Oakland Hills fire look like a minor incident, San Francisco was my home and would be as long as I stayed above ground. My city, for better or for worse.
The Krocheks lived on Fox Canyon Circle, at the end of Fox Canyon Road-a rounded cul-de-sac like the bulb on top of a thermometer. It was backed up against one of the short, narrow canyons that threaded the area. Before the fire, these canyons had been clogged with oak, madrone, dry manzanita. Now, short grass and scrub grew down there and in places along the far bank you could see bare patches where the fire had burned and nothing had regrown.
Three large, Mediterranean-style homes, spaced widely apart, occupied the circle. The lower one on the north, away from the canyon, belonged to the Krocheks. The driveway was empty; Krochek hadn’t got there yet. I pulled up in front. The house was set behind a low, gated stucco wall fronted by yew and yucca trees: tile roof, arched windows with heavy wood balconies and ornamental wrought iron trim. The white stucco gave off thin daggerish glints of midday sunlight.
At the middle house next door, slightly higher up, a woman wearing shorts and a dark green sun hat was doing some work in her low-maintenance, cactus-dominated front garden. She stopped and stood staring over at us, shading her eyes with one hand, as Janice Krochek and I got out. As soon as she recognized her neighbor, she started our way.
Janice Krochek said, “Oh, shit, just what I need. Rebecca.”
I said, “Your husband should be here pretty soon.”
“Do I care? I’m not going to wait around.”
“How’ll you get inside?”
“Spare key on the patio.”
She started away, but she was still shaky on her pins. She faltered after a couple of steps, nearly fell. I went fast around the car and got hold of her arm. She said, “I’m all right,” but she didn’t try to pull away.
“Janice!”
The neighbor, Rebecca, came hurrying up. Mid-thirties, dark wavy hair under the sun hat, attractive in a long-faced, long-chinned way. It was windy and cool up here, not much of a November day for wearing shorts, but once I had a good look at her legs I knew she was the type who would wear them in the middle of a rainstorm. Long, tanned, beautifully shaped. Even a happily married old fart like me notices and appreciates fine craftsmanship.
Janice Krochek ignored her. Started forward again, dragging me with her. The neighbor changed direction so that she reached the drive just above us. “Janice, I thought you were gone for-” She broke off, her eyes going wide. “My God, your face… what happened to you?”
“Mind your own business, Rebecca.”
“Do you need any help?”
“No.”
“Mitch… does he know…?”
“For Christ’s sake, just leave me alone, will you?”
The dark-haired woman looked at me. I said, “We can manage, thanks,” and let Mrs. Krochek lead me over to the gate in the fence, through it, and across a short tiled patio to the front entrance.
The spare key was under one of several decorative urns lined up along the wall; she told me which one and I got it for her and opened the door. She said, “Put it back where you found it.” I said I would and while I was doing it, she disappeared inside-no thank you for my trouble, not another word.
I went back out through the gate. The neighbor was still standing in the driveway, waiting. She’d taken the sun hat off. She had a lot of hair piled up and pinned haphazardly, thick but very fine. Sunlight made the loose strands glisten like brown cornsilk.
I smiled and nodded and started around her, but she didn’t let me finish the detour. She came over and put out a hand, not quite touching me. “I’ve never seen you before,” she said. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” I lied.
“Of whose? Hers?”
“Both.”
“What happened to her?”
“An accident, she says. Fell down some stairs.”
“Oh, crap. Somebody beat her up. Anyone can see that.”
I didn’t say anything.
“Because of her gambling. Is that how you know her?”
I didn’t say anything.
“She’s a compulsive gambler. You know that, don’t you?”
I was moving again by then, completing the detour, but I didn’t get halfway to my car before sudden noise put an end to the quiet. Motor, exhaust, and gearbox noise. A low-slung sports job, black and silver, came barreling along Fox Canyon Road and into the circle. Tires screeched as the driver braked and slid sideways into the driveway, forcing the neighbor and me to veer to one side.
Mitchell Krochek hopped out. Dark blue sports jacket and slacks, no tie, and a harried expression. He looked at me, looked at Rebecca, looked at me again. “Where is she?”
“In the house.”
“All right?”
“Able to get around under her own power, but just barely. She ought to see a doctor.”
“She hates doctors.”
“See if you can get her to one anyway.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.” He looked at the neighbor again. “What’re you doing here, Becky?”
“I was working in the garden when this man brought her home.”
“Our neighbor, Rebecca Weaver,” Krochek said to me. Not as if he were introducing her, as if he were apologizing for her showing up at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“I’d like to know what’s going on,” she said.
“So would I. I don’t know.”
“She’s been beaten up, for God’s sake. One of those people she associates with. What if they show up here?”
“That won’t happen.”
“It could. I’m here alone day and night, Mitch, I don’t have to tell you that.”
“Jesus,” Krochek said. He looked and sounded half-angry, half-exasperated. “Nobody’s going to bother you or Janice. Just go home, okay? I’ll call you later if there’s anything you need to know.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, yes. Go on. Please.”
The woman jammed her sun hat back on and went, reluctantly, with another distrustful glance in my direction. When she was out of earshot, Krochek said, “Divorced six months, not used to living alone. She got the house and a half-million-dollar settlement. If Janice divorces me, they’ll be like two peas in fucking luxury pods and I’ll be living in some rented apartment.”
Nothing from me. I didn’t want to get into that with him again.
“What happened to her?” he asked. “She tell you?”
“Wouldn’t talk about it.”
“No question it was a beating, though?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. Judge for yourself when you see her.”
“You think it was that guy you told me about, the enforcer… what’s his name?”
“Lassiter. Could be.”
“Or else some lowlife fellow gambler she hooked up with.”
“Ask her. Maybe she’ll tell you.”
“Not if it’s about gambling debts, more of my money down the sewer. And what the hell else could it be?” He raked fingers over one cheek, hard, the nails leaving reddish tracks in the skin. “Suppose he does show up here, the guy who beat her up? What am I supposed to do, pay him off?”
“That’s up to you. If he trespasses, or makes overt threats in person or on the phone, call the police.”
