was done, he put the chair down, sat himself on it, and hung his head.
To Betsy, I said, “Where can you stay?”
“My mom’s, I guess. In Derby.”
“She’s got room for both of you?” I asked.
“Yeah. But she’s gonna rub our noses in it.”
“If she’ll give you a place to live, suck it up and take it,” I told her.
“I guess.”
“Doug,” I said. He didn’t look up. “Doug.” Slowly, he lifted his head. “I’ll give you a hand, putting this stuff in your truck. You can store it at the shed.” That was the building where we kept equipment, out back of the Garber Contracting office off Cherry Street. “Probably going to take a couple of loads.”
He got up slowly, picked up a single DVD-a Predator movie-and walked it over to his truck like a condemned man. He opened the tailgate and tossed it in.
Loading up was going to take a long time at this rate.
I stuffed some clothes that were spilling out of a suitcase and managed to zip it shut. “This’ll probably go to your mom’s, right?” Betsy nodded. “So you might as well put it in your car.”
Moving equally slowly, she took the case and threw it into the back seat of her Infiniti. Neither of them said a word for the next half hour as the three of us picked up their belongings from the front yard and put them either in the car or truck. The dresser and the end tables wouldn’t fit anywhere, so Doug said he’d come back for those later.
“You heading over to the office?” he asked me.
“No,” I said. “I’ve got another stop to make.”
THIRTY-SIX
Finding the right house on Ward was a piece of cake. There are a lot of older, quaint, seaside-type homes down in that part of Milford, places that shared the kinds of architectural details you’d expect to find on houses on Martha’s Vineyard or somewhere up on the Cape. Sheila and I used to talk about shifting over a few blocks into this neighborhood, but whether you moved down the street or across the country, you still had to pack the same amount of stuff.
But those discussions had been a long time ago.
It was a two-story, green, wood-shingled house with gingerbread trim, and as I’d guessed, there was a Dumpster in the driveway. Parked in front and to the side of it were three pickups, one advertising a plumber on one door, another the name of a contracting company, and the third with Theo’s Electric on the side. A few feet away from the back of the truck, a worker had set up a couple of sawhorses for a makeshift table and was cutting two- by-fours into shorter lengths with a circular saw.
“Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”
He nodded, then took in my name on the door of my truck. “Can I help you?”
“Glen Garber,” I said. “You in charge here?”
“Naw, I’m Pete. You’d be looking for Hank. Hank Simmons. He’s inside.”
I knew Hank. Over time, you got to know the other people in town who were doing the same kind of work.
“How about Theo? He around?”
“His truck’s right there, so he can’t be far.”
“Thanks.” I took a step toward him, admiring the circular saw. “Nice. A Makita?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I have a look?”
He got a good grip on the saw and handed it to me. I took it from him, felt the heft of it in my hand, squeezed the trigger for a millisecond to make it whine. “Very nice,” I said. I gave a couple of tugs on the extension cord so I could move around to the back of Theo’s truck with it.
“What are you doing?”
I crouched down where the decorative, flesh-colored sack was suspended from the bumper. I got myself into a secure stance. When you performed a delicate operation like this, you didn’t want any accidents.
“Jesus, what are you doing there?”
I pulled back the housing that shielded the circular blade, held it there with one hand, then hit the trigger with my index finger. The saw buzzed to life. Carefully, resting my elbow on the top of my knee for support, I sliced through the top of Theo’s bumper decoration. I eased off the trigger as the truck nuts dropped to the driveway.
I let the shield drop back into place, and when the saw had stopped whining, handed it back to Pete.
“Nice piece of equipment,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he yelled. “Are you crazy?”
Bending from the waist as though I were picking up a golf ball, I picked up the nuts and tossed them a couple of times in my hand. “You say Theo’s inside?”
Pete, dumbstruck, nodded.
“Good, I’ll give these to him,” I said, and left Pete standing there, no doubt wondering whether to keep working or follow me inside to see what happened.
He decided to stay outside, but he didn’t turn the saw back on.
I walked through the open front door and could hear the sounds of workmen echoing through the house. A hammer tapping, the pneumatic sound of a nail gun, men kibitzing back and forth, the noises echoing because the house was without furniture.
A man in his sixties standing in the front hallway looked me up and down. “Hey, Glen Garber, you old son of a bitch! How you doin’?”
“Not bad, Hank,” I said. “Still building houses that fall down if you slam the door too hard?”
“Pretty much,” he said. He spotted the truck nuts in my hand. “I like to keep mine in my pants but to each his own.”
“I’m looking for Theo.”
“Upstairs. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, but I might be able to help you with something. I’ll catch you on the way out.”
I went up the stairs, which were lined with clear plastic to protect the carpeting underneath. When I got to the second floor, I called out Theo’s name.
“In here!” he shouted.
I found him in an emptied master bedroom, down on his knees, stripping wires for new outlets. I stood in the doorway.
“Hey, Glen,” he said. “What brings you here?”
I tossed the detached truck nuts onto the floor in front of him. “I believe those are yours,” I said.
He looked down at them and his face flushed red with anger. “What the fuck?”
“It was you, you son of a bitch,” I said.
“What?” he said, getting up onto his feet. “What was me?”
“I heard back from the fire department.”
“Yeah, so?” He glanced down again at the rubber testicles, like they were a dog that had been run over in the road.
“So, you burned my house down. Those parts you put into the circuit breaker panel were shit.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“I figure this is how it works,” I said. “You cost out a job based on what true-blue, American parts cost, then you buy this knockoff crap from China or wherever it comes from for a fraction of what the real stuff costs, and you make yourself a tidy little profit. Only problem is, the stuff doesn’t meet code, Theo. The stuff can’t handle the load. And the breakers don’t trip. And then you’ve got a house on fucking fire.”
Hank Simmons was standing in the hall behind me. “What’s going on here?”
