The Last Nightingale (23 page)

He shook his head, but gestured for her to wait. They passed four more bricks back down the line before he could respond. “They won’t,” he told her. “I know people here.” He smiled.

One of the cooks blew a big lunch whistle and all the workers dropped their tools. They had just enough restraint left to avoid stampeding the table, so Shane and Vignette made it there among the first arrivals. They were as hypnotized by the sight and smell of the meal as everyone else while they picked up empty tin dinner plates, bowls, and eating utensils, then began to move down the long table while the cooks doled out servings. The line compacted down into a tightening mass and they felt themselves pushed along by the gathering force of everyone’s hungry anticipation.

“Shane!” called out an adult male voice. “I’m proud of you for working today, but when will you sleep?”

Shane turned from the food table to see portly Father Juan Carlos standing behind him. Father Juan Carlos had the look of a man who wanted to cut in line and get his lunch with minimal delay.

“Oh! Fah-Fah-Fah-Father. Hi.” He made a gesture by holding his thumb and forefinger close together. “Juh-just a lit—just a little.”

“Ah!” Father Juan Carlos smiled, looking around, enjoying the
view from that part of the line. “And who is your friend?” he politely inquired.

“Vignette,” Shane stupidly began. Fortunately his stutter only let him blurt out, “Vin-Vin-”

“Vinny,” Vignette interrupted with a masculine scowl. “We’re brothers. Just found each other. After the quake and all. Everybody else bought the farm. All of them.”

“Ah!
Brothers!”
cried Father Juan Carlos as if a miracle had unfolded. He looked around with an expression that invited all to witness. “You were separated by the terrible earthquake, and you have discovered each other once again at the Mission Dolores!” He called out to everyone within earshot. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

Everyone within earshot agreed, with all the enthusiasm of hungry people impatient for a meal. More than one grumbled about there being a line.

“Two young
muchachos,”
Father Juan Carlos rhapsodized.
“Her-manos,
who both thought that they were alone in the world, but the Lord looked after them!” He was much too grateful for being in the company of this miraculous occurrence to worry about miniscule things like lines and places in them.

Vinny piped up in a boyish voice, loud enough to be heard by everyone in the area. “Thank you, Father. But since we saved your place in line for you, why don’t you get in here and grab a plate?”

“Oh!” replied the happy friar without missing a beat. “That’s right! I suppose I should. And thank you again,
chico.”

“It’s our pleasure, Father. We’ll be seeing you around, since we’re both living out in the shed and guarding the cemetery at night and all. Looters, you know. If we even see one, we’ll set off a ruckus they’ll hear for miles!”

Shane shot Vignette a panicked look, convinced she was about to say something that would draw the wrong attention to them. He was ready to move into the streets with her if he had to, but he hated the idea of letting that happen.

“Oh. Really?” Father Juan Carlos replied. “Both? Then you’ve
gotten permission—” He paused. “Yes. Well then. I’ll see you at mass, no?” He smiled and lost interest in them, loading up his bowl and plate.

“Yes, Father. Both of us. We do everything together.”
“Bueno,
then,” the hungry friar replied, eyeing his ample lunch. He smiled around at the nearby workers. “Thank you everyone. Blessings upon you.” He continued to smile while he walked off with his food.

Shane paid close attention to a number of the workers, who seemed to accept Shane and Vignette as just a couple of brothers who lived out in the cemetery, seemingly with permission. Something told him that as long as he and Vignette kept quiet and didn’t cause any trouble, rumor could serve them as well as fact.

T
HE
LATE
M
AY
MORNING AIR
was misty cold, ignoring summer. Tommie had eaten nothing at all for over two days to achieve maximum inner purity. At this point he was feeling lighter than air, filled by an unusual sort of electrical charge. He walked all the way to the City Hall Station from his place up on Russian Hill, just to burn off some energy. In contrast to the morning’s frosty temperatures, his body radiated heat like a powerful gaslight. He could feel himself glowing.

