Chapter Seven
Christian called after I got back from lunch. “Kelly, I kind of wandered on Magnolia today, in the area where
Lattimore
wants to build, and I went into a clock shop. Old guy named Otto Martin owns it. And he’s madder than six demons. Making threats about
Lattimore
. Says he’s too old to move and start over again and can’t afford it. I want to meet with him…and you.”
“Sure. I told you we need a meeting, and I’d like to include him. Did you ask Jim Price?”
“Yeah, he’ll make himself available. Feels as strongly as we do. How about your office—not as many people around as at my office. What day’s good for you?”
“Hmm, this is Friday. Could we do ten-thirty Monday morning? I checked and Tom’s hearing with the zoning commission isn’t until next Thursday.”
“Great. I’ll call Otto—he’s really a great guy, you’ll like him. You call Price and see if he can make it.”
Jim Price was a lawyer in solo practice with an office on Magnolia. I imagined he’d make it if he weren’t in court. When I called, he answered his own phone—I love lawyers like that—looked at his calendar, and said he’d meet us.
“Keisha, we’re having a meeting of four people—plus you, of course—on Monday at ten-thirty. Can you take some petty cash that morning and get, oh, I guess doughnuts or whatever? And will you make a note to have fresh coffee?”
“Got it. What’s this meeting about?”
“That shopping center Tom
Lattimore
wants to put in. Making plans to stop it.”
“Guess the zoning regulations gonna be your weekend reading.”
“Nope. I bet Jim Price is on top of that.”
It turned out he was.
Shortly after that John Henry Jackson called. His voice boomed over the phone: “Little lady, I’ve talked to this
Lattimore
fellow, and I need to talk to you about this business on Magnolia Avenue. How about I take you to the Fort Worth Club for lunch on Tuesday—closed on Mondays, you know.”
I didn’t often get invited to the Fort Worth Club, a kind of upscale downtown club for businessmen. Most of Fort Worth’s high society frequented it—and that didn’t include me. “I’d appreciate a chance to talk, John Henry.”
“Good. We’ll meet at eleven-thirty. You know where to go?”
“Yes, I do. See you then.”
****
Sunday night supper was delightful. By now my ham was a joke, and everyone teased me about it, which I tried to take gracefully, but it was a bit of a sore subject. Mom brought a chocolate meringue pie and a chocolate cake—she knew her granddaughters’ addiction to chocolate. Claire brought sautéed green beans, fresh, with sliced almonds, declaring Megan and Liz loved them—and she brought enough for an army. Anthony and the boys arrived with a veggie and dip tray straight from a supermarket, and Theresa and Joe brought beer. It struck me what a difference a year made—Anthony frowned when he saw Theresa drink a beer, but after all she was a married woman now, and he said nothing.
The girls had set a festive buffet table. I taught them how to roll silverware, using those good sturdy paper napkins, and we had the clear plastic plates that I like. I’d splurged on flowers for the table, but even so Em accusingly said to Joe, “You didn’t bring me balloons like you did last time.”
“Do I have to bring you balloons every time I come to dinner?” he laughed.
“Yes,” she said, flouncing away.
Theresa went after her, gave her a big hug, and asked about school. Em melted.
It was a bit cool outside, so we ate perched around the house, wherever we could find seats. Mike, as usual, sat in his big chair, and Maggie fixed him a plate, carefully cutting his meat for him, which I know amused him. He could, after all, still use a knife and fork, especially since he’d been ordered to exercise the fingers on his left hand. Maggie also heaped his plate with more food than any two men could eat, but he made a valiant effort.
José fit right in, although quietly. He talked some with Mike, but he never took his eyes off Keisha, and I saw them exchange a quick kiss in the kitchen. Em saw it too and screamed, “Keisha!” Keisha laughed and said, “Em, come give this boy a kiss. He deserves it.” But Em turned shy. Joe jokingly told José that if one of them was to be called José so as to avoid confusion, it should be him since he was Mexican on both sides. José smiled and said, “I kind of like it as a nickname. Keisha gave it to me.” As a couple they reminded me of Jack Spratt and his wife—José was taller than Keisha but not nearly as big. They made a handsome couple.
