Blake Pitch's Arc

Chapter 5 of 8

Tuesday was five days away. Blake had a partner and twelve names. He did not have a builder. Every contractor on the city's approved list had donated to someone, owed someone, or worked a job that later got flagged. If he picked one of them, the East Side block would look like another handshake deal. The families would nod and wait for the lie. Lovelie set coffee in front of him at the kitchen table. She read the list over his shoulder and put a line through four names without asking. "Where do people go when they don't trust City Hall?" she said. "Church." "Then go to church." He went Sunday morning. The stone church sat quiet under a gray sky, the steeple wet from rain. Blake stood in the back through the service and watched who spoke to whom on the way out. A priest he'd met once at a funeral pointed him toward a man in a canvas jacket collecting hymnals. "He built the parish hall for materials cost," the priest said. "He won't take your call at the office. Try him here." Blake waited until the pews emptied. Before he could cross the aisle, a familiar voice stopped him. "You're at the wrong end of the room." Jordin Yu stood by the side door in a hoodie, hands in his pockets. Blake's surrogate son. Nineteen, and lately thinner than Blake liked. Jordin had been showing up in places Blake didn't tell him about. "You following me?" "I was already here." Jordin looked at the man with the hymnals. "He's the one. I checked his last three jobs this week. No liens. No cut corners. He fires his own crew if they skim." "Why were you checking?" "Because you were going to need him." Jordin's voice dropped. "I haven't been sleeping. I've been walking the block at night. It's not holding, Blake. Whoever you pick has to be clean or the whole thing comes apart." Blake looked at him a long moment. He did not ask what Jordin meant by not holding. He had heard it before and did not want it now. "Come with me," Blake said. They crossed the aisle together. Blake introduced himself. He did not offer a card. He offered a photograph of Keith's mural and a small wooden model he'd carried in under his coat — three little houses with painted shutters and porches the size of his thumb. He set it on the pew. "Twelve of these," Blake said. "On the block I broke. Keith Andrews is standing with me Tuesday. I need a builder who won't need managing." The man in the canvas jacket picked up the model and turned it in his hands. He looked at the porches. He looked at Jordin, who nodded once. "I'll be there Tuesday," the man said. "Bring the families. I want to hear them say what they want before I draw a line." Blake had his builder. Now he had to face the twelve.