The Devil's Interval (38 page)

“We don't think so,” said Moon. “I think that big gentleman, Mr. Reeves, Ivory's friend, got her out of the building.”

“I'm on my way,” I said.

“Wait, Maggie,” I heard him call. But I hung up the phone, and felt around for my slippers.

By now, Michael was awake and sitting up. He turned his light on.

“What's going on?”

I explained, while rummaging through the bureau, and throwing on underwear, jeans, and a sweater.

“Want me to come with you?” he asked.

I stopped, about to sling my bag over my shoulder.

“Anya's home?”

He looked exasperated. “No, she's out at some after-hours dive with Dr. Bollywood. Maggie, for Christ's sake, are you nuts? Would I even suggest going…”

I put my hand up. “Okay, I get it. I'm an idiot. I'm sorry. I'm not awake yet, and it's just so upsetting. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

Michael was up, doing the same rummage. “I've got to throw some water on my face. Why don't you make some coffee we can take with us and leave a note for Anya? I'll be down in five minutes.”

S
ome terrible “if it bleeds, it leads” journalistic instincts were eroding my sense of decency. Even in the rush to get out the door, take one last look at the kids, and the dread I felt for Ivory and the place she loved, I had enough presence of mind to call Calvin as we sped down the hill, onto the approach to the Bay Bridge.

“This better be good,” he answered the phone.

“Get over to The Devil's Interval,” I said. “It's on fire.”

“On my way.”

Michael glanced at me, as we both gulped coffee and tried to shake off the middle-of-the-night funk. “You're heartless, Maggie,” he said, as he listened to my side of the call to Calvin. “You just want some good shots for your story.”

I felt my face go hot. “Maybe I do,” I said. “But Calvin would have been furious if I hadn't called him. And I don't think it's irresponsible to think about our readers. This could be a whole other dimension to the story,” I concluded self-righteously. “Plus, I already know that Ivory's okay.”

Michael looked back at me, and a small grin started. “You are so full of crap,” he said. “You've turned into an ambulance chaser.”

I grinned back. I couldn't resist Michael's uncanny ability to see through whatever little self-deluding detour I was taking. Despite the awfulness of the circumstance, it was wonderful—and comforting—to be in the car with him. “Takes a fire,” I thought,
“to melt the ice.”

For a few minutes, on the way over, I felt one of those disorienting flashes of joy. Sitting in the car, Michael at the wheel, up and out of the house before anyone else, the freeways almost deserted—it reminded me of our predawn trip years ago to walk across the Golden Gate Bridge, when it was closed to all but pedestrians to celebrate the span's fiftieth anniversary. Then, with a crash back to earth, I remembered why we were on this predawn quest, and what terrible consequences it was going to have for Ivory—and Travis. We could smell the smoke a mile before we got to the club, and see it curling up against the night sky, the smoke fighting with the first pink of dawn to claim the morning. The smoke was winning.

When we were within a few blocks, the sky had turned as dark and threatening as an Oklahoma thunderstorm, but the lights and engines were filling the street with clamor and so much illumination, it looked like a movie set.

The street was crowded with fire vehicles, and big, bulky-jacketed firefighters were distributed up and down the street. Despite the bright lights, I couldn't even see the front of the club through the equipment, smoke, and people in front of the place.

Michael spotted John Moon across the street from the club, talking to a small knot of people and herding them farther away as they talked. A yellow-coated firefighter and cop shared the road, both armed with big flashlights, waving cars away from the intersection where Clement and 23rd came together, and The Devil's Interval had swung high and low just a few hours earlier. Michael turned the corner and parked in the first semilegal spot. I grabbed the thermos and a couple extra mugs to bring along for whoever we ran into. We didn't have to look hard for Ivory. When we came to the first ambulance parked on 24th, there she was, sitting on an overturned paint can, wrapped in a Raiders jacket. Gus was sitting on the ground, just to the side of the can, and holding her hand. His face was streaked with black, and the watch cap on his head looked damp with perspiration. Moon was next
to both of them, his hand on Ivory's shoulder and a cell phone tucked between ear and shoulder. Michael and I walked over to Ivory. I knelt in front of her and looked up into her face. It was frighteningly blank, wiped clean of any emotion. Gus was talking a slow, steady murmur. “It's all right,” he kept crooning. “We'll rebuild. You and me, babe. We'll start all over again. Just us. We can do this.”

“Gus,” I said gently. “I don't think she can hear you.”

I stood up and caught Moon's eye. “Okay, okay,” he said into the phone. “I'll wrap up here.”

He snapped the phone shut. His eyes were hard. He inclined his head toward the end of the street, and I followed him. From the tiny, shuttered dim sum place on the corner, we watched Michael pour coffee into a mug and put it in Ivory's hands. They'd never even been introduced, but he held his hands over hers and guided the mug to her mouth. She took a sip, choked a little, then took control of the mug and gulped at the coffee.

“This is just cruelty,” said Moon. “We will find the damn bastard who did this, and he will pay.” I was startled. I'd never heard a single profane word come out of Moon's mouth.

“You're sure somebody did this?” I asked. “It wasn't just an accident? The place was full of people, and there were candles burning on the tables.”

He shook his head. “The arson squad will do their real work tomorrow, but I'm willing to bet significant sums of money it was arson. There had to be some kind of accelerant for the place to burn like this.” He swore under his breath. “At least, it's under control now,” he said. “I was worried we were going to lose half the block.”

I watched Michael and Ivory. She was leaning back against him, and he was rubbing her shoulders. Gus had hauled himself to his feet, and was sipping coffee from the other mug I had brought from the car. He was dividing his attention between Ivory, still murmuring to her, almost continuously, and shooting occasional glances over to where Moon and I stood. He seemed torn, wanting
to stay with Ivory, yet curious about our conversation. Moon and I watched as the firefighters began advancing closer to the smoldering building, drenching the near-skeletal structure with powerful blasts from the hose.

