with a hollow, mean-sounding “Sue me for every cent I’m worth? Joke’s on you.” The phone started ringing inside the house. Raymont slammed the door behind him, went to the hallway, and picked up. He could hear Lorene, sobbing. “So. Lemme guess. They got you at work.” “We got ten days-to “What did you do? What did you say?” “I tried, Raymont, I swear. But he is a stubborn, spite-ful-” “You best try again, woman. Try harder. Try till that horizontal nigger sees the motherfucking light of goddamn day.” “Mr. Baxter says I’m to stay in the room this time.” Robert opened the bedroom door so Lorene could go in. She put away the fifty dollars she’d planned to pass along, tidied her hair, gathered herself. “Fine then.” She strode in like a shamed queen. Pilgrim’s voice stopped her cold. “You come here to try to weasel your way into my good graces, don’t bother. You got ten days to quit. You and that hustling no-count you taken in. The two of you, not out by then, sheriff kicks you out.” Lorene gathered her pride. “From the very beginning, Pilgrim, you promised-” “Promises don’t always keep, Lorene. You crossed the line.” Lorene sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. With the nurse there she couldn’t be as bold as the moment called for. All she could do was lean forward, tip her cleavage into view, bite her lip. “What is it you want, Pilgrim?” Marguerite sank back in the chair and tapped her foot. “I don’t agree with this.” “Not your place to agree or disagree.” “That’s not entirely true. I can withdraw.” “Just find me another lawyer, not so particular.” “Mr. Baxter, it may not be my place, but you might want to think of your estate plan as a way to take care of your loved ones, not settle scores.” “I want that kind of talk, I’ll turn on Oprah.” “All right. Fine.” Marguerite took the papers out of her briefcase. “I’ve drawn things up the way you asked. Both sets.” She glanced up. “Are you all right?” Pilgrim blinked. His face was wet. “Damn eyes is all.” Corella came that evening to visit and found her father sleeping. His breathing was faint, troubled. She put her hand to his forehead. Cool. Clammy. Hurry up and die, she thought. He’d always made no secret of his feelings. If her mother was in the room, Corella did not exist. Children are baggage. How much time had she wasted, pounding her heart against his indifference-only to melt at the merest As fickle as the man could be, he still had it all over her mother. That woman was scandalous. Corella had tried to be gracious, turn a blind eye to the parade of men through that big old house-even this Raymont creature-but then the woman started spending money like a crack whore on holiday and Corella had to draw a line. Woman’s gonna burn up my inheritance, she thought. That can’t stand. She pulled up a chair to wait until her father woke up. A manila envelope peeked out from under the bed covers. Carefully, she lifted it out. The lawyer’s address label was on the front, with the notation: “ Corella had earned her teacher’s certificate just as the new governor was talking about taking pensions away and basing salaries on “merit”-meaning your career lay in the hands of bored kids cut loose by lazy parents. Schoolwork? Not even. Not when there’s curb service for rock and herb on the street, Grand Theft Auto on the Game Boy, streaming porn on the web. The American dream. She was sorry for what had happened to her father but the money was luck and she’d need all she could muster. Otherwise the future just looked too grim. She checked to be sure he was still dozing, then opened the envelope quietly, removed the papers inside. There was a living trust, a will, some other legal documents captioned “ She read every page, even the boiler plate. By the time she was done her whole body was shaking. Raymont, wearing his preacher collar under a gray suit, stared out through the beveled glass of the Victorian’s front door at Corella on the porch. Girl’s nothing but a snitch for her father, he thought. He felt like telling her to just go away but Lorene hadn’t come home the night before. He’d rattled around all night alone in their canopy bed, like a moth inside a lampshade, wondering if he shouldn’t call the police. But, given his troubles, that could turn tricky. Besides, he figured she wasn’t missing. She was hiding. He cracked open the door. “Your mama’s not around.” Corella had her hands folded before her, prim as a nun. “I didn’t come to see her.” She might as well have thrown a rock. “Say that again?” “Turns out you and I have something in common.” She looked him square in the eye. “We need to talk.” They sat in the kitchen, Raymont sipping