"That building is dangerous, son. You know it and I know it. Lonnie Ebert knows it. There's water in the ceiling over that balcony, and one of these nights a slab of plaster the size of a car door is going to come down on some family from Hutchinson, and then everybody's going to ask why nobody did anything. Well. I'm trying to do something." He opened the envelope and took out a single typed page. "This is a statement. It just says what you've seen. The buckets. The water. That the balcony ceiling's been coming down in pieces and the management's known about it since last fall and kept the downstairs open anyway. It's all true. You've seen it."
Danny had seen it. A piece of plaster the size of a dinner plate had fallen into row F of the balcony in March, onto an empty seat, after a thunderstorm. Ansel had swept it up and roped off the balcony the next morning.
"You'd be doing a public service," Royce said. "And I'll tell you what. I've got a man, Bill Tolliver, handles my rental properties. He's a little aggressive on the rents sometimes. I've seen that letter he sent you folks. I think that was a mistake on his part. I think if you and I could come to an understanding, I could get Bill to see that it was a mistake."
The screen door opened. Linda Kowal came out onto the porch in her robe and her towel and her bare feet, and she walked to the top of the steps and stood there, looking down at Royce Hadley, who was a foot taller than her standing on the ground.
"Mr. Hadley," she said. "Is that envelope a bribe?"
"Ma'am, it's a business—"
"Because if it is, I want to be very clear with you that my son is sixteen years old, and you have put your hands on him once already, and you have just stood on my sidewalk and offered to lower my rent if he signs a paper you wrote. And there are"—she looked up and down the street, where the curtains had stopped pretending—"there are about eleven people watching you do it."
Royce smiled. It was a small smile this time, almost rueful. He set the pie box on the bottom step. He set the envelope on top of it.
"I'm going to leave these," he said. "Pie's yours either way. Paper's his decision, not mine and not yours. You think it over, Danny. You're a smart kid. You know that building's not going to make it. Only question is whether you go down with it." He put his cap back on. "Ma'am."
He drove away. Ninth Street watched him go.
Linda Kowal stood on the top step until the Lincoln turned the corner. Then she sat down, suddenly, as if her knees had decided for her, and put her face in her hands.