Lawn Boy(56)

Piggot followed me breezily back and forth from the bluff, hands in pocket, twice stepping on my heel. Now and then reciting a line of poetry. Every time I stooped to plant one of the Cartiers, he stood right over me, blocking the sunlight. It wasn’t until he started beating around the bush about the place next door that I recalled Goble’s directive to gather recon—the real reason I landed this job, the one Goble forced me to take, negotiating the terms without my consent. I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to do any favors for Goble, since the guy sold me out to the tune of a 50 percent wage cut, but I have to admit I liked the idea of a black guy moving in next door. That stuffy old neighborhood needed a shaking up. An All-Pro defensive back with a criminal record might be just the ticket. I hope the guy drove a ghastly green Humvee limo emblazoned with a silver Seahawk and a vanity plate that said CAN’T TOUCH THIS or U MAD BRO. I hope he parked it right out front where everybody had to look at it.

“I understand your friend Mr. Goble will be showing the Swanstrom estate next Thursday.”

I remembered Goble’s other directive: don’t talk. But fourteen bucks an hour didn’t seem like much incentive for silence.

“He’s not really my friend,” I said. “And yeah, he’s gonna show it.”

“What do you know about this football player?”

“I know he had six interceptions last year.”

“That’s good?”

“Yeah, that’s good.”

“I understand he’s had some character issues.”

“Yeah, he punched a cop. But that was years ago, back when he was at Stanford.”

“Stanford. Hmph,” he said disparagingly.

“And who knows,” I said. “The cop probably deserved it if he was anything like the cops I know.”

Even as we were discussing it, through the laurel hedge I saw Goble roll up in his convertible and pull in next door, where he immediately hopped out of his car and started fussing with his sign.

“I don’t like it,” said Piggot. “This is a well-established neighborhood. These families go back generations.”

“Don’t all families go back generations?”

“Not like these families.”

“So, what’s wrong?” I said, hefting a rosebush out of the wheelbarrow. “You don’t want a black neighbor?”

“It has nothing to do with being black. I haven’t got a thing against people of color. This is about a time-honored standard. This is about legacy. You can’t just move into this community because you’ve got a little money. It’s not about money.”

“You ever think of moving?”

“Why should I move? My family has been here for over a hundred years. We settled this island.”

“Before you, it belonged to the Suquamish tribe. They used it as a hunting ground.”

“Not anymore,” said Piggot.

I kept expecting Goble to make an appearance, but he stayed next door, looking over the place, picking up stray leaves, dusting ledges, admiring his sign, and snapping pictures from different vantages. At one point, Piggot tiptoed over and peered through the laurel to see what Goble was up to.

“Frankly,” he said upon his return, “I don’t see what makes your friend think this football player will even want to live here. Especially not in that drafty old house.”

“Maybe not,” I said, mounding soil around one of the Cartiers.

“I can’t imagine he’d be comfortable with the arrangement. He’d feel like an outsider—he’d have to. Why would he want to move here? I thought they all lived on the Eastside.”

“Black people?”

“The players.”

“Maybe he likes the view.”

“Hmph,” said Piggot. “Of course he does. But you’d think he’d want something a little more garish, wouldn’t he?”

Something I’ve observed about rich people: when they pay you, they assume they’re buying your confidence, even when they’re getting you at a discount. They expect you to agree with them.

“Beats me,” I said.

Piggot straightened himself up and, for the first time all day, reached for the shovel.

“We’ll just see about this,” he said.

The next hour was the only time I’d seen Piggot attempt anything resembling work. And he wasn’t very good at it, severing roots with the blade of his shovel, toppling the wheelbarrow, and generally getting in the way. He managed to get his hands dirty, all right, but otherwise he was more of an obstacle than he was a help. By the time I broke for lunch, Piggot had worn my patience to the ragged edge. I needed to get away from him for a while, so I walked out to the truck, where Goble was sitting in the cab waiting for me.

“So?”

“So, what?”

“You got anything for me yet?”

“No,” I said, wishing I had a lunch. “And by the way, I’m only making fourteen an hour.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. I recommended fifteen. So, you’ve got nothing for me?”

“He doesn’t know shit about football, how’s that?”

“Is he scared?”

“How should I know?”

“Did he say anything about the sign?”