Too Close to the Edge by Susan Dunlap Page B

him to make himself more cooperative.
    So much for subtlety. “This is a murder case. While you sit here pouting, the killer is covering his tracks. If you care that Liz was murdered, then stop wasting time and answer my questions.”
    He hauled back with the beer can. For a moment I thought he was going to hurl it at me. Then he caught himself. He set it down gently. “Okay, okay. You want my past, huh? Well, I came here from New York. From 183rd Street and Fordham Avenue to be exact. But you could have guessed that, right?”
    I nodded, wondering vaguely if that comment was another example of egocentricity or if he had picked up on the remnants of my own accent.
    He didn’t smile, but for the first time his glower lightened. “I came out here seven or eight years ago. I thought I’d see the country. You know what I mean? Half of Berkeley could say the same. I had been working for Social Security back there, assessing disability applications. I wasn’t about to do that again. There are only so many times you can tell a guy with sciatic pain so bad he can’t sit down that Social Security doesn’t believe him. Social Security wants hard proof of back injuries and a lot of times there isn’t any. X-rays don’t show anything … but the guy’s still in agony. If his doctor isn’t willing to go to bat for him, and sometimes even if he is, it’s too bad. It’s a real bummer all around.”
    “So you left New York,” I prompted.
    “Got one of those you-drive cars, headed west, and lived until my money ran out. Then I did carpentry for a few years. And when the work ran out, I got General Assistance. One thing about working for Social Security, it teaches you how to deal with bureaucracies. And, actually, I was lucky. I wasn’t planning on a free ride, particularly not on two hundred fifty dollars a month, which is what G.A. was paying then. But just when my first check came through, the city was starting an apprenticeship program to train its destitute, like me. Some guys trained as electricians, some women as plumbers. I had enough experience and the brains to take the test, so I became a licensed contractor.”
    “How did you know Liz?” I asked, steering him back to my question.
    “I built her ramp.”
    “That doesn’t sound like a contracting job.”
    “Hardly,” he said. “It was before I was in the program, while I was working as a carpenter.”
    “How did you hear about the job?”
    He sighed. Reluctantly, he said, “Well, I’d been seeing her landlord, the shrink, just a couple times, just to deal with the stress from that job at Social Security and the stress of being marginally employed. I just needed someone to listen a while, till I could straighten out my head.”
    “And Marina Vista?”
    “They were looking for a contractor. Liz remembered me—a graduate of their own program. It would have been hard for them to turn me down.”
    I glanced around the room. The nylon curtains were flung up over the rod. There was an internal order to the room, albeit an old and shabby one. The only things that didn’t fit here were Brad Butz and his food. “How long have you lived here?”
    He glared at me, then down at the floor. Spotting the fallen pizza box he kicked it. “Listen lady, just because you’ve got a house up in the hills, don’t be looking down your nose at me, calling me a slob. I didn’t invite you in here.”
    Where did that defensiveness come from? He certainly hadn’t seen any sign of slumming from me. Compared to the remodeled porch I lived in, Brad Butz’s house was a mansion. Making a point to keep my voice calm, I repeated, “Mr. Butz, how long have you lived here?”
    Again he hesitated. But unlike the moment when he held the beer can poised, this time his eyes were half closed in thought. He shrugged. “Well, I’ll admit it, this place is a dump. The landlord’s been on me for months. When I moved in here I agreed to fix the place up in lieu of rent. I was barely in