Free Snitch Factory: A Novel by Peter Plate

Hassler…Hassler…line two…Mrs. Dominguez is on hold.”
    Eldon took that as his cue to keep moving, and he moseyed down the hall. I waded through the papers on the carpeting over to my desk and picked up the phone, flashing that if Hendrix was alive, he’d be doing the same thing in another office.
    “Hello? Frances? How are you today?”
    “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes to speak with you.”
    “Yeah, well, I was busy.”
    “What took you so long?”
    The petulant tone in her voice made me want to vent my spleen, but I counted to five and felt calmer.
    “Sorry, but we’ve had a difficult morning over here. We had some trouble.”
    “I’m sorry, but we’re having our problems here, too. The stamps haven’t come in the mail yet.”
    “Wasn’t I at your duplex yesterday, Frances?”
    “Yeah, so you were. But shouldn’t the stamps be here today?”
    “Wait a minute, will you?” I said.
    I picked up a pencil, jotted down a few notes on a pad and told her, “We have to solve this. The problem is how. What can I do about the mail?”
    “I need those benefits right now. Goddamn it, hija, can’t you get on the stick and make something happen for me, please? What are we paying you for? To sit on your nalgas ?”

    “What do you want me to do? Come over to your house? Is that it? Just get up, forget all the other people I have to deal with here, and make a special trip for you, because the mail is holding up your shit? Is that what you want me to do?”
    “Could you do that for a vieja ?”
    “Frances, c’mon, don’t manipulate me.”
    “Please.”
    “What do you need?”
    “When will you be over?”
    She wheedled and provoked, jerking on my chain. Frances Dominguez knew my weaknesses and had her finger on them. I don’t know how many times we’d been through this, me and her. Only a few, I guessed. Our relationship had prematurely aged, ripening like cheese, getting to where she knew me better than I did myself. I inspected my calendar and breathed into the greasy telephone receiver.
    “Give me two hours. Is that okay?”
    She didn’t even bother to say goodbye, just left me with the dial tone in my ear.
    In the waiting room, the children were singing:
    “Food stamps, food stamps, taste great! Gonna get mine, can’t wait!”
    A client was harassing Simmons in the adjacent office, castigating him for not providing her with temporary housing. It seems her house had gotten arsoned during a drug war in Hunter’s Point. The local Red Cross didn’t have any shelter for her, and he didn’t know what to do either. She was going on about her kids and what they were lacking. When Simmons started to defend himself in his trademark falsetto, I turned a deaf ear to the argument.

seventeen
    I n the cubicle across from mine, a radio was tuned to KSOL, an Oakland soul station. They were playing a Barry White song about being in the head-space for love. I swept up some food stamp coupons, a stick of chap-stick and the sunscreen from my desktop, let them fall into a leatherette purse that Frank had gotten for me on my last birthday, then vacated the office.
    The Pinkertons were massed in the corridor, arm in arm. They presented the look of a ragtag army, like they were extras in a Ronald Reagan western—one of the later ones during the twilight of his career when he was nothing less than a rouged and vituperative queen on horseback promoting Borax. You cannot imagine what it was to grow up in California on welfare, and to watch him on television.
    A candle was burning in a saucer plate next to the receptionist’s counter, surrounded by an assortment of pungent bouquets. The caseworkers in Harry’s unit had dug into their pockets and bought flowers to honor him. Most of the orchids, calla lilies and roses were wilting in the overheated air. A couple of the guys, Vukovich and Rubio, had gathered around the devotional candle, and
looked seriously wasted. Both of them were sporting bold bags of sleeplessness