Monkey Wrench Read online

  _____

  The store was empty. Ursula was thumbing through a magazine. It was the latest edition of the Ten Best Quilt Shops. Every owner wanted their place featured in the magazine’s biannual issue. I was no different. I let myself imagine QP on the cover. Some people wanted to be on the cover of the Rolling Stone, I’d rather be on this one.

  “Hey, boss,” she said. “Been kind of quiet around here.”

  “No worries. Any display ideas we can steal?”

  Ursula shook her head. “Not unless you want to feature deer antlers?” She held up the page for me to see. A shop in Montana seemed to be using Bambi as design inspiration.

  “Whatever works. Of course, our idea of a wild animal around here is a geek separated from his iPhone.”

  Ursula laughed. “Horrors. I hear they can get might testy.”

  Ursula had a great booming laugh. I hadn’t heard it until she’d been working for QP for about four months, but now she let loose all the time. Each guffaw reminded me how lucky we’d been to find each other.

  Ursula looked prettier than she had a year ago. The death of her abusive husband had released her and freedom was better than a hundred Botox treatments. Her forehead was unlined now and her eyes were clear and bright. Watching her blossom had been like watching someone get off drugs. She’d had to detox from the stress of her old life, but once she did, she radiated good health, except for some lingering injuries courtesy of her ex-husband.

  “How’s your shoulder today?” I asked.

  Ursula had been absent-mindedly rubbing her upper arm. Legacy of having her shoulder disconnected too many times.

  With her working at QP, my business had grown. She was great with customers, a natural salesperson who could suggest tools and extra rotary blades without being pushy. She always remembered to ask the customer if she needed thread before completing the sale. And my customers left feeling happy, secure that they had everything they needed to make their new project.

  Sales were up twenty percent in the year she’d been here.

  “Any sign of Vangie?” I asked.

  Ursula shook her head.

  “I guess I had my days mixed up. I thought she was coming to the Quilters Crawl meeting.”

  “How’d that go? By the way, someone else came in asking for the map.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Thanks for the reminder. I’m going to call right now and get us some more.”

  I turned back to Ursula. “Let’s get out of here right at five. You can close out the drawer a little early if we don’t get any more customers.”

  “Date night?” Ursula asked, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Buster promises to be home for dinner,” I said. “I plan to make the most of it.”

  My step lightened as I walked away. The idea of spending even just a couple of hours with Buster made me happy. Most of the time, he came in well after midnight and crashed. Sometimes he went to his own place and skipped my house all together. I hated those days.

  Why did it seem like I couldn’t have everything I wanted? Successful quilt shop, loving boyfriend, good gal pals. QP was booming but both my best friend and my best guy were missing in action.

  At 4:45, Ursula stuck her head in my door. “Pearl’s in the classroom.”

  My heart thunked. I hadn’t seen Pearl since she’d slammed her door in my face.

  “Is she okay?”

  Ursula’s lips thinned and she looked over her shoulder at the open door to the classroom. “She’s pretty testy. She said she wanted to work on her quilt. I told her we’d only be open for another few minutes and she told me to get lost.”

  Testy. Not what I wanted to hear. “Thanks, I’ll deal with her.”

  I took a deep breath and braced myself for what I’d find. She hadn’t been in the store for several months. Would her hair be combed? Would she be wearing a plaids and stripes combo again?

  I thought about calling Vangie, but decided I could handle this. All I had to do was move Pearl on her way home so I could go cook dinner. I pushed open the door to the classroom. The curtains on the window wall were closed up and the room was dark.

  I flipped on two sets of fluorescent lights.

  Pearl was seated at a table, her back to me. She put a hand over her eyes and turned to me.

  “You trying to blind me?” she said.

  Testy, just like Ursula said. Or maybe a return to feisty.

  She looked pretty good. She was neatly dressed in a white T-shirt and black long shorts. Her feet were in sandals and her toenails were painted bright blue. The back of her hair was smooth. All good signs. Perhaps the doctor had give her some medication.

