Emma maintained her cool, and I was proud of her. She didn’t even flinch when Chelsea put an arm around her shoulders and said, “I know how hard this must be. But we will make everything all better. You’ll see.”
I could tell why Chelsea was behind the camera rather than in front. She was a horrible actress, couldn’t even fake sincerity.
The packers, already sweating from having to wait outside, worked quickly, starting in the kitchen. They had the room finished in about fifteen minutes. I was bothered by the small amount of food I saw being packed up, felt guilty as I thought about my overflowing pantry and overloaded refrigerator. Yet this family had managed to thrive in a small dark house with tilted floors and a musty odor so strong it overpowered the plug-in air fresheners. A worker picked up a couple of throw rugs, took the mop and the vacuum from a hall closet and laid them alongside several boxes on a dolly. He wheeled his first load away under Emma’s watchful eye.
I followed her out of the kitchen, stumbling over the handle to the crawl space trapdoor that had been covered by the throw rug. Sometimes, I swear, I could fall
Emma had eyes only for the two other workers, who had taken away the kitchen table and chairs and were now busy in the living room. We both stood beside the way-too-happy Chelsea.
“These guys are the best,” she said.
“Where will Emma’s things be stored?” I asked.
“We’ve rented an air-conditioned storage unit not far from here.” She turned her beaming smile on Emma. “Emma, Luke and Shannon will be staying at one of the best hotels in the area. A suite, all the room service they want. We also have a little surprise about Scott’s living arrangements at college, but that’s the only hint I’m giving.”
But Emma didn’t appear to be listening. She was watching a worker carefully wrap framed family pictures. She walked over to him and said, “I need this one.” She took one picture.
The man shrugged and went on with his work.
Emma returned to my side and showed me the photograph. “This was my father.”
The picture was of a handsome Hispanic man in military dress uniform.
“Did you give that to our researcher?” Chelsea asked. “I don’t have a copy.”
“Too bad.” But then Emma remembered she was supposed to be reasonable. “Talk to your researcher, because she does have a copy.”
“If she lost it, we’ll need another. Like I have time for this,” Chelsea snapped. But she lost her snippy attitude almost at once. “We’re almost done here. It wasn’t so hard, was it, Emma?”
“No.” Emma glanced around her nearly empty house. “Not for you.”
Once the movers finished, we went back outside. I was relieved to be out of that house and breathing good old polluted Houston air rather than pure mildew. As the last piece of furniture, an old sofa bed, was loaded on the truck, a black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb behind the moving van.
Chelsea ran over to the Lincoln and opened the back passenger door.
Hmmm. Bet the king has arrived without my having to hunt him down.
“What the hell happened, Chelsea?” the man said as he emerged from the backseat. “Why didn’t I hear about this from you first?”
He was maybe five-foot-eight, completely bald and dressed in what looked like Ralph Lauren everything. And Houston now had a new pollutant-the cologne wafting my way on the late-morning breeze.
“Didn’t the city call you, Mr. Mayo? They said they would.” Chelsea tried for both a confused and contrite expression, but as I’d seen earlier, she was a terrible actress.
Erwin Mayo ignored her, turned his attention to Emma and smiled broadly. “Miss Lopez. What a pleasure to see you again. Lovely as ever, I see.”
I whispered, “Reasonable,” which had become our go-to word, and she responded by saying, “Hello, Mr. Mayo.” She almost sounded polite, but there was still an edge to her tone.
He widened his arms and walked closer to us. “I’m so glad to see you again. Are you excited?”
“Oh, happy as a lottery winner,” she answered.
No one could miss the sarcasm.
“Are you still upset about this baby secret of yours?” Mayo said.
Emma said nothing.
“You are upset,” Mayo went on. “I told you the mention of the baby during the episode will be brief, if it even survives the edits.” He gripped both her upper arms and stared into her eyes. “We’ll work our magic, and you’ll discover that what we’re doing for you is better than winning the lottery.” He looked at me. “And who is this? A friend?”
“Abby Rose,” I said. “Yellow Rose Investigations.”
“Really? Chelsea brought you on board, then. Good. You have a wonderful face for the camera, and maybe you’ll get some airtime. This is a big story, our two-hour sweeps special.”
Not even my pinkie toe’s on board your ship, I thought. Did anyone working on this project have an ounce of sincerity? You’d think Hollywood people would be better at pretending to care.