Soon after dessert everyone began to depart—work and school loomed for each of us the next day. I pulled Joe aside. “I know you and Theresa have early mornings, but could you stay a little bit? I want to talk to you.”
“Sure, Miss Kelly. Whatever I can do.”
Theresa took the girls off to get ready for bed and read a book, and I told Joe about the Garzas, without pausing for breath. Mike just sat and listened.
“So this lady, she’s like my mom. Can’t do anything with her kids. Right?”
“Right.”
“I’m off Tuesday. I’ll go see them. Those boys got to be in school. The girl?” He shrugged. “I don’t know what I can do. But I’ll try. Keisha may be right. You’re not taking her seriously enough. And that would piss her off. Miss Kelly, please don’t go up there again.”
I evaded the asked-for promise.
“Thanks, Joe,” Mike said. “I’ve been trying to tell Kelly.”
“I haven’t seen her following me since I went up there,” I said defensively.
“Don’t mean anything,” Joe said. “Be foolish to think you scared her off with your visit.” He rubbed his knuckles. “Tell you what, Miss Kelly, before I go see them, I’ll check around and see what the word is, especially about the girl. Meantime, you be careful.”
I really did think I had put an end to the stalking. I didn’t worry about it as much as I should have.
****
Monday was my meeting with Christian, Jim Price, and the threatening Otto Martin. Threatening only because Christian said he made threats against Tom
Lattimore
. He turned out to be anything but. In fact, he was almost cherubic, with a slight hint of Old World charm about him. Short and chubby, balding with round cheeks and eyes that sparkled with an interest in life. When we were introduced, he took my hand and bowed low over it, almost but not quite kissing it.
I managed to stammer, “Charmed to meet you,” which I thought was truly appropriate under the circumstances. Keisha, however, given the same treatment was speechless for the first time I could remember.
We pulled chairs up around my desk, which made me feel that I was conducting the meeting, so I jumped in.
“Jim, how effective can the neighborhood association be in blocking this zoning change?”
“Depends, Kelly. We’ll need petition signatures—ideally we should have a team go door to door. Not everyone will sign, but I think most will. We can’t do that before Thursday.”
“Pardon me, but I have a question. Can I be forced to sell my building? What if I just refuse?”
“The developers—whoever
Lattimore
is representing—will sweeten the pot.”
“Sweeten the pot?” Otto asked. “I don’t understand.”
“Offer you an outrageous amount that you can’t afford to turn down.”
“I can’t afford to accept anything. My building is all I have in the world. In the back, there’s two rooms. That’s where I live. My clock shop doesn’t bring in enough to let me live anywhere else.”
Forgetting why we were meeting, I asked, “Do you have a kitchen?”
He smiled. “I have a small refrigerator and a hot plate. It’s all I need. I eat a lot of—what do you call it?—fast food.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” I blurted out.
He shook his head. “No, I like my life. I don’t want to change anything about it. I don’t want to move if they offer me a house. I like where I am. My faithful customers know where to find me.”
Jim Price was a kind and compassionate man. “If that’s your home, they can’t force you to move. The state has the right of eminent domain, but not private developers. I doubt they can prove public purpose or public necessity for a shopping mall.”
“That’s good,” Otto said contentedly. “Because if they take my store, I’d have to kill Tom
Lattimore
.”
I looked around as though I expected someone in authority—Buck or Mike, at the least—to be listening. “Uh, Otto…Mr. Martin, you mustn’t ever say that aloud. It won’t go any farther than this room, but if something were to happen to Mr.
Lattimore
, you’d be in big trouble.”
He smiled. “I would be a happy man. I told the son of a bitch so.”
Christian was convulsed behind his handkerchief, pretending to blow his nose, and Jim’s mouth was quivering as he tried to quell his laughter. Keisha and I were simply amazed at this gentle man’s open discussion of killing someone.
