“Ah!” she exclaims. “Pay dirt. Tons of boxes in the supply room. Good God. Who needs this much catnip?” She’s talking to herself. I grin. It’s a lot sweeter than the way I talk to myself.
Sounds of scuffing and shuffling have replaced sounds of barking dogs. “Schedule us for Monday, Mr. Val—I mean, Luc. We’ll be ready.” Then her voice drops, but I still make out the words. “Even if I have to pull an all-nighter to do it.”
* * *
I leaveRed’s Health Club a little after six, my muscles rubbery after circuit training and heavy after the sauna and shower. I needed it, both the beating the workout gave me and the vaporizing heat.
Firing. Hector. Sucked.
The guy had the nerve to act surprised. Even after what happened Tuesday. Even after I recounted the list of screw-ups—costly screw-ups—he’d made under Papi.
He’d scowled and told me I’d never be the boss Papi was. And when he said it, I knew what this was all about. Him not wanting to take orders from me. The boss’s son. Who’s now the boss.
And that sucked too. Because I’ve sensed a little of that from all the guys, the way their eyes cut to each other when I come down on them or make them redo sloppy work. Theyes, sirswith just a hint of attitude in thesir.
They may not know I never asked for this. Never asked for Papi to get sick and retire early. He sure as hell never asked for diabetes. Papi has a gripe about nearly every call I make, but I know part of that comes from being sidelined before he was ready. And I know him. I don’t even need to pick up the phone and ask him what he would do. Every call I make is with him in mind.
Papi put everything he had into this business. When he finally got his green card, he worked three jobs, seven days a week, to finish building the capital to buy the equipment he needed to strike out on his own. It took him two solid years. And then he busted his ass to build a reputation based on efficiency, honesty, and affordability.
When I started working with him at seventeen—which was when he could actually afford to pay me—he told me we had to work harder than all the white contractors.People here look at us and expect us to be lazy,he’d said.They’ll try to catch us cheating them or stealing from them. We can’t just be good enough. We have to be great to be good enough.
I’ve been doing this almost ten years, and while our clients are hiring us because they’ve heard of our reputation, their neighbors are always watching. Waiting. We still have to be great to be good enough.
So, yeah, I can be hard on our guys. And maybe I’m being harder on them than Papi would have been. Because if he had to be great to be good enough, then I have to be frickin’ perfect to be great to be good enough. Because he’s watching, and I can’t let him down.
And I’m not stupid. Nobody’s perfect. I fuck up too. And I try to balance being a hardass with giving credit where it’s due. That means keeping my eyes open. Which of the guys is doing a stellar job? Who needs to be singled out and patted on the back? Who needs a raise? Who’s going to take Hector’s place as site manager?
I toy with this last question as I walk to my truck. The Lambert’s job definitely needs a manager, and I can’t do it. I move around too much. Before firing Hector, my plan was to put Miguel, Sam, and Donner on the Delacroix job with Miguel as manager. All three of those guys are careful and don’t need much looking after—even Sam, who’s just nineteen.
Until I can hire someone new full-time, I’d probably be better off leaving Tony where he is at the Sterling’s, moving Miguel to the Lambert’s, putting a temp worker to follow Donner’s lead at the Delacroix’s, and checking in on them and helping out as often as I can.
I reach my truck and spot the half-dozen boxes I’d pulled from the warehouse this afternoon. Millie Delacroix said she had plenty of boxes, but I pulled them anyway.
Don’t go over there. We don’t see clients at night without an appointment.
The voice is right. I might make a night time stop at a new construction site or a home the owners have moved out of for a major renovation, but I don’t disturb families after dark unless I need to meet with a homeowner to go over plans or changes and they can’t fit me in during the work day.
But I hear Millie’s voice, and it’s even louder than the one in my head.We’ll be ready...even if I have to pull an all-nighter to do it.
It’s almost as though the truck drives itself.
* * *
That monsterof a dog is barking from inside before my boots even touch the ground.
This is a mistake,the voice warns. Ignoring it, I slam the truck door and pluck two of the boxes from the bed. The front door opens as I approach, and the bear dog steps out, still barking, but he doesn’t charge me the way he did Tuesday. He just walks to the edge of the porch and barks up toward the moon, just two or three great bellows.
Behind him, Millie’s brother, the young one, stands in the open door, staring. I approach with the boxes, but I stop at the foot of the steps under his suspicious gaze, letting the dog sniff me, and I see the moment the boy’s eyes narrow with recognition.
“Hey, you were at the game the other night,” he says, almost accusing.
I nod. “I was.” What’s his name? Evan? Eric? “I’m Luc, and I’m going to be working on your kitchen. Is Millie home?”
He blinks, surprised, but then his expression turns bored. “She’s in the shower.”
I’m mounting the steps, but at this I halt. She’s in the shower? The knowledge grabs me by the throat. To swallow… breathe… speak, for a moment, is impossible.
Go. Leave the boxes and go,the know-it-all voice commands.
