“...Wow.”
“It’s like slime.”
“I can see that.”
Myles brought up the rear. He had apricot in his hair.
“Time to go,” Amy said.
“But I’m not done,” Charlotte said.
“I think I saw lemonade for sale.”
Charlotte pointed to a red speck at the end of the row. “But my bucket.”
I said, “I’ll grab it and pay.”
We drove home with eighty-six dollars of inedible fruit.
Monday morning, I got an email from Jake Brenner.
Here is the information you requested. The calculation took seventeen hours and twenty-two minutes. With parameters this broad the results are to be regarded as tentative at best.
The new map eliminated hot spots along the northern and western shores of San Pablo Bay. I wanted to call it progress. Brenner would surely disagree.
For the next several hours I went back to internet dating. Still no Adam. I did scare up a few more profiles for Denny, bringing the total to thirty-one. The guy was relentless.
A text came in. Unfamiliar number, 650 area code.
U looking 4 me
Taking it for spam, I moved to delete it.
Thought again.
Who is this I wrote.
U a cop
Trevor? Is that you?
No answer. I called the number. This person had not set up a voicemail box.
I used to be a cop I wrote. I’m not anymore
Lmao ok
Google me
A few minutes went by.
U a cop he wrote.
Call me please
Y
Talk to you about Adam
No answer.
I wrote I know you didn’t hurt him
No answer.
Where are you? I wrote.
Nothing. I sent him a location pin anyway. Adding: I’ll be here at 1 p.m. today.
Chapter 15
At the appointed hour I sat on a Lake Merritt park bench, watching the traffic and listening to the geese.
I’d chosen the spot because it was public, with good sightlines, far from play areas or picnic tables. I knew the neighborhood well, having lived there as a bachelor.
A bus eastbound on Grand Avenue stopped to collect a passenger.
One bench over, the human lump mummified in newspaper cried out in his sleep, prompting a chorus of strident honks.
Like many Oaklanders, the geese weren’t native. For years they used the lake as a way station on their annual migration. In the 1980s they changed their minds and set up a permanent camp. Maybe, like many Oaklanders, they could smell gentrification and wanted to get in early. Maybe the decision had come down from Head Goose in Charge, following the recommendation of a goose committee, working in conjunction with a goose consulting firm.
Analysis suggests this location offers the ideal balance of stale bread and opportunities to shit on the ground.
Another bus lumbered by. It was 88 degrees out and I had on too many layers — ballistic vest, holster, long-sleeved shirt. My SIG Sauer P365 lay heavy against my rib cage. The shirt placket was magnetic, with false buttons, for quick access. I could draw in about a second and a half. I’d practiced.
Thirty minutes past the appointed hour, I wrote Trevor Vogel a text.
I’ll wait five more minutes
I tapped Send. One bench over, a chime sounded and the mummy stirred, shedding papers, rooting in his pockets for a flip phone.
I cupped my mouth. “Trevor.”
He sat up suddenly, arms swinging, head swinging.
I approached, pausing when I started to smell him. While he was recognizably the same person as in the mugshot, the last year had exacted a steep price. His clothes were filthy where they weren’t torn to rags. Scabs flecked grimy, sunken cheeks. Saddest were his sneakers: They didn’t match.
He fixed me with a slack-jawed stare. I recognized that aura: a combustible mix of paranoia and vacancy that could turn violent at a moment’s notice.
“Thanks for coming,” I said. “Can I sit?”
He hawked, spat, made room for me on the bench.
“I already told them cops,” he said. “I don’t know shit. I wasn’t there.”
“I know.”
“Then what the fuck you want from me?”
“Adam used to drive up to Oakland to see you.”
“Yeah, so.”
“What did you guys do?”
“Chill.”
“I have no interest in narcing you. But I need to know if you sold him dope.”
The question appeared to relax him. That’s the big deal? “Sometimes.”
“How often?”
“I wasn’t keeping count, yo.”
“What kind?”
“Just weed.” Off my look: “I swear to God. I didn’t let him have anything else.”
I said, “Adam had ketamine in his system. Where’d he get it?”
“Not from me. I don’t touch that club kid shit. It’s boring. You just sit there and watch the fuckin wall. I don’t even know anyone who sells it.”
“Who else did you introduce Adam to?”
“Nobody.”
“You two’ve been friends how long?”
A slimy tongue darted over parched lips. “Kindergarten.”
“All that time, you never said, Hey, Adam, meet my pal.”
“That ain’t how it was.”
“How was it?”
“Me,” he said, “and him.”
“Did Adam sell for you?”
“No.”
“Carry? Move money?”
“No, man.”
“Why was he giving you cash?”
“I needed it.”
“Good friend,” I said. “I wish I had a friend like that.”
Jaw jutting, eyes slitted.
I readied for a swing.
He burrowed into his arms, began rocking back and forth.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
He pounded himself on the crown of his head. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
When he showed his face, his cheeks were wet. He swallowed down saliva and snot.
I offered the tissue pack. He grabbed one, smeared dirt across his skin, blew his nose, chucked the remains into the gutter.
A bus rolled by.
I said, “When was the last time you ate?”
The hostess at Songpa House Korean BBQ reacted with alarm to Trevor’s appearance, starting to point to a wall sign that declared Restrooms Are for Paying Customers Only.
I said, “Two, please.”
She put on a brave face and led us to a rear booth. “Enjoy.”
“Bitch,” Trevor muttered as she walked away.
He snatched up the menu. “What’s good?”
“I like the pork belly. But you can’t go wrong.”
“You eat here a lot.”
“I used to.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“I moved.”
“Where you live now?”
“You first,” I said.
He laughed despite himself.
The server brought water.
Trevor threw down the menu. “Gimme the all-you-can-eat.”
“Only for the whole table,” the server said.
“That’s bullshit, yo.”
“Two all-you-can-eat, please,” I said. “Thanks.”
The server took the menus and left.
“I hate shit like that,” Trevor said.
“Rules?”
“For real, what difference does it make?”
“It’s their business. They get to decide how to run it.”