Done for a Dime

Book by Corbett David

1


Every black-and-white to be spared had come, seven of the ten on graveyard, drawn in once the watch commander broke the Code 33. Dennis Murchison studied the crowd while his partner, Jerry Stluka, parked their unmarked Crown Victoria as close as he could.

Onlookers gathered in the battering strobes of colored light. Even though the rain had stopped, umbrellas sprouted here and there. On the perimeter, one older couple, decked in bathrobes and slippers, clutched their pajamas to their throats and craned on tiptoe to see.

Murchison and Stluka pulled out their IDs, put the tabs into their jacket pockets so the badges showed, then drew latex gloves from the dispenser on the dash. Stluka, eyeing the crowd, said, "Am I free to assume this officially kicks off Black History Month?"

He was sable-haired, muscular, compact. A build referred to as pyknic, Murchison had learned once doing a crossword puzzle.

"Got any pills you can take, stem the flow for a little while?"

Stulka inhaled through his teeth, a hard, thin whistling sound. "Yeah. Keep 'em with the antiwhining tablets. Want one?" He stretched his glove tight. "Who's I-C?"

"Holmes."

Stluka cackled. "Sherlock!"

Murchison took stock of the faces swinging their way. Young men mostly, some with eyes like stones, full of what-the-fuck and who-are-you. "Once we get inside the tape, do me a favor. Lay off the Sherlock bit. Think you can do that?"

Stluka groaned. The pain of it. "Seems to me we could stand to lighten up a little. Get a sense of humor. You want, I could call him Maid Marion like they used to down around Dumpers substation."

"Oh yeah. That'll work."

"Hey--you want to be treated like one among equals, you take the damn chip off your shoulder."

"Whose shoulder? I'm the one asking."

Stluka made a little wave to suggest further discussion was beneath him. "I'm ready. You?"

They got out of the car and eased their way though the crowd from the back, checking faces. Murchison noted a player or two, known thugs, but that was hardly strange. They lived up here. One guy gripped an open Mickeys, talking smack into a cell phone. Others had their dogs in tow, pits and rotts. The animals strained against their chain leashes, sniffing the air. They'd caught the scent of the victim's blood.

Hennessey, who had the hill for patrol that night, stood in the middle of the street, ducking under one neighbor's umbrella as he jotted down her words. The woman wore pink sweats beneath a yellow slicker, bare feet in flip flops, her hair coiled meticulously into French braids.

Murchison came up, placed a hand on the officer's arm, and said quietly, "Hennessey Tennessee, toodle your flute."

The man was big, Irish--priestly eyes, wastrel grin. "Murch, hey." He nodded toward the woman under the umbrella. "Detective Murchison? Marcellyne Pathon."

She had high cheekbones in a round, childlike face. Behind thick horn-rims her brown eyes ballooned. She shook Murchison's hand. Her skin felt warm, her palm damp, not from rain. Nearby, a few young toughs in the crowd drifted back, far enough not to get dragged in, not so far as to leave earshot.

"She lives across the way." Hennessey pointed with his pen. Two little girls stood holding hands in the window, silhouettes, peering out at their mother. "Says she heard the shots, they woke her up, but--"

"Didn't see nobody." It came out quick. She adjusted her glasses. "I went to the window, you know, looked out, but--" A shrug. "All dark out here, you know?"

"Your children hear anything?" Murchison nodded toward her house.

Like that, she stiffened. "No, sir. All of us, the girls, too, we gone to bed already. Got church tomorrow."

"How about a car? Hear one? See one?"

She took in a long, slow breath, thinking it through. "No, sir. Don't remember no car." Her eyes held steady behind the Coke bottle lenses.

"Any voices, shouts, an argument?"

"No, sir. It was the shots, like sudden. Just them. Rest was real quiet. Especially for a Saturday. The storm, I figure."

"Mr. Carlisle hard to get along with?"

She recoiled just a little, as though accused. "How you mean?"

"Just trying to get an idea of who the man was, Marcellyne."

Her face relaxed a little, and she gave the question long consideration. She seemed conflicted. "What Mr. Carlisle was, was big--know what I'm saying? Spoke his mind. Stand back when he did, okay? But he was no trouble. I can't say nothing about him hurtin' nobody."

"The other neighbors. Any tension?"

Nearby, one guy with a dog craned to listen in. Hennessey edged over, herded him and his animal back.

