Lawn Boy(49)

“Twenty-three,” I countered.

“Deal.”

“So, what about the other properties?” I said.

“You’ll still handle the old ones. But those are still twenty, understand. Not twenty-three.”

“Got it.”

“Except for Wardwell.”

“Wardwell’s twenty-three?”

“Wardwell sold.”

“Wow, congratulations,” I said.

“Twelve grand above asking. You deserve some of the credit, Mike. They really liked the yard.”

He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Here, put it toward the coveralls.”

Monday morning, bright and early, old Mike Mu?oz, inveterate profligate and poster boy for the unwashed peasantry, donned his squeaky-clean white coveralls and climbed into a brand-new forest-green Ford F-350, in the bed of which he’d already neatly packed his gear. There was a magnetic sign on each door: TEAM GOBLE. GOBLE OR GO HOME.

I’d never been more alert, more awake to life’s possibilities, or more enthusiastic about a day’s work, than when I climbed into the cab of that truck. The interior of that beautiful machine smelled like a fresh start. This was the vehicle I would pilot to a brand-new Mike Mu?oz. A Mike Mu?oz who made nearly twice the money he had previously. I was about to make twenty-three big ones an hour. I was a goddamn king. I doubt my old man ever made half that much.

Before Goble enlightened me, I didn’t even know the country club existed. It was located at the very southern tip of the island, where a natural bottleneck separated the community like a peninsula. There’s only one old road in and out of the place, and it’s private. And yes, there’s a security gate. The same families have been living out there or keeping residences there for four or five generations, according to Goble. I recognized some of the names, but I’m not going to use them. It’s called discretion, and I’m told I must have it.

So, at twenty-two, old Mike Mu?oz finally got his first close-up look at how the other half lived—and by half, I mean .001 percent. This place made most of Bainbridge look like Hansville. It made Truman’s place look like a McMansion. The neighborhood was outrageously idyllic, with gently meandering lanes, lined by colonnades of ancient oaks and maples, some of them seven or eight feet in diameter. In the middle of everything lay parklike grounds, punctuated sparsely with old cedars. The grass was old and cropped close like a tennis court, a little piebald in places, but green and neatly uniform.

Predominately old, some of the houses showed signs of tasteful updates. Ivy-clad palaces, hemmed in by boxwood and wrought-iron gates. Not one of them under six thousand square feet, all of them with guest quarters, and each lot had at least two hundred feet of waterfront. The whole development was tidy. Not a scrap of litter. Everything had its place, especially the help. No wonder some of these people would do anything to preserve their way of life. It was spectacular. No Dale, screeching away on his fucking band saw. No blue tarps on the roofs. No broken-down Festivas or busted swamp coolers in the front yards. No dirty-faced kids spoiling their finery. Nobody stealing their lawn mower or bashing in their mailbox. Nobody with brown eyes or calloused hands. No nail salon, no minimart. No blacks, no Mexicans, no Asians, no shanty Irish, no Indians, no kid with a scorpion tattoo on his neck or underfed pit bull or pregnant girlfriend. No Marlin, no Freddy, no Mike, no Nate, no Mom, no Nick. The place was paradise by omission.

Fuck these people, I started thinking. No, no, stop that, I told myself. Team Goble. Follow the money. Be at once ubiquitous and invisible, like a servant. Do your best work, cash your paycheck. Shed your legacy of squalor and dysfunction. Elevate yourself, Mike Mu?oz!

Nobody had their addresses displayed, but I recognized my destination by the smaller-than-normal Goble sign out front—tasteful by Goble standards. Forest green. Classy white script. No Goble jack-o’-lantern leer, no slogan, but a sign nonetheless. BY APPOINTMENT ONLY, DOUGLAS GOBLE. The sign was a victory for him, even though nobody besides the residents of the country club would see it, since it was by appointment only and casual browsers couldn’t get past the gate.

“Exactly,” he had explained at the Agate Pass Café, forking the last of his egg white. “I want them to know I’m coming. I want them to fear me.”

The house possessed none of the hokey pretense of the McMansions. Its beauty was effortless. Maybe eight thousand square feet, situated on a high bluff, the structure so well established that it might have been part of the landscape. Here, from these venerable brick walls 150 years ago, the English ivy began its invasion of the western forests, though it looked anything but insidious clinging to the eaves. The sash windows were all ancient, single paned, and perfectly preserved, the roses heirloom, the fruit trees ancient. It was a revelation to me, this place. I’d always associated money with newness. Because, well, new stuff worked. Not like the old crap lying around Dale’s yard. Not like the moldering automobiles we parked in our driveways. New meant fresh. It meant things got replaced. It meant reliable. But here, everything was old and yet still working. It was a different kind of reliability. The message seemed clear: This is the way we want to keep things. Have a look around, Mike Mu?oz, but don’t get too comfortable. You don’t belong here.

As I walked the grounds, I saw very little work for myself. Though the boxwood was plentiful, it was already scrupulously maintained. The sprawling lawn was like the rest of the grass in the area, cropped close with a natural edge. The orchard was sporting a year’s overgrowth, but it was too early in the season to prune. What was I supposed to do, how was I supposed to busy myself?