didn’t spend the night here.”
“Glad I didn’t.”
“Back to your apartment across the river?”
“I stayed . . . with a friend. You got a minute? We need to talk.”
Jeff looked at him curiously, shrugged. “Sure.”
One of the guys, either DeShawn or Santiago, flicked the boom box back on. The angry rap blasted:
Get out the way, bitch, get out the way.
They resumed hurling chunks of plasterboard and scraps of timber out of the second-floor window into the Dumpster below.
Rick signaled outside and they stepped onto the front porch.
“I signed the contract,” he said, “but that wasn’t our deal.” Rick wanted it out in the open. He wanted Jeff to acknowledge it.
“These guys need to be paid,” Jeff said.
“I thought you were planning to front the money.”
“I don’t normally do that, front the money. Anyway, things have changed.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Look, I didn’t want to say anything about this, but you know, we’ve been helping out your family for years. All those years, Meghan and I kept an eye on your house. When you had those sketchy renters, we let you guys know. I used to shovel the driveway when the snowplow service didn’t show up.”
Rick blinked a few times, surprised. He knew Jeff and his medical-receptionist wife, Meghan, had been vaguely helpful, but didn’t know the specifics. He wondered if this was going where he feared it might be going.
“I appreciate all that, Jeff. A lot. You guys have been great.”
“I’m just saying. All these years, we never said anything about it. Plus the guys. They need to be paid.”
“What happened to our arrangement?”
“Like I said, things have changed. You can afford a hell of a lot more than forty thousand bucks for the job, and you know it.”
“Jeff, I don’t know how much you—”
“You really want to have this conversation?” Jeff’s eyes glittered, as if maybe he did.
Rick felt his stomach flip over. He heaved a sigh.
“I’m thinking maybe I’m owed a little . . . consideration,” Jeff said.
“Consideration.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
He paused, decided to change the subject. “Let me ask you something. You see anyone around the house a couple nights ago? I mean, middle of the night.”
Jeff shrugged, shook his head.
“The kitchen door was unlocked. You weren’t in the house, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone came in, was snooping around.”
“Didn’t see anyone. Sorry.”
Rick noticed that one of the guys in the white suits was standing at the front door, watching them. The guy pushed open the glass storm door and said, “Jeff, you want us start filling up the Dumpster?”
“Yeah, Santiago, you and Marlon cart out the scraps. DeShawn can keep at what he’s doing.”
Santiago peered at Rick, then over to Jeff, and said something in Spanish. Jeff answered him in Spanish, sounding fluent. Santiago laughed gutturally and said something back, this time clearly looking at Rick as he spoke. He was gesturing with his hands. Then he turned and headed back inside, letting the storm door slam behind him.
Rick didn’t know Spanish, but he understood one word Santiago had said.
Dinero
.
9
J eff knew about the money. He’d seen it, that was clear. But how much did he know? Jeff was smart, no question about it. He had a builder’s gift of space perception—had he somehow extrapolated, based on his glimpse of the hundred-dollar bills, how much was there?
Though they’d known each other since they were both kids, Rick didn’t know Jeff well. But Jeff had always struck Rick as basically honest. Salt of the earth. A Good Samaritan, maybe. He wasn’t going to do anything threatening or violent, Rick was confident.
Nearly confident, anyway.
The guys in the demo crew Rick wasn’t so sure of. They were huge, and their tattoos looked like prison ink. If they found out about the cash, they could be serious trouble. Greed brought out the worst
“Glad I didn’t.”
“Back to your apartment across the river?”
“I stayed . . . with a friend. You got a minute? We need to talk.”
Jeff looked at him curiously, shrugged. “Sure.”
One of the guys, either DeShawn or Santiago, flicked the boom box back on. The angry rap blasted:
Get out the way, bitch, get out the way.
They resumed hurling chunks of plasterboard and scraps of timber out of the second-floor window into the Dumpster below.
Rick signaled outside and they stepped onto the front porch.
“I signed the contract,” he said, “but that wasn’t our deal.” Rick wanted it out in the open. He wanted Jeff to acknowledge it.
“These guys need to be paid,” Jeff said.
“I thought you were planning to front the money.”
“I don’t normally do that, front the money. Anyway, things have changed.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Look, I didn’t want to say anything about this, but you know, we’ve been helping out your family for years. All those years, Meghan and I kept an eye on your house. When you had those sketchy renters, we let you guys know. I used to shovel the driveway when the snowplow service didn’t show up.”
Rick blinked a few times, surprised. He knew Jeff and his medical-receptionist wife, Meghan, had been vaguely helpful, but didn’t know the specifics. He wondered if this was going where he feared it might be going.
“I appreciate all that, Jeff. A lot. You guys have been great.”
“I’m just saying. All these years, we never said anything about it. Plus the guys. They need to be paid.”
“What happened to our arrangement?”
“Like I said, things have changed. You can afford a hell of a lot more than forty thousand bucks for the job, and you know it.”
“Jeff, I don’t know how much you—”
“You really want to have this conversation?” Jeff’s eyes glittered, as if maybe he did.
Rick felt his stomach flip over. He heaved a sigh.
“I’m thinking maybe I’m owed a little . . . consideration,” Jeff said.
“Consideration.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
He paused, decided to change the subject. “Let me ask you something. You see anyone around the house a couple nights ago? I mean, middle of the night.”
Jeff shrugged, shook his head.
“The kitchen door was unlocked. You weren’t in the house, were you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Someone came in, was snooping around.”
“Didn’t see anyone. Sorry.”
Rick noticed that one of the guys in the white suits was standing at the front door, watching them. The guy pushed open the glass storm door and said, “Jeff, you want us start filling up the Dumpster?”
“Yeah, Santiago, you and Marlon cart out the scraps. DeShawn can keep at what he’s doing.”
Santiago peered at Rick, then over to Jeff, and said something in Spanish. Jeff answered him in Spanish, sounding fluent. Santiago laughed gutturally and said something back, this time clearly looking at Rick as he spoke. He was gesturing with his hands. Then he turned and headed back inside, letting the storm door slam behind him.
Rick didn’t know Spanish, but he understood one word Santiago had said.
Dinero
.
9
J eff knew about the money. He’d seen it, that was clear. But how much did he know? Jeff was smart, no question about it. He had a builder’s gift of space perception—had he somehow extrapolated, based on his glimpse of the hundred-dollar bills, how much was there?
Though they’d known each other since they were both kids, Rick didn’t know Jeff well. But Jeff had always struck Rick as basically honest. Salt of the earth. A Good Samaritan, maybe. He wasn’t going to do anything threatening or violent, Rick was confident.
Nearly confident, anyway.
The guys in the demo crew Rick wasn’t so sure of. They were huge, and their tattoos looked like prison ink. If they found out about the cash, they could be serious trouble. Greed brought out the worst
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