By the time he entered the station house and found his way to Lieutenant Gregory Moses, Tommie was prepared to overwhelm that shrinking lieutenant and quietly coerce him to tell everything he knew about the surviving boy Shane—and about his connection to Sergeant Randall Blackburn, one of the lieutenant’s own men.

Tommie knew for a fact that whatever scraps of willpower remained in the lieutenant’s semi-corpulent form would quickly dissolve in Tommie’s presence. Afterward, Lieutenant Moses would feel proud to have been of service to one of his betters.

Moses had to wonder just how much of a fool that they thought him to be, these faceless higher-ups in the Department brass, that they would send Tommie Kimbrough to test him yet again. Their
low opinion of his intelligence grieved him far more than whatever it was that they were doing to try to take away his position and give it to their nephew, or their bartender, or anybody they might owe a favor. He was astonished that anyone who knew him would judge him to be such a fool. Did they have no idea of the kind of mental skills necessary to run the Record Keeping Department?

And yet here it was. He was being presented with this little popinjay of a man and some mad plan to persuade Moses to give out information about Sergeant Blackburn and that Shane kid. The one from the newspaper. Moses threw a glance up at the only other occupant in his office: some attorney sniffing around for answers to a few questions. Moses left him to continue waiting while he dealt with Kimbrough.

“Oh, I’m afraid that Sergeant Blackburn is most likely home asleep at this hour, Mr. Kimbrough.” He smiled a smile of kindness. “He works a midnight shift, you see.”

“No, Lieutenant, as I just said, I don’t need to speak with him right now. But, well, you know how much I support the work of our police.”

“Oh yes.”

“And after reading the article, I just couldn’t stop wondering about how the sergeant met the boy. Or about whatever has happened to the boy since then.”

“It’s only been a few days.”

“A lot can happen in a few days, Lieutenant.”

Moses briefly noticed that Kimbrough seemed to be trying to glare at him with a strange intensity.

“I’m afraid that I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” Moses replied, modifying his smile to one of mere professional courtesy. “Not that I know anything to tell. If you want to come back at around eleven-thirty tonight, maybe you can catch him before he goes back on duty. See if he’s willing to talk to you.”

Moses watched Tommie’s face darken and fought the urge to taunt him.

“Lieutenant Moses,” Kimbrough began, “I’m only taking this personal and direct route because I know how busy our city leaders are with the reconstruction efforts, and I hate to bother them for favors just because they are willing to do them for me. It seems unfair to take advantage of my inheritance in that way.”

Moses could no longer keep his contempt bottled. “Oh, really? Your inheritance? Must be a real tribulation to have that much money.”

“It’s a civic obligation, the way I see it.”

“An obligation! Like the obligation to pay your bills.”

“Exactly.”

“Such as the mortgage bills on your house. That sort of thing, yes?”

Kimbrough’s face darkened again. This time he took a pause before he said anything. When he finally spoke, it was done softly and in measured tones. “I wonder if the lieutenant has reconsidered my offer to buy that foreclosure notice?”

“Absolutely unnecessary! Save your money, sir.” He leaned close to him and whispered, “Your secret is safe with me.”

Moses picked up the big Duty Roster and started going over names. A moment later he looked up again, as if he were surprised to see Tommie Kimbrough still in front of his desk. He gave him one more vague smile and then dropped his eyes and went back to work on the roster. By the time he looked up again a minute or two later, Kimbrough was gone.

Moses worked for another ten or fifteen minutes before Randall Blackburn came walking out of the rear office area.

“All right, Lieutenant. That’s it on all the paperwork for this latest one. Maybe now we can get some funding for extra detectives to track this maniac down.”

“No money for that now, Sergeant, we’ve been down that road. Meanwhile, this gentleman over here has been waiting for the last thirty minutes, just to see you.”

The attorney stood up and extended his hand. He was a tense-looking young man with a suit that was perhaps a size too small. “Gabriel Towels, Sergeant. Esquire.”

“Mr. Towels, I’m way overdue to go home and sleep.”

“Yes sir. I’ll just—” He looked around as if there must be spies. “Can we talk somewhere private?”

“Use the office,” Moses told them with a wave. “Time to make a few rounds.” He walked out and left the two men alone.