"Not with me. Not with folks I know." Her eyes skittered around. Her voice quavered. "Have to ask them, I suppose."

Murchison nodded, glanced around at the nearest faces. Eyes fled his gaze. "Okay, Marcellyne. Great. Thank you. I'll get back in touch if I think we need some follow-up, okay?"

He didn't wait for her reply, but drew away, at the same time pulling Hennessey with him, turning him so their backs faced the crowd.

"This is your usual area up here, am I right?"

Hennessey shrugged. The polyester shoulders of his uniform beaded with rain. "Normally, yeah. Sure. Trade off from time to time--Brickyards, Dumpers--but I know the lay of the land pretty good up here."

"Look around. See any strange faces?"

Hennessey didn't have to look. "Here and there. But you know how it is. You're not a fuckup or his family, I don't know you."

From far back in the crowd, a voice shouted, "Pig white po-po motherfuckers!"

Murchison didn't bother to look. "You've got your Polaroid in the trunk?"

"Checked it out beginning of shift," Hennessey said. "Sure."

Murchison made a pressing gesture with his finger, the shutter button. "Don't wait, okay?"
Murchison joined up with Stluka just beyond the yellow crime scene tape, strung in a semicircle to keep the crowd back. An ancient sycamore loomed over a tall fence of rain-streaked dogtooth redwood that rimmed the property. A second ribbon of tape festooned the fence like bunting. A uniformed officer named Truax manned the gate, clipboard in hand, keeping the entry/exit log.

Murchison took a moment to survey the neighborhood. St. Martin's Hill shared the same high bluff overlooking the river as Baymont, the two neighborhoods divided by a shabby panhandle known for trade. St. Martin's was generally considered the better locale, working-class and stable, but the spate of foreclosures since the shipyard's closing had changed that.

Quicksilver mines once threaded the hill, part of a rim of upcroppings known extravagantly as the Sierra de Napa according to some old survey maps. Below, the Napa River flowed out from the salt marshes into San Pablo Bay. Only the western slope of the hill had been developed; the backside gave way to a broad, weed-choked ravine, former site of several sleeper mines. The ground remained too toxic from mercury for home building.

From this side of the range, though, on a clear night, glancing south from the bluff headlands, you could see San Francisco glimmering in the distance, like a wicked dream. Northward, beyond the salt flats, lay vintner paradise, the Napa Valley, with its thousands of acres of fretwork vines and the hundreds of tons of silt load they sent downriver. You could hardly head a boat upstream anymore except at high tide. An ecological disaster, those vineyards, but the yuppie-come-latelies couldn't love them enough.

In daylight, you looked west across the river to the Mayacamas Mountains, the interim distance greened with tidal wetlands riven by waterways--China Slough, Devil's Creek, Dutchman Slough. As a boy, Murchison had water-skied those sloughs with his older brother, Willy, breaking an arm once, his brother losing teeth, prelegal teens anesthetized with beer. Once, they'd traded chugs from a fifth of Four Roses bourbon--paint thinner with food coloring, basically--filched from a passed-out fisherman snoring in his boat.

The brothers had hunted together, too, looking for ruddies and stiff tails flying in to feed in the tidal pools, jackrabbits darting in and out of the fennel and coyote bush on the salt marsh levees, pheasant flushed out of the artichoke thistle around Five Brooks. Up near Dutton's Landing they'd helped buck oat hay for pocket money. After dusk they snuck into The Dream Bowl storeroom and helped themselves to a beer or two, then traded belches while the spinning tower light at the Napa Airport mesmerized them and they talked about girls they knew.

A lifetime ago, all that. As of 1972, Willy survived only in memory; you'd find his name etched in black granite among fifty-eight thousand others on the Mall in D.C. What hunting Murchison got to now concerned men. From time to time, he still felt the need for anesthesia.

He turned his eyes back to the immediate surroundings.

St. Martin's laid claim to being one of the few genuinely integrated neighborhoods in town, though halfheartedness more than high-mindedness deserved the credit for that. Haywire zoning had let in the low-rent apartments, and they were nests of trouble. Absentee rentals were a blight. This had driven out a lot of the whites, and almost all the ones left behind worked in the building trades, cast adrift by the shipyard closing, traveling hours up and down the valley now for any work they could find.

In truth, the racial tensions in town were a good deal less edgy than you'd find in dozens of other places, th...