Hennessy with a splash of 7-Up, Corella content with tap water as she told him what she’d learned. “The lawsuit and eviction remain in place-against you. Everything against my mother is dismissed in exchange for her cooperation and truthful testimony.” Girl sounds like a bad day on Court TV, he thought. “Your mama says I forced her into anything, that’s a damn lie. I may have “She gets the house, too. He’s quit-claiming it to her. But the debt comes with it.” Raymont shook his glass, the ice rattled. “There’s his pound of flesh. Payments too steep. She can’t keep up, they’ll foreclose.” Corella shook her head. “She’ll be able to hold them off for a while. And the insurance annuity that pays for my father’s care? It has a cash payout when he dies. Half a million dollars. He’s giving half of that to my mother to pay down the debt. That should make it manageable but still steep enough it’ll feel-if I know my mother and father-like punishment.” Girl understands her blood, he thought, I’ll grant her that. “And the other half-who gets that?” Corella shook her head, a little flinch of outrage. “It goes to the nurse.” Raymont put down his drink. “The “‘For services rendered charitably, patiently, and generously.’” Corella seemed about to cry, but there was ice in her voice, too. “I get nothing.” “You got a half-sister floating around somewhere, too, am I right?” He might as well have slapped her. “She doesn’t deserve anything! Where has she been? What has she done?” “Easy. Easy. I just-” “The nurse is bad enough. I’m the one in the family who’s been there. Every day.” “Fine. Agreed.” Raymont juiced up his drink with a little more Hennessy. The girl was getting on his nerves and he needed to think. His mind boiled. “I’m gonna hire me a lawyer,” he said. “A real junkyard dog. You best find yourself one, too, girl, before this all gets finalized.” Corella stood up from the table. “You’re missing the point.” Lorene left the hotel where she was hiding and arrived in Hunter’s Point shortly after dinner to visit with Pilgrim. Robert let her in and said, “Mr. Baxter told me you and him would be wanting some private time.” She opened her purse, figuring they were back on the old payment schedule, but Robert said, “No need for that, ma’am.” He grabbed his hat, glanced at his watch, and added, “I’ll come back in an hour.” She inferred from his cheerfulness that Pilgrim had informed him of his good fortune. Once Pilgrim executed his documents, the former wrestler and part-time bouncer would stand to inherit a princely sum. Pausing at the window, she watched him flounce out to his beat-up car. He’ll buy himself a new one first thing, she thought, something everyone will stare at. New car, new clothes, flash and trash, waste it all. But who’s the bigger fool for that-him or Pilgrim? She went into the bedroom and stood beside the bed. Pilgrim gazed up at her. “You look tired,” he said. She smiled grimly, thinking: You have no idea. Tired of pretending I feel for you. Tired of keeping up that charade just so I can have the one thing I want, my home and the things in it, a safe place as I grow old. Tired of watching you hang on to your miserable life with all its petty jealousy and resentment and hate. Tired of trying to convince myself I can do what you want. You think you can control my life and who I love, now and forever, even from beyond the grave. So yes. I’m tired. It’s always the devil, she thought, who shows us who we really are. She knew Raymont was evil, but so? Love is not a choice and who would want it if it was? He’d taught her things. Fortune favors the bold. No risk, no reward. She did not intend to waste that lesson. And there were hatreds and resentments of her own to abide. “Come here,” Pilgrim whispered. “Visit with me.” She stepped out of her shoes, lowered the bed, climbed on, and straddled him, edging forward on her knees. Maybe you’ll forgive me, she thought. Maybe not. “Let me move this,” she said, wrestling the pillow from beneath his head. “Lorene, damn, careful-” She clamped the pillow across his face and pressed down hard. The plump soft weight muffled his cries. Two minutes, she thought. That’s how long they say it takes for old folks in nursing homes and Pilgrim lacked even that much strength. The killing would leave tiny red dots in his eyes but she would call her own doctor, not his, say he’d just stopped breathing. Her doctor would take her word, sign the death certificate before anyone was the wiser. And though Robert would be suspicious when he got back-he’d be out a quarter of a million dollars-he’d be in no position to make trouble. The police would see right through him. Besides, she