Blackburn sighed. “All right, Mr. Towels, if we could just—”

“The article about Shane Nightingale—”

“That again?”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. What about it?”

“Sergeant, I represent the Great Republic Insurance Company, and part of my duty is to locate benefactors of our policies in the wake of the earthquake and resulting fires.”

“Good. And you have a check for me?”

Towels ignored that. “Until the article, we had no idea that anyone in the Nightingale family survived. Nobody filed any claims, even though Mr. Nightingale owned three apartment buildings. Though his business was not covered, they had to have fire insurance under the law, and therefore were insured.

“We are not one of those companies who are trying to avoid their obligations to clients, Sergeant. We owe the Nightingale family twenty-seven thousand, five hundred, seventy dollars, and forty-two cents.”

“Forty-two cents.”

“We’re very thorough.”

“You’re looking for Shane Nightingale so you can give him money?”

“Yes. And he does not need to be a named heir to claim the money, as long as nobody else in the family survives to step ahead of him.”

“Shane’s rich, then? That money is his?”

“Well, not rich. Perhaps someday, if he invests well. But the point is, we can have a check in his hands within a few days, as soon as he signs the papers.”

Blackburn felt an idiot grin spread from ear to ear. He was about to watch Shane Nightingale’s life turn around on a dime and speed off in a whole new direction. For once, he was going to see a deserving kid get an honest break, and maybe change his whole life for the better.

He clapped Attorney Towels on the shoulders, accepted his business card and promised to bring Shane in to see him right away. Then he was out the door and on his way to the Mission Dolores, full of glee at the chance to be the bearer of this news.

While he hurried along, he once again failed to notice that he was being followed. And since the chaotic atmosphere of reconstruction was everywhere, offering a thousand points of distraction to disguise another’s presence, Tommie Kimbrough discreetly tagged along.

Blackburn and his secret tail reached the old Mission in less than fifteen minutes. He went in and excitedly checked around for Shane, who was nowhere to be found. But when he peeked into the rear toolshed, he saw that Shane’s meager belongings were still in there. So it seemed that Shane was missing out on his daytime sleep, too.

Oh, well,
he told himself.
The money will still be there tomorrow.

He decided to stop by again after his shift, early the next morning. Then he headed home to catch a few hours of sleep.

This time there was nobody waiting to follow him. Tommie was already on his way back to Russian Hill, now that he knew exactly where to find the person who had spoiled his perfect crime.

Shane worked to keep up with Vignette while they jostled and pressed their way through the crowded outdoor marketplace. Even though she was two years younger, she seemed to have some
sort of motor inside. Her legs kept pumping away while his grew heavy.

Vignette also seemed to make it a point to keep him laughing just hard enough that he could rarely get in a full breath. She threw him questions that only required short answers, then gave him a second or two to respond. After that, if he still wasn’t ready to answer, she began chanting random letters and numbers while he fought to keep up his concentration.

Every time she managed to make him stumble, they both laughed together. The thing that kept them on the same wave was that they both sensed how quickly Shane’s ability was growing because of this little game. It tickled because it worked. Shane felt himself flooded with emotions of gratitude that he had not felt since the day of his adoption.

Finally, she whipped into an alleyway and grabbed his sleeve when he passed. A second later she had pulled him into the shadows underneath a stairway.

“Look!” she beamed. She opened up her baggy shirt to pull out a loaf of bread and a large cooked turkey leg. Shane’s jaw dropped.

“Where did you geh-geh-geh-”

“You were right behind me!” she interrupted. “Where do you think I got it?” She put her face right up in front of his and bugged her eyes out at him.

Shane broke out laughing. The combination of her lively innocence, her street smarts, and her warmth was completely overwhelming. And now, to see her casually demonstrate her mastery of petty theft, the whole picture of her that resulted twisted his funny bone until he had to let go and laugh.

“You’re feeling guilty, right?” She prodded him and giggled. “You think we should give it back, don’t you?” She tore the loaf in half, then pulled a chunk of turkey off of the leg and handed it to him, along with his half of the bread.