Peter Maravelis - San Francisco Noir

“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. You mocking me? “Hold on.” He closed the window, walked down the carpeted stairs to the entry. The crystal prisms on the chandelier refracted the sunshine streaming through the fanlight. In the dining room a bouquet of lilies and irises exploded from a crystal vase on the Hepplewhite side table. Lorene had this mania for Waterford lately, in addition to a number of other decorating obsessions. Out of control. They’d need to talk on that.

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 thunk . The man groaned, curled up, clutching his hat.

“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 get out. That’s my house- ”

“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. Crossed the line. Yes. And what an interesting world it became, across that line. The things you never thought you could have, right there. But here and now she was running out of options. Still, she reminded herself: I know this man.

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 Hey there, little girl .

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: “ Pilgrim Baxter-Estate Plan-DRAFT .” About time he got to this, she thought.

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 “ Baxter v. Williams et al .” Not like I don’t have a right to see, she thought. He’ll need me to make the calls, transfer accounts, consult with the accountants and all.

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.