Free Flinch Factor, The by Michael Kahn Page B

grandchildren, she had ten different colleges and universities represented by her outfits, each of which she wore proudly. Tonight’s sweats were from Colby College, which, as she explained to me when I arrived, was where her “marvelous Joshua was a junior majoring in philosophy—such a smart boy—a regular Maimonides.”
    From what I’d observed the few times I’d come to see Muriel on weekends, she was the honorary grandmother for most of the kids in the neighborhood, all of whom seemed to stop by for Toll House cookies, a glass of milk, and a chance to tell Miss Muriel their latest adventures. Her refrigerator front and the bulletin board in her dining room displayed an ever-changing collection of paintings and drawings given to her by the neighborhood kids.
    Muriel set the platter of cookies on the sideboard.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she said, turning toward us. “Seven council members. They needed four votes to get this TIF thing approved. Furman, Reynolds—okay, they were goners from the start. You can count on them to say yes to whatever increases tax revenues. But the other five—I thought no way would any of them go for that TIF. Especially Mary O’Conner and Milt Bornstein. Milt grew up right here in Brittany Woods. Two blocks over. I knew his parents, I knew his whole family. Always voted Democrat. Milt even worked for McCarthy in New Hampshire back in ‘Sixty-eight. How did those Ruby Production goniffs ever convince Milt to go against his old neighbors? It’s a shanda , I tell you. Same with Mary. She didn’t grow up here, but she’s a good liberal. I marched with her in Washington at that Moratorium in 1969. We rode up there together on the bus from St. Louis. She thinks Al Gore walks on water. How can you march on Washington and love Al Gore and vote for this TIF?”
    She shook her head in angry frustration. “There has to be a way to stop this. What else can we do, Rachel?”
    â€œOur options are limited,” I said. “I’m taking Ken Rubenstein’s deposition this Friday. The courts don’t give us much leeway in those depositions, but I’m hoping to get something out of him. I’ve also filed a Sunshine request with the City of Cloverdale.”
    â€œWhat’s a Sunshine request?” Cletus Johnson asked.
    â€œIt’s a state law that requires government bodies to turn over copies of all their files on a subject. I served the request on the city clerk last Friday. That means they have to turn over their files tomorrow.”
    â€œNu?” said Jerry Weiner.
    Jerry was in his seventies. He was skinny and completely bald with enormous protruding ears. He sat with his cane upright on the floor between his knees, his hands crossed over the top of the curved cane handle, his chin resting on his hands.
    â€œJerry?” I said.
    â€œWhat kind of files are we talking about?”
    I shrugged. “Hard to say. The city clerk gathers up all the council members’ documents after each meeting. You have all the usual stuff—agenda, bulletins, you name it. Sometimes the only other stuff in there are doodles. But occasionally something worthwhile ends up in that pile.”
    I smiled.“So keep your fingers crossed.”
    He held up his hand, fingers crossed. “Aye, aye, Counselor.”
    Jerry Weiner was one of my favorites. Although he was frail and hunched over, he was a Brittany Woods legend for his homegrown tomatoes, which he grew in a fenced-in area that took up almost his entire backyard. During the harvest season he kept two wooden bushel baskets on his front porch, which he replenished with fresh-picked tomatoes each day for anyone in the neighborhood to take. I’d had a few, and they were delicious.
    â€œRachela,” Jerry said with a smile. “I think this is a first.”
    â€œA first what?”
    He gave me a wink. “When I was in business, Rachela, I