Faye Kellerman - The Burnt House

“I have strong shoulders.”

“I’m sure you’ll work it out,” Rina said.

Decker snapped his fingers. “You know what? I have an idea.”

Uh-oh, Rina thought. She said, “I’m sure they’ll work it out, Peter.”

“I’m sure they will, but just let me run this by you,” Decker said. “Remember Mike Hollander?”

“From Foothill?” Rina said.

“Yeah, you know he retired about ten maybe twelve years ago from police work. He has a construction company-”

“Peter, he must be like seventy now.”

“Just listen. What he does is get all these old-time construction pros-plumbers, plasterers, electricians, air-conditioning guys-who have retired, calls them up, and gets a crew together. They’ve done quite a few renovation projects for the elderly in their neighborhood.”

“If Mike is seventy, how old are the old guys, Daddy?” Cindy asked dubiously.

“They’re probably all around Mike’s age.”

Hannah wiped her mouth. “Uh, this is not of interest to me. Mind if I check my e-mail?”

Decker told her to go ahead. Rina said, “Do you think Mike’s up to it, Peter? How long has he been at this?”

“They’re experienced guys, Rina.”

“Didn’t Mike have bypass surgery?”

“Last time I spoke to him, he told me he never felt better.”

“How much do they charge?” Koby inquired.

“I have no idea, but I’m sure he’ll be reasonable,” Decker told him.

Rina said, “I don’t know about this, Peter. Maybe they should ask the architect for some recommendations.”

“What would it hurt if I called Hollander up?”

No one answered. Koby looked at Cindy. Cindy looked at Koby. They both shrugged. Koby said, “I think it couldn’t hurt to ask.”

Decker got up from the table. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Now?” Rina said. “We’re in the middle of dinner.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes.” Decker dashed inside the kitchen before Rina could continue to protest.

Cindy said, “Let him make the phone call, Rina. Otherwise we won’t hear the end of it.”

Rina said, “He means well, but sometimes he doesn’t think things through.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” Koby said. “There is wisdom in age.”

Cindy said, “There’s also angina and arthritis in age.”

Koby said, “The food is excellent as always.”

“Delicious,” Cindy concurred.

Decker returned looking very pleased. “We’re having lunch tomorrow.” He looked at Koby. “I’ll bring the plans with me as long as you brought them here. Anyone want to join me?”

“I’d love to, but I’m on shift,” Koby said.

“I’m working,” Cindy said. “But I’d like to meet him before we start. No offense, Daddy, but he is a little on the old side.”

“None taken.” Decker looked at his wife. “I thought of someone else. How about Abel Atwater?”

Rina said, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“The man knows his way around a toolbox.”

“Peter, he’s an amputee!”

“So I won’t put him on a ladder.” To Koby, Decker said, “He’s a terrific jack-of-all-trades.”

“When was the last time you talked to Abel?”

Decker shrugged. “I don’t know. About six, seven years ago. Doesn’t matter. We have that kind of a relationship.”

“How’d he lose a limb?” Koby asked.

“War injury in Vietnam.”

“So it wasn’t from a construction accident.”

“No, no, no,” Decker said. “He’s actually quite agile-”

“Peter, the man is not only an amputee, he has demons.”

“Last I heard, he doesn’t drink anymore.”

“The last you heard as of six years ago,” Rina said. “What about his chronic depression?”

“So what’s better than making him feel useful?”

Cindy said, “Uh, Daddy, I appreciate your help, but I think we might need something more than an amputee and old men with heart conditions.” She shrugged.

Koby said, “He already called up Mike. He might as well keep the lunch date.”

Abruptly, Cindy burst into genuine laughter. “All right. There’s nothing wrong with having lunch with an old friend. I do, however, have my reservations about Abel and his battle with the bottle.”

“Okay. Abel’s out but Mike’s in,” Decker said.

Cindy threw up her hands. “Deal.”

Rina began to clear dishes, but Decker told her to sit down. “I’ll do it.”

“I’ll help you,” Koby said.

“Bring in dessert while you’re at it,” Rina told them.

When the men left the room, Cindy said, “I married my father. Mr. Do-It-Himself.” She shrugged again. “What the heck. I figure when the house is torn apart, Koby will come to his senses.”

“That’s very smart of you.”

“Sometimes, it’s useless to make plans,” Cindy said.

Rina smiled. “There’s an old Yiddish expression: Mann macht und Gott lacht.”

“Which means?”

“Man makes plans and God laughs.”

THE RECTANGULAR STAGE was in the center of the room, the mirrored floor lit up from underneath. Surrounding the stage were bar stools of sweaty, boisterous men shouting encouragement to sinuous, wet female forms that pirouetted from four corner poles. Beyond the stage were sets of tables and chairs. A horseshoe-shaped bar spanned three walls. It was hot and moist and dark except where the spotlights hit the supple women.

There was a three-drink minimum at fifteen bucks a pop, whether it be water or booze. The clients were served by dancers wearing high-cut, black leather thongs and sheer lace bustiers.

Scott Oliver had chosen a corner table, and nursed a beer while taking it all in. He recognized three girls so far and that surprised him. He hadn’t been to Leather and Lace in over two years, and with the high turnover of dancers, he hadn’t expected to see anyone familiar. The dropout rate in these establishments was higher than a midcity school, some girls leaving because they had amassed enough money, others leaving because drugs and alcohol finally got the better of them, ravaging the faces as well as the bodies. It was a hard life, made more difficult by the constant onslaught of boors the women catered to. Oliver liked to think of himself as a respite for the women. He tipped big and dispensed legal advice free of charge. Of course, it wasn’t really free. The women would often do him favors in exchange, but in his mind the barter was a fair one.

A man was approaching him-midthirties, black T-shirt, black jeans, and leather motorcycle boots. He had a round face, small lips, thick brow, and dark curly hair. Dante Michelli was the owner of Leather and Lace and five other gentleman’s clubs. Oliver had heard that Michelli was a self-made man, a third-generation Italian-American from Brooklyn. As far as Scott knew, Michelli ran a clean and safe environment, the security of his patrons and girls ensured by a half-dozen bulldozer-looking men parked at strategic places about the floor. He took a seat at Oliver’s table without asking permission.

“What can I get for you, Detective?”

“I’m fine with my beer, Mr. Michelli, but thanks.”

“Call me Dante.” He waved a finger in the air and a leggy woman with a platinum crew-cut hairstyle was there within moments. “Get the man a fresh beer, Titania.”

“Not necessary, but thanks,” Oliver said.

Dante said, “You look like you’re here on business.”

“I am, but it has nothing to do with your business.”

That was exactly what the owner wanted to hear. The beer came a minute later, cold and premium quality. Oliver reached into his wallet, by Michelli put his hand over Oliver’s. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I won’t argue.” Oliver put away his billfold. “It’s either you pay or I have to file a forest’s worth of paperwork just to get reimbursed.”