Steven Thomas - Criminal Carma

“You pay this month’s rent?” Candyman demanded.

“I’ll give the bitch the money tomorrow.”

“You better.”

Pete stalked out of the living room into the kitchen. A moment later the back door slammed, stirring the rats in the cupboards.

“He’s full of shit,” Candyman said, counting his fifties again. “He don’t know what’s gonna happen. He ain’t nuthin’ but a bum like the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” Budge said, still stung by the “bastard” remark. “He’s always riding us to keep the place shipshape but he’s the biggest slob in the house. He don’t even flush the toilet after he goes. I went in the head the other day after he came out and there was a turd as long as your arm floatin’ in the can.”

“You don’t think he knows what he’s talkin’ ‘bout, do you, Rob?” Candyman said.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Upstairs, I took a quick shower and put on clean clothes: gray slacks, a long-sleeve white pima-cotton dress shirt, black leather walking shoes that were comfortable but looked dressy, and my black leather jacket. The meeting with Evermore was critical. Time was running out. The lawyer would be bringing the diamonds back from the desert in a little more than twenty-four hours and our base of operations seemed to be getting shaky. I didn’t know exactly what to make of Pete’s mysterious malevolence and threatening prediction about the house, but they added to my sense of urgency.

I glanced in Reggie’s room on my way back downstairs but there was no sign of him. The living room was empty too. Budge and Candyman were either on their way to the liquor store or just now sitting down on a couple of stools at Mulligan’s on the boardwalk. By the time an hour went by, all their problems would be dissolved in the solvent of ethyl alcohol. They would roar with laughter and nuzzle whatever warm female flesh was next to them. Tomorrow morning, their problems would be back with an extra set of horns, but tonight they would be blissful as two of Kerouac’s beatnik Buddhas, huffing a joint in the alley behind the bar with blurry companions, rejoicing in selfless oblivion.

I didn’t have that luxury.

Traffic on Pacific Avenue was lighter than it had been the night before, when Reggie and I had walked to the ashram, but there were still plenty of merrymakers going to and fro in the blended light of neon and stars. I covered the dozen blocks to Evelyn Evermore’s house at a rapid pace, arriving right at six-thirty.

The front of her two-story bungalow was in good shape from what I could see in the light from the streetlamp and her porch light. The yellow shiplap siding looked sound. The steps and veranda, railed with a white balustrade, didn’t sag or creak.

Evermore opened the door the instant I knocked, as if she had been waiting inside with her hand on the knob. She was wearing the red satin outfit she had worn on Friday night, which jarred me a little bit. There was a fruity tang of alcohol on her breath when she spoke.

“Right on time,” she said with a glowing smile. “I like that.”

Behind her I could see an entry hall and living room with dark-stained oak flooring, both empty. Her new home was unfurnished.

“I hate to be late,” I said. “It makes me feel incompetent.”

“Oh, no,” she said, stepping out onto the porch. “You strike me as very competent. The timing isn’t actually so great, though. I wasn’t thinking when we spoke earlier, but most of the work is on the outside. I don’t know if you will be able to see enough in the dark to give me a bid.”

“Let’s take a look. If I have to come back in the daytime, that’s not a problem.”

“Are you sure? It wasn’t very good thinking on my part.”

“I’m sure.” I couldn’t be certain that I would find out everything that evening I needed to know for the robbery and I liked having the option of a return visit the next day open up like a photo album in front of me. “What needs to be done?”

She walked me around the house, using a small silver flashlight to point out several areas where bushes had grown against the house, holding moisture and rotting some of the siding. I leaned on the wall at the third place she showed me, feeling it flex inward.

“Part of the frame is bad, too,” I said.

“Is that a big job?”

“Depends on how much of the structure needs to be replaced. No way of telling for sure until the siding is removed.”

In the back, we walked up onto a wooden deck that ran the width of the house and overlooked the Linnie Canal. It was surrounded by the remains of a balustrade like the one that enclosed the front veranda. Some of the balusters had rotted at the top and bottom and fallen out. Others were leaning. The whole structure was uneven and wobbly.

“This is probably the biggest job,” she said. “What do you think it would cost to tear all this out and build a new deck and dock?”

“I’ll have to see it in the daytime.”

“I’m embarrassed to have anyone over the way it is now,” she said. “But I think it will be a beautiful place to entertain when it’s fixed up. I just love these old canals.”

Strands of twinkle lights, stretched across neighboring docks and patios, reflected brightly in the black water. Canoes and paddleboats bobbed gently, and a mother duck with half a dozen yellow ducklings paddled past en route to some reeds where they would spend the night. A couple of houses down, a white wooden footbridge arched over the canal, adding to the storybook atmosphere.

“It is a beautiful spot,” I said. “Is there anything else that needs to be done? Anything inside?” I was itching to root through a drawer or two while she got me a glass of water or used the bathroom.

“There are a few small jobs inside,” she said. “But the main stuff is all outside. After the repairs, the house will need to be painted and it may need a new roof, too-one of your specialties. It’s silly to try and look at that in the dark, though. I should have asked you come earlier, while it was still daylight.”

“I don’t mind coming back,” I said again.

“I know,” she said, softening her voice and standing close to me so that her breasts just touched my chest. “I just hate to waste your time. Could I possibly make it up to you by taking you out to dinner? If you’re not busy, I mean. I’m sick of ashram food. I would really love a good piece of fish.”

I wondered if this was what she had in mind all along. Not that I cared. Taking her out to dinner, having a chance to talk, was perfect for me.

“I’d love to go to dinner,” I said. “But you’ll have to drive. I walked over from where I’m staying at the beach, so I don’t have my car.”

“That’s no problem,” she said, putting her hand on my upper arm and giving it a squeeze. “We can take mine.”

The back door was locked, so we walked around to the front. She went in to get her keys and a wrap, while I stepped back and looked at the house from the curb. Sometimes I wished I still was in the remodeling business. I missed the pleasures of carpentry and concrete work, of analyzing and repairing structures so that they were better-looking and stronger than they had been to begin with.

Evermore’s white Lincoln was parked on the street, two houses down.

“Do you mind driving?” she said as we walked to the car.

“Not at all.” Taking the keys from her manicured hand, I unlocked the passenger door and held it open while she got in, then walked around and slid in beneath the oversize wheel, taking the spot Jimmy Z had occupied two days before on the journey to Indian Wells. The bench seat was light-blue leather, soft and smooth and well conditioned. When I turned the key, the electronic dash display lit up like a video game and the Bose stereo popped on, playing saxophone jazz full of tender emotion. The intimate air was scented with Evelyn’s lilac perfume.