Steven Gore - Power Blind

Skeeter ripped off his lifting gloves, threw them into his gym bag, then reached down and yanked it over his shoulder.

“Who’s Meyer?”

T he manila envelope Tansy delivered to Gage’s office late in the afternoon turned out to be a whole lot thicker than he expected.

“This came by messenger,” she said, approaching his desk. She pointed at the handwriting on the front after setting it down. “What does ‘Graham Gage: 221 pounds’ mean?”

“I suspect it means I’m in for some heavy lifting.”

Gage heard the floor squeak as someone inside crept toward the front door of the tiny shingled bungalow along Seventeenth Avenue in the flatlands south of Golden Gate Park. He leaned in toward the door as a hot afternoon wind gusted up the street and rattled leaves on the sidewalk. Another squeak. The curtain behind a wood-framed window to the right fluttered, then came to rest. Finally, a squeak close to the threshold. Gage watched the pinprick of light in the peephole vanish.

“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”

“Who is it?”

“My name is Graham Gage.”

“What do you want?”

“I’d like to talk to you about TIMCO.”

“Ancient history.”

“Two months ago isn’t ancient history.”

“What does two months ago have to do with TIMCO? It was fourteen years ago.”

“That’s when you talked to Charlie Palmer.”

Gage heard the floor squeak twice in the silence that followed, as though Porzolkiewski had rocked back and forth.

“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”

The floor squeaked again.

“Mr. Porzolkiewski?”

“I think you better leave now.”

“Can I give you my card?” Gage said, hoping that would get Porzolkiewski to open the door.

“Just leave it.”

“I’d rather hand it to you. I don’t want it to blow away.”

Gage reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card, then held it up in front of the peephole. He heard the scrape and click of a dead bolt, then the rattle of the loose door handle as Porzolkiewski turned it. Gage could see the left side of Porzolkiewski’s face when he opened the door a few inches and reached out his hand. Eye moist and bloodshot, in a deep socket surrounded by pale and droopy skin. He looked as though he’d once been a boulder of a man, but had been eroded by tragedy.

“I’m sorry about your son,” Gage said, handing him the card.

“Lots of people were sorry. Didn’t bring him back.”

A Siamese kitten darted through the open door. Gage reached down and picked it up. Porzolkiewski slipped the card into his pants pocket, then stretched out his palm to receive the cat, but Gage cradled it on his left forearm, holding it hostage. Porzolkiewski dropped his hand to his side.

Since Porzolkiewski hadn’t denied talking to Charlie, Gage took a shot: “I really just came for the wallet.”

Porzolkiewski’s face didn’t react. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look. If Meyer wanted to press charges, he would’ve. There were fifty-six depositions in the TIMCO case. You were with him at more than thirty.”

“I wasn’t with him. I was against him.”

“He was against you is more like it. In any case, he knows who you are. Lawyers tend to remember people who dive at them from across a conference table.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Where is it?”

“I gave it to somebody.”

“Palmer?”

Porzolkiewski glanced away for a second, then nodded.

“He said if I gave it back, I’d never be bothered again. They didn’t want any trouble because it would slop back on Landon Meyer’s presidential campaign.”

That explanation made no sense. Palmer never came at people without some kind of leverage to move them the way he wanted, and Porzolkiewski’s glancing away told Gage he wasn’t a good liar.

“You mean he promised you your probation wouldn’t get violated and you’d stay out of state prison.”

Porzolkiewski shrugged. “Something like that. Palmer said they could get me for robbery. But that’s not what happened. I didn’t steal the wallet, it just fell out during the scuffle. The little putz Meyer ran away. Just left it on the sidewalk and I picked it up.”

“A Good Samaritan.”

“Sort of.”

“What was the scuffle about?”

“You mean did I go hunting for him?”

“No. I wasn’t assuming anything. It was just a straight question.”

“I was on my way to the night drop at the bank. Meyer was coming the other way. I blocked the sidewalk just to see what the asshole would do.”

“And that was?”

“His eyes started darting around, but there’s no place to go. Stores closed, too much traffic going by. So he just stopped in his tracks, and then turned around and started scurrying away like a rat. I kind of lost it and went after him.”

“When did you give the wallet to Palmer?”

“He called me one morning. I met him that afternoon.”

“At the Ground Up Coffee Shop?”

Porzolkiewski’s eyes widened. “How do you know that? Palmer tell you?”

“I found the receipt.”

“I didn’t figure he’d tell you about the meeting.”

“Why not?”

“That’s for me to know and you not to find out.”

“You ever see him again?”

“No. And I never will. I saw the obituary. Good riddance.”

Gage extended his hand holding the kitten. Porzolkiewski opened the door the rest of the way, accepted it, and then rubbed its cheek against his own.

“You open the wallet?” Gage asked.

“I’m not a thief.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I was curious.”

“Anything unusual?”

“For a human being or for a scumbag like Meyer?”

“Either.”

“Isn’t he married?”

“Thirty-some years.”

Porzolkiewski smirked.

“There was a condom in there. New. I could tell by the expiration date. I sell them behind the counter. Twice as many as sandwiches. Lots of guys from the financial district slip into the Tenderloin for a nooner with a hooker.”

“Maybe you should have a daily special. Half a sandwich, a cup of soup, and a condom.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Porzolkiewski finally smiled. “Maybe I can franchise it like McDonald’s and KFC.”

“Why didn’t you call the Chronicle? At least embarrass him.”

“Because it would turn into a chess game I couldn’t win.”

Gage imagined lawyers ganging up on a man who’d seen more than his share of pinstriped suits.

“In Poland they say Kowal zawinil, a Cygana powiesili. The blacksmith was guilty, but they hanged the Gypsy-and I didn’t want to be the Gypsy.”

“Anything else in the wallet?”

“Driver’s license, credit cards, about seven hundred dollars, frequent flyer cards, a couple of scraps of paper, stuff like that. It was so thick, I figured it made him taller sitting down than standing up.”

“You make copies?”

Porzolkiewski looked away for a moment, then he smirked again, this time calculated. “You think I’d waste the paper?”

“I think you’re not an idiot.”

“There was no need for copies. It wasn’t like I was going steal his ID and order a bunch of iPads. I told you, I’m not a thief.”

P orzolkiewski isn’t coldblooded enough to shoot Charlie down in the street,” Gage told Faith when he arrived at their hillside home in the East Bay late that night. They stood in the kitchen, her in a robe, him in Levi’s and a sweatshirt and cutting on a smoked ham. Faith leaned back against the counter, her hair hanging loose. “But he lied to me about seeing Charlie only once.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“First. There’s no way Charlie would’ve telephoned Porzolkiewski and asked him whether he robbed Meyer and whether he wanted to give back the wallet. He would’ve either showed up at his house and pushed his way in, or followed him somewhere and corralled him.”