“What happens now?” I asked. “I mean, if it's arson, isn't the fire department in charge?”

“They're in charge of figuring out what happened,” said Moon. “And with the information they provide us, we'll go after whoever did this.” He shot a glance at me. “I meant ‘we,' as in my police colleagues, Maggie. Not ‘we,' as in you and me.”

I shook my head. “I don't even know enough to try to meddle, John. Don't worry. I keep thinking about Ivory. Who decided to turn her into Job?”

Moon sighed. “This is not some random, divine action,” he said. “I'll tell you that. It's not God visiting plagues on Ivory's house. At least not this latest plague. It's someone very wicked and quite human.”

We walked back to Ivory, Michael, and Gus. Ivory had put her arms in the oversize jacket, and was standing. She held her right arm close to her, her left arm dangling at her side, and her fist in a near-clutch.

She handed me the coffee mug. “This is yours, I think,” said Ivory. “I'm done. Thanks for the coffee.” She straightened up, and subtly shook Gus's proprietary hand off her shoulder.

“I'm done here,” she said. “The fire guys and cops have this under control.” She turned to Michael. “I don't know your name,” she said, “but thank you for your kindness. Gus,” she turned to him, “Let's go…” She stopped.

He put his finger on her lips. “Home.” He sighed. “I know, babe. Don't worry, home is…” He hesitated, “wherever we'll be together. I put a call in to my buddy over at the St. Francis. We've got a room already. All clean and beautiful and comfortable. We'll go over there, get a good night's sleep, and figure this out tomorrow morning.” He looked at Ivory. “You'll like it there, doll. They've got bathrobes and fruit baskets and stuff.”

Ivory gave him an exhausted look and looped her arm through his. “That sounds just fine, Gus. Thank you.”

She turned to us. “Good night. Let me know what you find out,” she said flatly.

I looked at Gus. “The St. Francis?” I confirmed. “You'll be there 'til you figure out where to stay?”

He shrugged and gave me a sheepish grin. “And that's what
Jeopardy
money is for,” he said. “Give the traveler a place to lay his or her weary head.”

Michael gave him a quick look. “Be careful, Gus,” he said. “Look out for yourself and Ivory.”

Gus nodded. “Don't worry.” He patted the pocket of his jacket. “Didn't get much out. But got my Golf Uniform November.”

We watched Ivory and Gus head down the street. They stopped to talk with Lt. Moon. He kept patting Ivory's arm and shoulder, awkwardly but earnestly.

“Is that guy Gus nuts or what?” asked Michael. “Golf Uniform November?”

“Gun,” I said. “He said he's got a G-U-N in his pocket.”

Michael shook his head. “That doesn't put my mind at ease.”

I looked back up at the street. It seemed as if some of the urgency had gone out of the firefighters' work.

“Something isn't right here,” I said quietly.

Michael put his arm around me. “Oh,
cara
,” he said. “Nothing is right here. Absolutely nothing.”

T
he kids were up by the time we got home, eating cereal and playing video games, reveling in Saturday morning and a relaxation of the rules.

Josh couldn't be bothered to look up, but Zach threw himself at me in his usual still-in-love-with-Mommy greeting. I hugged him back and waved to Anya, who'd emerged from the kitchen as soon as she heard the front door. She looked puzzled and worried. I held onto Zach and watched Michael make a beeline for the kitchen. “Tell me there's more coffee, Anya,” he said. “Please tell me it's already made.”

“It's made,” she said. “In the thermos.”

Zach suddenly let go of me and pushed away. “Mommy, you smell funny.” I brought my arm up to my nose and sniffed my jacket sleeve.

“Yuck. You're right, sweet pea. I smell like smoke. Dad and I got too close to a fire.”

At that, Josh abandoned his game, and came to see what the excitement was all about. “Really? Anya said you guys went to a fire. I thought she meant a bonfire or something.”

“Coffee, Maggie,” Michael called. “It's poured.”

I herded everybody into the kitchen, gratefully accepted a mug from Michael, and we all took our usual spots around the table. Both the boys and Anya were peering at us as if we were visitors from another planet.

“So, here's what happened,” said Michael. “You know that story Mom's been working on? And how my students from Hastings were trying to help figure some things out about it?”

“Josh remembers Krissy,” volunteered Zach. “He thought she was pretty.”

Josh scowled at his brother. “Shut up, you dumbhead, you don't know what you're talking about.”

“Gee,” I said to no one in particular. “I must have misheard. I was sure there was a rule against saying ‘shut up' in our house.”

Josh muttered, “I thought she was smart, that's all.” He turned to Michael, anxious to get away from the language discussion and back to the topic at hand. “But Dad, what does that have to do with where you and Mom were all night?”

Michael took a sip. “So, Mom's become friends—well, acquainted with the mother of the guy who's in prison. The guy my students were trying to help. And his mom owns a jazz club in San Francisco. And last night, something pretty bad happened. It caught fire and burned down. And the police think someone might have set the fire.”

“Wow,” said Josh. “This is like a movie.”

“Not a movie with a very happy ending, sport,” said Michael. “This guy's mother has a whole lot of troubles. Her son's in prison, her home is gone, because she lived over the club, and the way she makes her living is gone, too.”

Zach looked stricken. “She can have my birthday money this year,” he said. “You know, when Nonna sends it to me.”

Michael shook his head. “That is really generous of you,” he said. “But Ivory has a friend who helps take care of her, I think. And I'm fairly sure she has insurance, so there will be money to help her rebuild the club.”