  “Whatcha up to, Pearl? I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Ursula said you were busy with the Quilters Crawl stuff,” she said, returning her attention to the task at hand. I walked over to see what she was doing.

  She was beading by the light of a small daylight lamp that was plugged into the strip on the table. Her feet dangled in the office chair. She opened a prescription bottle with her teeth and spilled out the needles inside. I used a similar container to store broken sharps or bent pins. The little bottles with the tight lids were just the right size to dispose of pointy objects.

  She sorted through the contents of a zipper bag. She grunted, not finding what she was looking for. Frustrated, she dumped the bag.

  Hundreds of seed beads bounced off the table and hit the floor. I gasped. She didn’t seem to notice, picking up the bead she wanted and poking at the needle with clear beading thread.

  I got down on my hands and knees and began picking up the tiny glass balls. I emptied the pile in my hand into her bag and went back on the floor. “Have you seen Vangie?” I asked.

  “She stayed with me last night,” Pearl said. “We watched movies all night. She knows how to get that ’flix thing going. We watched all of the Toy Story movies. I cried.”

  Vangie had told me about their Toy Story marathon. It had taken place over a week ago. Pearl was clearly confused about time.

  “I loved Toy Story 3,” I said. “Especially—” I stopped when I realized the losses in Toy Story might hit too close to home for Pearl, whose own loss was not fictional, nor did it involve inanimate objects.

  “Vangie been staying with you a lot?” I asked. Maybe I’d been looking for Vangie in all the wrong places.

  Pearl still hadn’t managed to thread the needle. I wanted to take it from her and do it but she would hate that.

  “We can’t sleep,” Pearl said. “She comes over when we’re both awake. Which is like every night.”

  I doubted Vangie was there nightly but she might be sleeping there once in awhile. Vangie had had to move back home in order to afford school, so maybe she was staying more often at Pearl’s. Her parents’ house was full of younger siblings and grandparents.

  Pearl pulled out a quilt. I glanced at the large clock. We had to be out of here in ten minutes.

  “Pearl, I’ve got to close up in a few minutes.”

  She held up the quilt. The design was pictures of her late husband that had been transferred to fabric. Pearl had colored four of them into an Andy Warhol-type arrangement. Hiro’s big smile and crinkly eyes were surprisingly lifelike.

  Pearl stroked the quilt. “Do you like it? I’m going to bead it. Diamonds in his dimples.”

  “Great, Pearl, it’s great.”

  She stood and stepped over me as I crawled under the table to get the last of the beads. “But first, I have to make sure these transfers are stuck really good. I hope you don’t mind me turning on your iron. I needed really high heat. You’ve got the best iron around.”

  “Really, we’ve got to get a move on.”

  “It won’t take long,” she said.

  I poured more beads back into her zipper bag. Giving in to Pearl was easier than arguing with her. I could only hurry her along. “Okay,” I said. “But I will turn it off in five minutes, so hurry.”

  She pounded the iron down
in emphasis. Her little triceps bulged from moving the heavy iron up and down. Her face was twisted in concentration.

  When she set the iron back down on the board, the soleplate facing me, I gasped. The iron was black.

  “Pearl, have you been using fusible web?” My throat was dry.

  She looked at me and back to her piece laying on the ironing board. She nodded.

  She’d been pressing on the wrong side of the fusing, transferring the sticky gluey stuff to the surface of the iron instead of her quilt.

  I grabbed her quilt. Just as I feared, she’d used the iron on the front of the piece. Two of Hiro’s faces were covered in the burnt glue.

  “Okay, Pearl, you’re done for today.”

  She looked at me blankly, all the early animation gone from her expression. Did she comprehend what had happened?

  The soleplate of my hundred-dollar iron was ruined, covered in burnt fusible web. I wasn’t sure there was enough elbow grease in the world that would get it looking like new again. Worse yet, there would be no way to salvage the top of her quilt. I couldn’t send it home with her.

  “Arrgh,” Pearl said. She had picked up a needle in one hand and was poking the thread in the direction of the hole without success.

