Blake Pitch's Arc

Chapter 7 of 8

The oldest woman waited. Blake set two things on the hay bale between them. First, a soft clip of magenta-pink fur. Second, a folder holding a signed contract on heavy paper. "That fur came off my dog," Blake said. "King IV. A man dyed him bright pink to force my hand on a deal I didn't want to sign. I signed anyway, because he had my dog. I keep this clip so I remember what it costs when I hand someone leverage over me." A man near the back snorted. "A dog story. We came for houses." "I'm getting there." Blake opened the folder. "This is a pact. My name is on it. So is the name of a young man I trust more than anyone in my office. It binds the twelve lots on your block to the twelve families in this room. Not to the city. Not to a bank. To you, and to whoever you leave them to. It can't be rezoned. It can't be sold out from under you. If a future mayor tries, this document goes public and he loses the seat." The oldest woman took the folder. She read slowly. She passed it to the man beside her. "Paper," the man said. "We've seen paper." Blake had expected that. He turned to the barn door. "I asked one more person to come. Somebody who owes me nothing." Maurice Greene stepped inside, still in his apron from the truck. Half the room straightened. The oldest woman's face softened at the sight of him. Maurice fed these people on Fridays. He knew which kids had allergies and which grandmothers had stopped coming to the window. "Maurice," Blake said. "I want you to read it. Tell them if it holds." Maurice took the folder. He read every page. The barn stayed quiet enough to hear the builder's pen tap once against his notebook. Maurice closed the folder. He looked at the oldest woman, not at Blake. "It holds," he said. "He put his own name under yours. If he breaks it, he breaks himself first." He handed the folder back to her. Then he looked at Blake. "I'll keep a copy at the truck," Maurice said. "Anybody wants to check it, they check it with me." The oldest woman set the folder on her lap next to her wool bundle. She looked at the builder. "Start with the corner house," she said. "That was Ruth's. She's tired of waiting." Eleven other voices followed, naming lots, naming rooms, naming a porch rail that had to face east. The builder wrote fast. Keith Andrews watched from the wall and did not speak, but he nodded once at Blake before looking away. Blake had the families. He had the pact. He had a witness the block would believe. What he did not have, he realized as Keith turned to leave, was any idea what Keith had just decided to do next.