Lawn Boy(54)

“What I mean is, do yourself a favor.”

“Don’t think I haven’t tried.”

“No, really, Mike. I’m not joking here. Look out for número uno, ?comprendes? Just this once. I know you’ve got people, your retarded brother and that black dude and whoever. But that job will pay way more. That would be helpful, no?”

“He’s not actually retarded.”

“I meant retarded in a good way. Look, I appreciate your loyalty. But you better take this job, or I’m going to fire you. I don’t want to pay you twenty-three bucks an hour.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Good,” he said. “It’s settled, we’re in. Now, I need you to keep your ears open and your eyes open. Mouth shut. Don’t talk—that won’t help anybody. Just listen when they talk among themselves. If anybody starts talking about selling, I want to know. And by anybody, I especially mean Piggot.”

“Okay,” I said.

He searched deep in my brown eyes again and apparently saw no light there.

“Look, I wanna turn that neighborhood over. I wanna bring the country club up to date, so to speak. And I’m not talking about closeted gay ex-professors or reprobate judges. The clubbers love that stuff—that’s as close as they get to interesting. I’m talking about X people, self-made types: athletes, entertainers, rich people of color. I’ve got a potential black buyer, and that could really stir things up. A Seahawk. One felony arrest, couple of misdemeanors, but otherwise a good family man. I wanna get this guy and his family in there.”

“That’s cool. So I just . . . ?”

“You do recon. How do you think you got the job offer? I need some eyes and ears out there.”

“Wait, you got me the job offer?”

“Get me a listing, and I’ll give you the truck, Mike—outright.”

“How can I get you a listing?”

“Just be yourself—except don’t talk.”

“Okay. But who would I be ta—”

“Don’t talk.”

“Got it. I’m just ask—”

“Stop talking.”

“Right, I understand. But what—”

“No, really. Stop talking.”

“You mean now?”

“Yes.” He rubbed his temples. “Sorry, I think I’m dehydrated. Your voice grates on me sometimes. No offense.”

“Here, drink some water.”

“I’m trying to lose weight.”

“But you’re skinny.”

“Says you.”

“No, really, dude, you’re skinny.”

“Please stop talking for a minute.”

He continued to knead his forehead and temples, jaw clenched. I tried not to talk, but I couldn’t help myself. I was still putting things together.

“So, wait. When you told me I should take the job because I should look out for myself, you really meant I should take the job so I could look out for you? Like literally?”

He grimaced through his headache. “Yeah, well, both. Look, you can talk some. Just stick to gardening and the writer shtick, they like that. Piggot especially. Just don’t make it sound like you’re writing some kind of manifesto. Tell them you’re writing about horses.”

“What about the truck?”

“You continue to make the payments until you get me a listing.”

“Will it be mine?”

“No. You’ll just be making the payments.”

“To the dealership?”

“To me. I’ll need five hundred up front for a deposit.”

“But I’m not really sure if I can swing five hu—”

“Trust me,” he said. “You need the truck. How else are you gonna haul all your equipment back and forth? You think they’re gonna let you into the country club in that Datsun?”

There was no getting around it. “Okay, fine,” I said.

“I’ll also need the first payment of three hundred.”

“Doug, that’s eight hundred bucks. I haven’t got it.”

“Fine, I’ll take it out of your last paycheck. But whatever you do, don’t take the signs off the doors ever again.”

“You know about that?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“But I won’t be Team Goble anymore.”

“Sure you will.”

“How? You’re not paying me. You’re just renting me a truck.”

“I got you the job, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That’s four favors you owe me.”





What Are You Trying to Prove?




Turns out, the five-hundred-dollar deposit just about cleaned me out. But I figured with all the money Piggot would be paying me, I’d be able to build my savings back up in no time. Twenty-nine ninety an hour! What was a three-hundred-dollar-a-month truck payment next to sixty grand a year? Think of the things I’d be able to do with that kind of money! I could move out and still help my mom with the rent. I could take everybody on vacation next summer. We could rent a cabin on the beach somewhere. I could buy my mom a decent car. As much of a dickhead as Goble was, I was grateful to the guy for getting me this gig. And to think I almost passed it up.