Lawn Boy(45)

“No, Mike.”

“In his talons, I mean.”

Goble didn’t even reply this time, just glanced at his cell.

“See how far you can get by two thirty, then meet me at the Baker Hill property.”

“Ten-four.”

“You’ve got the address?”

“Got it.”

“And no sculptures,” he said. “Not ever.”

“Got it.”

Man, it was great working without supervision. No Lacy looking over my shoulder. No Truman peering out the window. No old lady in a wheelchair busting my balls. And let me tell you, in just a few short hours, old Mike Mu?oz reinvented that yard. I took out the alder saplings that were strangling the maple and started a discreet dump pile back in the cedar bog, out of sight. I forgot my weeder, so I used the flathead screwdriver from my glove box and must have dug out a hundred dandelions before I mowed the lawn. I cut a new edge along the perimeter. I weed-whacked along the foundation and deadheaded the rhodies. I’d have to come back next week for the laurel, but the place looked way better. I wished Goble were there to see it. I really should’ve taken before-and-after pictures.

Driving to the second property, I felt like a lion. A few blisters from the weeding, but that was nothing compared to the satisfaction of a job well done.

When I arrived at the Baker Hill place, I parked on the incline a few doors down. Goble was already waiting, leaning up against the Lexus, texting. He always looked fresh, Goble. His hair was never mussed—even though he drove a convertible. No wrinkles, not on his clothes or on his person. Just enough cologne. No wonder he was well liked at all those churches—the guy was squeaky clean, at least on the surface.

“How’d it go at Wardwell?” he said, without looking up from his cell.

“Good. Really good.”

In one swift movement, he finished texting and pocketed the phone.

“Let’s see the pictures.”

“I didn’t take any.”

“No before and after?”

“I didn’t think of it until after.”

“So you got an after?”

“No.”

He suppressed a sigh and patted my back.

“Mike, you’ve got to think proactively if you ever wanna get ahead. You can’t just roam the earth dragging your lawn mower and hoping some old lady hires you. You’ve got have an angle at all times. You take pictures, you build a portfolio. You start calling yourself a landscape architect.”

“But I’m not an architect.”

Goble shook his head grimly. “Look, just take pictures next time around.”

The Baker Hill property was another McMansion. Somewhere in its outsized boxiness there lurked a hint of Victorian. And Edwardian. And Tudor. The lawn was in decent shape. The cedars around the edge were a little shaggy and the rhodies needed deadheading. The kidney-shaped flower bed in the center of the lawn could use some cleaning up, and I told Goble as much.

“Okay, then,” he said, unpocketing his cell again. “Hop to it. I’ll swing by Wardwell and take a look. Oh, and Mike, next time park even farther down the street. At least until you get a decent car.”

“Got it.”

I snapped a few pictures of the problem areas before I set to work. The first order of business was bringing up the canopy on those cedars and opening up the yard. They were old trees, with big buttressed trunks and oddly bowed limbs, some of them as low as knee level. I took up the canopy uniformly to six feet, cleaning out the scrub plants and vine maple and raking up the windfall along with my trimmings. I started a dump pile down the hill, out of sight from the house. All the clearing and the canopy work gave the place a park-like feel around the perimeter. As I unloaded my mower, my phone rang. It was Goble in his convertible. I could hear his pop music and the wind rocketing past the phone receiver.

“Wardwell looks dynamite,” he said. “Like a different property. One of my clients drove by an hour ago and called me to ask if I’d had the place painted or something. You weren’t lying—you’re good. You’re a landscaping genius. When you wrap up there, meet me at the Harbor Pub in Winslow, say around five thirty. I wanna buy you a beer.”

You heard the man: I was a genius. Imagine how good those words sounded to my ears—almost as good as that free beer. I had a little extra spring in my step as I mowed the lawn. I whistled as I cut the edge, hummed Roger Miller as I pruned, gutted, and raked out the big flower bed. My creative juices were flowing. I even jotted down a few notes for the Great American Landscaping Novel while catching my breath.

The first thing I did when I got to the pub was let Goble buy me that beer.

“Damn, it looks like a park,” he said, perusing the pictures on my phone. “Creating all that space under the cedars was a genius move.”

Twice a genius!

“Did you redo the edge on that big bed?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice. Really makes the lawn pop.”

That’s when Goble reached into his back pocket, took his wallet out, and handed me a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

“You’re gonna pay me daily?”

“That’s a tip. Put it toward buying a new car.”

“So I’m gonna get paid, too?”

“Yes, Mike. That’s how a tip works.”