  Ursula appeared in the doorway. She had her sweater on, her purse in hand. She was carrying her VTA pass, ready for the trip home.

  “Okay, Pearl, shop’s closed,” I used my chirpiest voice. I held the quilt behind my back, hoping out of sight meant out of mind. I tucked it onto one of the high shelves and put the iron on a lower one. “I’ve got to meet Buster. Want me to drop you off at home?”

  I gathered up her beads and needles.

  Pearl said. “I have my car.”

  I wasn’t sure she was okay to drive. I looked over to Ursula for her opinion.

  Ursula caught on quickly. “How about you give me a lift as far as your place, Pearl? I’ll catch the bus on Fourth Street.”

  “Sure, whatever,” Pearl said.

  I caught Ursula’s eye and smiled. Going to Pearl’s neighborhood first would be taking her in the opposite direction of her apartment in South San Jose, but that would ensure Pearl got home safe. That was a weight off me. I grabbed Ursula’s upper arm and mouthed “thank you.”

  Pearl and Ursula went out the back. I heard Pearl’s black and white Mini start up and saw it go past the window.

  _____

  I felt the emptiness the minute I unlocked my back door. No gurgling from the shower, no gentle snoring coming from the bedroom, no cup of tea poured for me. No Buster.

  The note was on the kitchen table. “Sorry, duty calls.”

  No details. I crumpled up the paper and tossed it toward the trash. I hated this job as much as Buster did. While a homicide meant late nights and intense days of non-stop investigations, they didn’t happen that often. Drugs were another story.

  The Task Force Buster was on was a joint federal and state and local force coming together to crack down on prescription drugs getting into downtown San Jose. Students at the college were selling their medications. Some got the pills legally from their doctors and sold them for a huge markup. Others visited pill mills—pain clinics—where unscrupulous doctors would give painkillers and stimulants to healthy kids.

  I checked my phone for messages. Nothing more from Buster, but Sonya Salazar, Barb V’s contact at State had called. Her message said she had more Quilters Crawl maps in her office at San Jose State and that she would be in before her evening class started at six.

  Vangie had sent a text saying she was in the library, studying.

  I saw a tweet from a Vietnamese food truck that I followed. The truck had no permanent home. Each week, they sent out tweets giving out their not-so-secret location for that night. According to this, PhoHo would be in front of the San Jose Museum of Quilts and Textiles tonight at six.

  I glanced at the date. Today was the first Friday in October. Perfect. First Fridays were a big deal at the museum and all around the arty SoFA district with exhibits in odd venues. The vibe was hip, and I’d find plenty to do.

  My spirits lifted. I could go downtown and be around people. I didn’t have to remain here in my empty house, wishing Buster was home.

  I started to ping Freddy to ask him to join me. I closed the screen before I entered his entire number. No point in feeding Buster’s ridiculous jealousy.

  Of course, it would serve him right … I quashed that thought.

  I changed quickly into my skinny jeans and a screen-printed tee. The night was warm enough that I wouldn’t need to carry a jacket. I stuffed some money and my bank card into a small purse and locked up.

  Balmy nights were rare in San Jose. Usually cold winds off the ocean kept us in sweaters after the sun went down. Tonight it felt like it was still seventy degrees out. I decided to walk. It was only a couple of miles and I could use the exercise.

  I’d pick up the maps at Sonya’s office, get a spring roll, check out the exhibits. Maybe I could get Vangie to join me for a little while. I texted her an invite.

  I walked fast, now that I had a purpose. My back was sore from sitting at my desk too long and my legs cried for a workout.

  Once I crossed under 87, the streets were much busier than I’d expected. People were out walking along San Carlos. I wasn’t the only one enjoying the lovely weather.

  Traffic was moving but I could hear car horns sounding not too far off. When I turned right onto Market Street, cars filled both lanes. Only those heading south were moving, although slowly.