made out no better than he did with Pilgrim dead and no documents signed-why would she kill him? Her heart pounded and she was drenched with sweat by the time it was over. She couldn’t bear to lift the pillow, see his face. She just leaned down, listened for sounds of breathing. Nothing. From behind: “You just do what I think?” Lorene spun around on the bed. Raymont stood in the doorway. Stranger still, Corella peeked out from behind him. “We knew you’d be here,” Raymont said. “We saw the nurse leave. Corella has a key.” Lorene held out her hand. “Help me down.” Raymont approached her like he thought she might turn into a bat but helped her as she climbed off Pilgrim’s body. He caught her when she nearly fell. Her knees felt rubbery. She almost fainted. “I couldn’t go through with it,” she said. Puzzled, Raymont lifted the pillow. “You already did.” “No, I mean go through with what he wanted me to do. Turn against you.” A shudder went through her and she began to weep softly. “I’m so sorry.” “It’s all right, baby, stop.” He stroked her face. “Don’t fret. We got it all figured out.” “We?” She wiped her face. “Corella and me. She’s the one stands to inherit, she’s the next of kin.” “But Cynthia-” “To hell with Cynthia.” It was Corella, holding herself so tight it looked like she might explode if she let go. Raymont, more gently, said, “Anybody heard from this Cynthia? Anybody even know where she is?” “St. Louis. Somewhere near-” “No, Lorene.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, shook her. “No. Listen to me. Corella and me, we’ve come to an understanding.” He looked at Pilgrim’s body, the face exposed now. Vacant. Still. “Corella’s gonna file the probate. She’ll say she heard some talk about another daughter, tried hard to find her, couldn’t. We ransack this place, destroy any letters or anything else that might give us away, lead somebody to where she is. Hell, why can’t we pretend she doesn’t even exist?” “What about the lawyer? The one he’s been talking to. What if he’s told her-” “Why should she care? You pay her whatever she’s owed, she’ll go away, trust me. One thing I know, it’s lawyers.” The next impulse took Lorene by surprise. She reached for Raymont’s face, clamped her eyes shut, and pressed her mouth so hungrily against his she thought, again, she might faint. A cold pulse ran through her, it felt like laughter. He’s dead, she thought. He’s dead and I’m free and God help me but I have lived for this moment. Watching her mother grab the bogus preacher within inches of her father’s corpse, Corella suffered a moment of clarity so searing she nearly got sick. Nothing would change, she realized. She’d be used. These two revolting people would get what they wanted then toss her aside. She was a tool. She was, again, baggage. Raymont had brought a gun in case Robert had to be dealt with. Corella crept up behind him, reached inside his coat pocket. Raymont tried to catch her by the arm, missed. “What you playin’ at?” Corella gripped the weapon with both hands, waving it back and forth, at Raymont, at Lorene, at Raymont. She was crying. Raymont held out his hand. “Put that down.” Then: “This was your idea, girl.” Corella fired. Lorene screamed as the bullet hit Raymont in the shoulder. He howled in pain, cursed, reached for the wound, said, “I’ll kill you,” through clenched teeth, but then she fired again, this time aiming for his face. The round went through his eye. Lorene’s screams grew piercing. Raymont tottered, reached for something that wasn’t there, and slowly collapsed to the floor. “My God, Corella, why, Lord, what-” Corella raised the barrel till it pointed at her mother. “Quiet,” she said, barely above a whisper, then fired. The bullet ripped through Lorene’s throat. The second went straight through her heart. Robert came back from the Philly cheese steak shop on Oakdale he liked, chewing gum to counter the smell of the greasy cheese and grilled onions on his breath. He found the door unlocked. Odd, he thought. Careless of me. Smokehounds could just waltz in. He went straight for the bedroom, make sure all was well, and stopped in his tracks. A man he didn’t recognize sat slumped against the wall, a bloody hole where one eye had been, another in his shoulder. Lorene lay in a heap beside the bed, ugly wounds on her chest and neck. And Mr. Baxter lay in his bed, motionless as a hunk of wood, eyes and mouth gaping. Corella sat on the floor against the wall, clutching a pillow, staring at nothing. A pistol rested on the floor, not far from her feet. “They killed him,” she whispered. “I came in…” Her voice trailed away. She glanced up at Robert. Robert’s