Another forty minutes ticked by. Sweaty and dirty, she was inside a bathtub, scrubbing some of the grout around the edges when she heard Dixon open the outer door. He scooted right in and shook his head. “At this rate, you’re going to be here all night.”
She slumped her shoulders. “This is harder than it looks.” That was one thing Lorraine and Delores would agree on.
“My other people would have been done by now.”
She wiped the sweat off her forehead. “I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.”
Dixon clucked his tongue. “Not good enough considering all the freebies you’re getting.”
He deserved a quick kick in the groin, but Delores had an objective to keep in mind. “But I need this job,” she said.
Dixon put his hand on hers. “I know you do. How would you like to go back to your place and wash up? Then we can go out for a bite to eat. On me. And we’ll call it a day.”
“Really? You’d do that?”
“Sure I would. I fixed your electricity, didn’t I? Just remember, if I do nice things for you, you have to do nice things for me.”
Figures. She brushed some loose hair out of her eyes. “Like what?”
“Just a kiss. That’s all. But this time it has to be real. You have to kiss back.”
She tilted her head, scanned the dirty grout around the base of the toilet, and wasn’t exactly certain which option was worse. “But if I do that, I’m done for the day. Right?”
“Yep. That’s the deal. I’ll get somebody else to finish up both apartments.”
Both Delores and her character, Lorraine Martinez, hesitated. A lone kiss might not sound like a big deal to somebody else, but most women hadn’t endured a past like Delores’s. “Okay,” she said, being sure to close her eyes.
Chapter Seven
Stump would have preferred to avoid the City Council meeting altogether but the sensation of boots in his gut wouldn’t go away. Alone and apprehensive, he soldiered his way into the meeting room.
Inside, the Palmdale City Council members sat high and mighty behind their twenty-foot desk that was elevated on a throne-like stage. They resembled a family of royalty, anxious to pass judgment on their lowly subjects. Stump sat near the back with the other peons. Except for a couple children, he was the youngest in the room.
He’d practiced what to say, but it didn’t matter. His fingers shook anyway. He might say something stupid. They’d probably reject him. Worst of all, he might cry.
Mayor Curtis, fiftyish and balding, sat at the center of the gang-throne, barking out orders while two council members sat on either side of him. Off to Stump’s left, at a separate table, there were additional officials with files, apparently anxious to give the thumbs down signal when called upon. Stump gulped. In this room, where the ties and dresses ruled, he would have to play the game their way. Among other things, he’d have to use his legal name. “Neal Joseph Randolph,” Mayor Curtis said into his microphone.
Already? Oh crap. Stump’s butt seemed stuck to the bench. Did he really want to do this? What if he were ridiculed? Seconds passed. Then a few more. Heads pivoted while the council members scanned the attendees.
The mayor leaned closer to his microphone. “Is Neal Joseph Randolph here?”
Stump grabbed the back of the bench before him and forced his legs to lift his body. “Yes, sir. That’s me.” Dozens of rubbernecks twisted Stump’s way.
Mayor Curtis pointed to a lectern in the center aisle. “You’re first.”
Snooping eyes measured Stump as he moved toward the stand. He didn’t belong. He wished he were older. Wished he were taller. Wished he hadn’t killed his mom. Unsure of what to expect, he laid his shaking hands on the wooden stand. “I’m me,” he said, leaning into a small microphone. Snickers from behind him indicated he was already a spectacle.
“Are your parents with you?”
“No, sir. My mom’s dead, and I’ve never met my dad.”
“Well, you don’t live by yourself, do you?”
“I live with my adoptive father, Myles Cooper.”
“Okay then, is he here?”
“No, sir. He had to work tonight.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Randolph, but you have to be sixteen to address this—“
Not that again. “But, I am sixteen, honest.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Just a learner’s permit,” he said, probing his back pockets, but they were empty. So were the others. His brain flashed him an image of earlier, before the meeting, when he threw his permit on his dresser. “I forgot to bring it.”