“I…I wouldn’t want to have you as an enemy, sir,” Jim said, finally controlling himself.
“Oh, I make a very good friend to people who treat me right.”
I could not wait to tell Mike this story. We were having Otto Martin as a dinner guest soon—I’d see to it. And no hamburgers on the grill.
We finally settled down to tactics. Jim said we could have a meeting of the association next week and have petitions ready to be signed. At the meeting he’d ask for volunteers to walk the blocks. Then he asked Christian what his stake in this dogfight was, and Christian said, “I close titles for a lot of sales in Fairmount, people who want to live in a neighborhood that’s kept its old charm. Build a shopping center, and it loses its appealing ambiance. Besides,” he added, “I live in Fairmount. I want my kids to grow up in this kind of a neighborhood, where they can play outside safely and where people know them. I don’t want an impersonal shopping center with its sales and crowds and parking lots.”
“Fair enough,” Jim said. “Though the nature of the store—if that’s what he’s really selling—may be more acceptable to the neighborhood than a Target would be. That may hurt that argument.” He turned to me.
“Kelly, I know your stake. And as of now, Mr. Martin, I certainly know yours. I can have my office draw up a petition, and I’ll look into zoning laws. I think we can nip this thing in the bud.”
I reported that John Henry Jackson, chair of the landmark commission, told me not to worry and that I was meeting him the next day. Christian said we had the full support of the League of Neighborhood Associations, and he passed out copies of the proposal Tom would present to the zoning commission.
He had been able to secure the documents from the commission because Tom
Lattimore
was required to present paperwork a week in advance of the meeting. I saw one familiar name among the investors and wracked my brain to think who he was. A lawyer, I thought, and a courthouse pal of John Henry Jackson named Robert Lawler. Odd. Maybe Jackson would make him see the error of being involved in a project like this. The others were not major players in the Fort Worth commercial real estate market, in spite of what Tom had said about the investors being men with money and power in Fort Worth. They may have been, as Christian suggested, oil and gas men from anywhere. But, why, I wondered, would oil and gas men want to invest in a grocery market? I filed that one familiar name away; in fact, I wrote it on a scrap of paper and tucked it under the blotter on my desk.
The phone rang then, and even as I was signaling Keisha to ignore it, she got up and answered it. “No, she ain’t in. May I take a message?” Then, loudly and laboriously, she asked, “Tom
Lattimore
? Does she have your number, sir?” He apparently replied in the affirmative, for she said, “I’ll certainly ask her to call you as soon as she comes in.”
Without a smile, she handed me a phone message slip. Then she addressed the group, “Mr. Price, I want to add my two cents. I got a stake too, and it goes beyond working for Kelly. I’m renting a small apartment in a big old Fairmount house. Mr. Otto,
darlin
’, I got a small kitchen, so you just come over some evening, and I’ll fix a dinner that’ll knock your socks off.”
He smiled and said thank you.
Keisha continued. “They’re not too many neighborhoods where a black woman like me could rent in an Anglo-owned house and live on friendly terms with white, black, and Hispanic neighbors. I love it. I love this neighborhood. It’s like no place else in the city, and we got to keep it.”
Jim smiled. “We’ll ask you to testify for the city council if it comes to that,” he said.
Christian asked if any of us recognized any of the investors’ names, and we all said no. I kept quiet about the one name I knew, though I’m sure Christian knew it too. We’d talk later.
“That’s bad,” he said. “They’re not old Fort Worth, so they’re not going to give a fig about our neighborhoods.”
“A fig?” Keisha asked and laughed aloud.
Christian blushed. “Just a saying. You know what I mean.”
“Yes sir, I surely do.”
Jim looked at Keisha. “You and Mr. Martin make an eloquent case. It seems to me that this development goes against all zoning principles—it concentrates population in one specific area, it does not protect the rights of property owners or preserve a compatible neighborhood. I think we’re in good shape, but we need to do some work.”