  Ahead of me, a driver got out of his car. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Beats me,” he said, standing on his tiptoes. “I’ve been sitting here for five minutes, not moving.”

  I ducked closer to the office buildings as a Chevy Tahoe made a U-turn, practically jumping the sidewalk. I would find out faster on foot than he would. I kept going. First Friday had never been this popular. Had I walked into a parade? Was it Chinese New Year? Maybe there was some big convention going on.

  Irritation set my teeth on edge. All I wanted was an order of lemongrass chicken. My stomach growled in protest. A sound came from in front of me. I could feel it in my body, like the noise you hear outside the zoo. A muffled roar, the stamping of enormous feet.

  I threaded my way through the cars and finally saw the reason they weren’t moving.

  Plaza de Cesar Chavez was filled with people. The oval park was about three city blocks long and two wide. It was the site of Christmas in the Park and the Jazz Festival but I’d never seen it so full. There was no elbow room at all.

  Market Street split at the base of the park, with two lanes heading north and two south. No cars were getting through on either side.

  I looked for the reason. Did the police have it blocked off? I couldn’t see any signs of SJPD.

  Two beach balls flew up in the air, batted by six or seven people. They moaned when it fell to the ground. I fell in step with a young woman who was wearing a blue bandana around her neck.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  She smiled and shook her head. “Just going with the flow,” she said. “Came here with my band.”

  She pointed to a trio of longhaired guys. Two carried guitars, one had a block and a drumstick which he knocked together. The tallest sucked on a joint and passed it off to her.

  She offered me a toke. I declined. She raised her fist and hollered, “Peace now,” before disappearing.

  Maybe this was some kind of battle of the bands. In the summer, free concerts were held here. I hadn’t heard of anything scheduled for today.

  The whole atmosphere seemed kind of impromptu and unorganized.

  As I got closer to the fountain, I could see several naked kids jumping through the water. The fountain sent up jets of water at random intervals and the squeals made by those caught in the stream could have been made by the toddlers that I usually saw in there.

  Suddenly the water turned off and stayed off. The s
prinkler dancers let out an outraged cry but to no avail. The water had been shut off. They melted into the crowd, hopefully to where they’d dropped their shorts.

  I backtracked and climbed up the steps to the Art Museum for a better view. The entire area was covered with humanity, mostly young. Looked like college students. The crowd stretched from the Fairmont to the Tech Museum, from the base of Market to San Fernando, overflowing from the park onto the street and sidewalks. There had to be a thousand people milling about.

  I approached a guy in a SJSU fleece vest. His hairy arm was outstretched as he pointed his camera phone toward the mess.

  “What’s going on?” I asked. I had to shout to be heard.

  “We’re protesting.”

  “When did this start?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “About a half-hour ago, maybe.”

  “What are you protesting?”

  A girl standing next to him leaned over. “It’s a human rights violation. Everyone’s mad as hell.”

  I was confused. “What is?”

  The man stopped filming and looked at me like I was an idiot.

  “Cops, man. See how the cops turned off the fountain? The pigs think they can rule the world.”

  I must have looked confused because the woman next to him explained.

  “The police are all over campus. They’re busting everyone for drugs.”

  “We’re not going to take it.”

  Oh boy, no wonder Buster had to work tonight. Sounds like the Task Force had raided the campus.

  The college was only a few blocks from here.

  “Is there a plan?” I asked.

  “That’s not the way this works. We don’t need leaders. We want to be heard. And we will.” Ironically, he had to raise his voice to a yell by the end of his sentence because chanting broke out a few feet from us.

  “What do we want?” a boy in a maroon knit cap yelled.

  “Weed!” the crowd answered.

  “When do you want it?”

  “NOW!”

  “What?”

  “Weed, weed, weed.”

  Human rights? Or just the desire to get high? What was driving this crowd? It was quite possible that both items were on the agenda.

  The camera guy pointed to a spot in front of the fountain where a man stood on a bench. He was tall and wiry with what looked like curly blond hair. Dangling at his side was a bullhorn that was hooked up to a portable amp.