Free Karma by Susan Dunlap

sunlight on the Bay; if I’d been in San Francisco, I could have seen the sun set over the Pacific. That thought always made me smile. When Nat and I had first come to Berkeley, he wanted to take me across the Bay of the Cliff House to see the sun set. Blasé, I’d asked why we should make a special effort when he had grown up on the East Coast and could have watched the sun set over the Atlantic anytime. Nat had been appalled when he’d realized I believed the sun set in the east.
    But now, as dusk neared, my thoughts were on Comfort Realty. I hoped the offending realtor was an eager beaver and didn’t close shop at five. Another missing witness I didn’t need.
    But Comfort Realty was an establishment even Lt. Davis would have approved of. Though the stores around were closing, it was brightly lit and, through the picture window, I could see the paunchy, balding realtor of Chupa-da’s description.
    The man’s movements as he hurried to unlock the door belied his comfortable appearance. They were the nervous gestures of a nail biter. “Can I help you? Residential property?” He stared. “Oh, a policewoman. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
    I followed him inside. The room was warm and the air stale. “I’m Officer Smith. I’m investigating the death of Padmasvana, the guru over by Telegraph.”
    “That son of a bitch.” The realtor sunk into his chair and, grabbing a pen, began flicking the ballpoint in and out.
    “Do you mean Padmasvana or Rexford Braga?”
    “The whole lot of them. Pack of frauds, trapping kids with their mumbo jumbo.”
    “I understand you were kept off the premises.”
    “Yeah, can you believe it? That Braga thinks he’s big stuff, but he’s got no head for business.”
    I waited.
    “Well, lady, I’ll tell you what went down. See, that’s a good parcel of land there. There ain’t but one or two unimproved lots in all Berkeley. I could knock down that temple and the house in a couple of days. Cheap.”
    “And build.”
    A smile flickered briefly on the realtor’s face and departed as if unsure of its welcome. He riffled through a drawer and smacked a paper on the desk in front of me. On it was an artist’s conception of a ten-story apartment house with picture windows and wrought-iron railings, but essentially the shape of a refrigerator box. The sketch was complete, to the suggestion of plants in the upper units and lettering on the windows of the first floor.
    One of Berkeley’s great charms was its old houses: Victorians; brown-shingles tucked under live oak trees. Even less-antique frame cottages, painted salmon and rust or brown and violet, had their appeal. I shuddered as I imagined this monstrosity in place of the ashram. It could wreck the entire neighborhood.
    “See,” the realtor said, “we could all make a killing. Now look, lady, I’ve pulled no punches with these people. I told that fool Braga I’d pay him the market value for that lot. A hundred and twenty thousand is nothing to sneeze at. The guy’s a fool.”
    “Did you talk to Padmasvana?”
    “Nah. Wasn’t for lack of trying. Believe me. I tried to get those red-robed page boys to let me in to see him. Once, I buttonholed the other monk. But everybody kept the big boy covered.”
    The phone rang. Nodding abruptly at me, he picked it up. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I’m still interested. I haven’t been calling to talk weather. So what’s what? No, I got to have more. Ninety or nothing. Look, if I could swing an eighty-percent loan, you think I’d be dealing with you? You’re not as reliable as Bank of America, you know!” He listened a minute, sweat beading his brow. He glared at the tightly closed transom as if it were the person on the phone. “So check, already. You can tell them Vern Felcher told you to ask.” He slammed down the phone.
    “Vern Felcher!”
    “Yeah, lady, Vernon P. Felcher. Who’d you think you were talking to?”
    Was I losing my touch? What else had I neglected to ask?