Mayo released Emma, and I could see the relief in her face, noticed how her shoulder muscles relaxed. I wouldn’t want his hands on me either.
“I’m told the demolition is set for one o’clock,” he said. “Why don’t we do an early lunch, ladies?” He turned to Chelsea. “While we’re gone, get the crew ready to roll by twelve thirty. The city has been jacking me around, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up early.”
Chelsea nodded, turned and trotted back to the trailer.
“You know a good place for lunch, Abby?” Mayo asked.
“Um… listen,” Emma said. “I don’t think-”
“I do know a place,” I said quickly. “Reasonably priced, too.” I placed a reassuring hand on Emma’s back.
But we didn’t even have time to climb into the Navigator. A City of Houston truck barreled around the corner and pulled into Emma’s narrow, cracked driveway, amber lights flashing. A public works pickup followed.
A thirty-something guy with a no-nonsense, beardstubbled face got out of the first truck, walkie-talkie held close to his mouth. He said, “Let me check out the house and get back to you before we shut off the utilities.”
The guy ignored Emma’s “What’s happening?” and started toward the house.
Mayo took off after him, calling, “Hold on. What do you think you’re doing?”
The man turned, looking perturbed. “City-ordered demolition. I don’t think your name’s Emma Lopez, so you aren’t the owner and it’s none of your business.”
Emma walked toward the men. “I’m Emma Lopez. I-I thought we had a few more hours.”
The man smiled at Emma. “We have to work with the utility people, organize the electrical, gas and water shutoffs. They could do it now before lunch, so we’re setting up.”
“Okay,” Emma said, a hitch in her voice. “Now or later. Doesn’t matter.”
Mayo bellied up to the city worker. “It matters to me. I had an agreement with the city to allow us to tape for my program. We’re not ready.”
The man said, “I heard something about your TV show. Didn’t realize it was this particular demolition. Sorry, but we go on our schedule, not yours.”
“Dammit.” Mayo flipped open his cell phone. He speed-dialed a number, identified himself and, after listening for a minute, he said, “I need the mayor now, not this afternoon.”
Meanwhile the city guy was walking down the drive to the house with Emma at his side.
Mayo flushed as he listened to more talking. Without saying another word, he closed the phone, reopened it and punched one number. “Chelsea, get everyone out here now. They’re ready to bulldoze.”
I don’t think he even waited for her reply, because he pocketed his phone, then squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and index finger. “Good thing I showed up. I had a feeling they’d do this. Territorial bunch, these city people.”
I decided to see how Emma was doing, but before I took two steps, she and the guy came out of the house and headed back toward me.
Mayo started for the Navigator. Where the heck was he going? Maybe he had a secure line to the White House in the trailer and planned to call in some favors to delay the demolition for an hour or two.
Emma and the worker, who, now that I checked him out, was pretty hot-tots of muscles, expressive eyes-had stopped and were deep in conversation maybe halfway down the driveway.
She smiled when I met up with them. “Andrew was explaining exactly what will happen. He said the whole process will take about an hour. You know, amazingly enough, this feels like a weight off my shoulders. The fight is over.”
Andrew spoke into the walkie-talkie. “Get the dozer down here. Utilities are set to go off in ten minutes.”
Meanwhile, the film crew had gotten their act together and were setting up in the street. Then Mayo’s Navigator came rolling back from the trailer, and he emerged wearing pressed jeans and a Reality Check T-shirt. Chelsea was with him, having changed into similar clothing. They were also wearing hard hats, and I wanted to laugh. This was all for the show. They weren’t getting anywhere near the house and didn’t need hard hats.
Emma and I stood about ten feet to the right of the TV crew until the bulldozer arrived. The dozer was soon followed by a dump truck and another piece of equipment that would scoop up the debris that had been Emma’s home. Several men-mostly Hispanics-climbed out of the truck with shovels, what looked like fence cutters, and other tools I’m sure they needed for tearing things apart. When the cleanup crew was in place, we moved closer to the curb to watch.
I held Emma’s sweaty hand when the bulldozer rumbled in. The temperature was rising, another warm afternoon before a promised cool front arrived, and everyone was sweating. It seemed so quiet, even the sound of heavy machinery was somehow lost in the humid air. Chelsea passed out cold bottled water to everyone, and I liked her for one brief second. Within minutes the small, already broken house toppled like stacked blocks.
The
The job of clearing the debris began and the crew was almost finished when their work came to an abrupt halt after a worker shouted,