eyes bounced back and forth-the gun, Corella. “You?” “They killed him,” she said again. Practicing. Robert studied her, then said, “It’s all right. I understand.” He went to the bedside, checked to make sure Pilgrim was dead, then checked the other two as well. From a box beside the bed he withdrew a vinyl glove, slipped it on his hand. “You hurt?” he asked Corella, walking over to the gun, picking it up. She shook her head. Then, looking up into his face, she said, “He never signed those documents, you know. You get nothing.” Robert crouched down in front of her. “Sometimes it’s not about the money.” With one hand he forced her mouth open, with the other he worked the barrel in. “Sometimes it’s just the right thing to do.” Two days after the funerals, Marguerite Johnstone sat in her office, meeting with Pilgrim’s surviving daughter, Cynthia. She’d traveled from Hannibal, Missouri, for the services. Her mother had stayed behind. “Your father had me draft two estate plans,” Marguerite explained, “one he executed the last time I met with him, the other he was saving.” Cynthia tilted her head quizzically. “Saving?” She was quite different from Corella, Marguerite thought. She had Midwestern manners, played the cello, wore Chanel. More to the point, she was Korean. Or half Korean, anyway. “He wanted to see how his ex-wife followed through on certain promises. Obviously, that’s all moot now.” Cynthia shuddered. “It sounds so terrible.” The night of the murders, the police received reports of gunfire in the neighborhood but that was like saying it was dark out at the time. No one could pinpoint where the shots came from till Robert called 911. The detectives working the case had their doubts about his story but he’d held up under questioning and passed his gunshot residue test. Besides, the new mayor was lighting bonfires up their buttholes-their phrase-because of their pitiful clear rate on the dozens of drive-bys and gang hits in that neighborhood. Last thing they wanted to do was waste time on a domestic. As it sat, the case had a family angle and a murder-suicide tidiness to it, and that permitted them to close it out with a clear conscience. If justice got served in the bargain, fabulous. “The documents your father actually executed leave everything to you. The Excelsior house has so little equity and is so heavily leveraged, I’d consider just walking away. Let the lenders fight over it. The Hunter’s Point lot-forget the house-might bring fifty thousand. That’s a guess, we’ll have it appraised. That leaves the cash payout from the annuity.” Cynthia looked up. “And that would be?” “In the ballpark of half a million.” The girl’s eyes ballooned. “I had no idea. I mean, my father and I, we weren’t in touch. My mother, she’s become more and more…traditional. She felt ashamed. She and my father weren’t married and they-” Her cheeks colored. She wrung her handkerchief in her lap. “I wrote from time to time but never visited. Not even after his accident. Corella was the one-” “It wasn’t Corella’s decision to make. It was your father’s property. That’s the way it works.” “But-” “From the way he talked about it, I gathered it was precisely the fact you didn’t hang around, waiting for him to die, that made him feel benevolent toward you.” Cynthia pondered that, then shrugged. “It still feels a little like stealing, to be honest.” “You can’t steal a gift, not under the law anyway.” Marguerite glanced at the clock, reminding herself: billable hours. “Are there any questions you’d like to ask?” Cynthia put her chin in her hand and tapped her cheek with her forefinger. Too cute, Marguerite thought. The innocence was beginning to grate. “I hope this doesn’t sound crass,” Cynthia said finally, “but when will I get my check?” Marguerite bit her lip to keep from grinning. Families, death, and money, she thought. Didn’t matter your race or creed-or how far away you lived-the poison always bubbles up from somewhere, often long before the dear departed’s body grows cold. “That depends on the insurance company administering the annuity. Why?” Cynthia shrugged. “Nothing. I was thinking about maybe traveling.” She blushed again. “It’s my boyfriend’s idea, actually.” Interesting, Marguerite thought. “‘Travel is a privilege of the young.’ I read that somewhere. Why didn’t your boyfriend come with you?” “He lives here. We just met.” The color in her cheeks deepened. “It’s sudden, I realize, and he’s really not my type, but I’ve felt lonely here and he’s very kind. He introduced himself at the church service. You may know him, actually, he took care of my father.” |
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