Snorts of doubt came from Stump’s back. He could almost hear their thoughts: How can you expect adults to take you seriously when you don’t even remember your driver’s license? He knew his face was red. He glanced at the door, but he had to stay—for his mom.
“Do you have your plans?” the Mayor asked.
Finally. An easy question. “Yes. I’m planning to get you guys to make my old neighbors fix their homes, so they’re safe.”
From the Mayor’s right Councilwoman Hennretti rolled her eyes. “Not that kind of plans,” Mayor Curtis said with a tightened face. “I’m talking about reports. Studies. Time estimates. Stuff like that. You need to show us exactly what you want from us. Do you have any plans like those?”
Stump shook his head and motioned toward the side table. “I called Mrs. Crumpler’s office quite a few times to find out what I needed, but nobody called me back.”
“Really?” Mayor Curtis turned toward the side table. “Is that right?”
An overweight woman in her late 40’s, wearing earrings the size of bracelets, rose. “I talked to him a few weeks ago. That’s how he got on the schedule, but I don’t remember getting any calls lately.”
Stump’s eyes shot back to the Mayor. “That’s not true. Her number is 619-244-2869.” He hoped that knowing her number proved that he’d called it a lot, but the truth was the last seven digits, when converted to letters on a phone pad, spelled out b-i-g b-u-n-z. He couldn’t forget something like that in a million years.
“I don’t know if you noticed,” the Mayor said, “but we’ve got important people in here.” He pointed to a distinguished gentleman in the front row. “That’s Owen Tosco from the local newspaper. People of his ilk don’t have time to waste so—”
A light crackle came over the speakers. “May I make a comment, Mr. Mayor?”
The Mayor glanced to the farthest seat to Stump’s right. “The chair recognizes Councilman Michael Barella.”
Mr. Barella was perfectly groomed and wore a classic blue suit, complete with white shirt and red tie. “If you all don’t mind,” he said, “I believe that Mr. Randolph here lives in my district. Before we do something hasty, I’d like to ask him a couple questions.”
The Mayor nodded.
Mr. Barella smiled at Stump. “I think I recognize your name. Do you have anything to do with the Jean Randolph doggie park in my district?”
Stump unclenched his fingers. “Yes, sir. Jean Randolph was my mother.”
“I thought so.” Mr. Barella twisted his head toward the Mayor and the rest of the City Council members. “I’m familiar with this young man. I can vouch for his age. I think he deserves to be heard.”
The Mayor shrugged. “Anybody opposed?” There being no protests, he pointed his gavel at Stump. “Okay, Mr. Randolph. What did you want to say?”
A flood of relief swooshed over Stump’s body. He wouldn’t need notes. The story had both haunted him and motivated him for the past three years. “I’m here in honor of my mom,” he began. “I was an unplanned baby and my biological father disappeared. She could have chosen abortion or adoption, but she didn’t. We never had much money, but we had each other and that was enough for us. Then she bought our home.” Stump smiled. “She loved to take bubble baths in the back bathroom.” His eyes wandered among the big shots. Amazingly, they were all paying attention.
r /> “About three years ago she met Myles and they were going to get married. So she hired somebody to paint the inside of our house. I was supposed to clean out our messy laundry room so it could be painted too, but I went somewhere instead. That evening, while I was gone, Mom came home and found the paint supplies in the hall. She had to move them into the laundry room, next to the hot-water heater, so our dog wouldn’t spill them.”
Stump’s pace slowed as the back of his mind fed him images of the worst evening in his life. “Later, she took a bath and the hot water heater kicked on, igniting the fumes from the paint supplies. Everything caught on fire.” Tears began to form in Stump’s eyes. He tried to shake them away, but couldn’t. “By the time Mom smelled the smoke, the fire had filled the hallway, making it impossible to get out.” His mind’s eye flashed him the horrid mental video of that night. “She tried the windows. But there were bars.” Stump lowered his head, paused, tried to hold back his tears, but it hurt too much. It always did. He wiped his eyes with his sleeves.
“Do you want to stop?” Councilman Barella asked softly.
Stump sniffled and shook his head. “No, sir. I want people to know what happened.”
A woman in the front row handed Stump a tissue.
With tear-filled eyes, Stump mouthed a thank you and turned back toward the front. “I got home just after a neighbor called the fire department. The smoke was really thick. We tried to find another way for Mom to get out but the windows were her only chance. She pushed the bars from the inside while a bunch of us yanked on the outside, but we couldn’t budge them. She kept coughing and coughing. We all were.” His brain brought an image of his mom just before she went down for the final time. He whimpered and wiped his dripping eyes.
“When she couldn’t take it anymore, she tried to say she loved me but she couldn’t even breathe. She fell to the floor and it was too late.” He wiped at his eyes again.
The room was silent. Councilwoman Hennretti wiped her eyes. Councilman Goode dabbed the corner of his eye too. “Later, they said the fumes from a spilled bucket of paint thinner caused it all and she died from the smoke.” Tears gushed down Stump’s cheeks as he buried his face in his hands. “If I would’ve cleaned up that room like I was supposed to, there would have been enough room for the paint supplies and the thinner wouldn’t have spilled.” He whimpered. “I wouldn’t have killed my own mother.”
Other people dabbed their eyes. The tissue woman rose and wrapped her arm around Stump while he wept and didn’t care who saw him. For the moment she was the mother he so desperately missed.
“We’re sorry about your bereavement, Mr. Randolph,” the mayor said. “It sounds as if the bars didn’t meet current safety codes.”
Stump released his temporary mother and wiped his eyes with his already-soggy tissue. “She could have gotten out.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Mayor.”
“The chair recognizes Mr. Barella.”
Barella looked at the audience and back at his fellow council members. “As touching as Mr. Randolph’s story is, there’s more you need to hear.” Barella turned his attention to Stump. “Would you mind telling my associates about the dog park?”
Stump nodded and wiped his nose. “A couple weeks after my mom’s death the assistant principal of our school was found at the bottom of a cliff. Everybody thought it was suicide, but I remembered a license plate number and figured out who did it. Her grandmother gave me a reward, which I used to build the park. We named it after my mom and my assistant principal.”
Oohs and ahs replaced the skepticism that previously filled the room.
“I remember that case,” the Mayor said before pointing his gavel in Stump’s direction. “So, what is it you want from us?”
Finally. “All the houses in that neighborhood are old. You should make those people fix their homes so they don’t die too.”
The Mayor cocked his head. “We know our older homes don’t meet current building codes, Mr. Randolph, but we can’t force people to do anything like that. They’re grandfathered in. If you want to get something like this accomplished, you’ll need to find out if the neighbors agree with you. Then, you’ll need some specific plans. That requires a community planner or an attorney.”
“But you’re the government. I thought that’s what you’re supposed to do. I thought you cared.”
A chorus of sarcastic scoffs sang from the crowd.
“I can assure you we care, Mr. Randolph,” the Mayor said, “but we don’t have people just sitting around waiting for projects to work on. I suggest you call Mrs. Crumpler’s office again. Maybe she can help you figure something out.”
Stump turned his head toward BigBunz, who sat motionless. “Is it free?” he asked as he turned back toward the mayor. “‘Cause I don’t have any money.”
The gang-giggles from behind Stump’s back answered his question.
Chapter Eight
The next afternoon Myles and Stump gathered to follow up on a previous discussion about investing some of Stump’s trust money. Stump drove them to the Cal-Vista apartments where a commercial broker, Clay Clayborne, and the grandfatherly owner of the property were waiting by the curb when Stump parked the truck.
“Right on time,” Clay said before turning to his right. “Rodger Kraft, meet Myles Cooper and his son, Stump. They’re the Milky Way Trust.”
During the handshakes, Kraft held Stump’s hand a split-second longer than people ordinarily do. “Clay here tells me you solved a couple murders. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
Stump tugged in his hand and shifted his feet. “Thanks.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Myles said to Kraft, “Why are you selling?”
“Good question. When the economy went bad, construction jobs in the area dried up and a lot of our tenants had to go back to Mexico where they’d have lower overhead.” He rubbed his throat. “More vacancies mean less income and more work for us. I’m just tired of it.”
“It’s the same story for nearly everybody,” Clay said. “When the cash flow is down, some owners will ride it out but the ones who sell can’t get as much as before.”
“The market always comes back,” Kraft said. “When it does, you can easily bump the rents back up by at least twenty-five bucks a month and the property’s value will go right back up.”
“By a half-million dollars,” Stump said.
All three adults turned their heads. “Sounds about right,” Kraft said. “How’d you know that?”
“Simple. We looked at several marketing brochures. The asking price usually equaled about twenty times the profits. It’s just multiplication.”
Myles wrapped his arm around Stump’s shoulder and gave him a playful squeeze. “He’s always been a numbers whiz.”
“I’d say so.” Kraft turned toward Stump. “Too bad you’ve got your own money. I could use a clever fellow like you around—”
Stump rose to his tiptoes. “A job?”
“Yeah. After school and on Saturdays. Odd Jobs. Painting. Things like that. I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“I sure am. I want to buy a car.”
Kraft pointed toward the parking lot. “What’s wrong with your truck?”
“That’s mine,” Myles said. “He gets to drive it for practice until he gets his license. I told him if he wants a car he has to get a job.”
“Good idea. It’ll make him appreciate his money more.” To Stump, “Do you have a way to get here?”
“I can use my dad’s bike. It’s just six or seven miles. I can make it in twenty minutes.” He crossed his fingers behind his back.
Kraft nodded. “I guess that’ll work. How’s ten dollars an hour sound?”
“It’s a deal,” Stump said, shoving his hand at Mr. Kraft.
“When you count my money and what you get from the trust,” Myles said, “that’ll be like making thirty dollars an hour.”
Stump smirked through a king-sized grin. “
Yeah. I already figured that out.”
“Okay, then,” Kraft said. “You can begin on Monday, after school.”
“Hello, Rodger.” The new voice came from behind Stump. Coming was a middle-aged man with messed-up hair, Bermuda shorts, sandals and a deep-red polo shirt. The only thing missing was black argyle socks.
“The manager,” Kraft said. He introduced everybody to Dixon Browne and then asked Dixon for a small favor. “Can you show these guys around? I’ve got a doctor’s appointment in fifteen minutes.”
“I guess so. What’s up?”
“Oh, they’re just thinking about buying an apartment building like ours.”
“And I get to work here,” Stump added.
Dixon looked Stump’s way and then at Mr. Kraft. “We don’t need any help. I’ve got all that covered.” Stump’s heart sank. He looked toward the bigger boss for support.
“There are a few extra things I want to get done,” Kraft said. “I already gave him my word.”
Dixon’s jaw pumped up and down as if he were chewing gum.
“Regardless of what happens today,” Kraft said, looking at Stump, “I’ll expect to see you on Monday.”
“About three-thirty,” Stump said, resisting the urge to jump up and down like a kid.
Kraft tipped his head approvingly to Stump. “Nice meeting you all.”
Myles faced Dixon. “What are we going to see today?”
Dixon glared at Stump. “I guess I can show you the common areas, and a couple vacants.”
“What about the ones people are living in?” Myles asked.
“Not a good idea. Strangers scare these people.”
Stump and Myles exchanged glances.
“Follow me,” Dixon said. He walked briskly and slightly bent over as they all moved alongside the pool fence, to building three. At the main entry a powerful whiff of ammonia danced up Stump’s nostrils.
“Whew. Somebody die in here?” Clay asked.
“Just doing some cleaning,” Dixon said, leading them down a half-flight of immaculately carpeted steps. He pointed in the laundry room, where there were several washers and dryers and a pop machine. Everything was spotless.
“Very nice,” Clay said.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Dixon said. “I just had an apartment cleaned by a new lady. I want to see how it came out.”