“Oh my gosh, what happened to your teeth?” she asked when she noticed.
“Had to get a couple pulled. It’s only temporary,” I lied.
“Who’s your dentist?” she asked. “I need to find a new one. Mirkovich is my guy. He’s got fingers like bratwursts, though.”
“I don’t remember my guy’s name,” I lied. “He’s in Silverdale.”
We ordered a pitcher of Silver City pale and a pizza with anchovies, which seemed like a good omen, since nobody ever agreed to anchovies, let alone enthusiastically. We talked pretty easily over breadsticks about movies and Remy’s job search and my recent good fortune. The more I got to know her, the more self-assured she seemed, unafraid to speak her mind or say something irreverent. And she was generous with her encouragement.
“You really should write it,” she said of my doomed novel. “Just go for it, Mike. Don’t overthink it. It’ll be great.”
“I dunno. Who wants to read a novel about a landscaper, anyway?”
She set one of her hands atop mine and looked me straight in the eye.
“You do,” she said.
Chalk it up to nerves, but when we got on the subject of landscaping, I began to wax poetic and maybe carry on a little too long, though Remy seemed impressed through much of it. I pontificated on the attributes of native ground covers, decried the evil of invasive species, held forth on the expediency of the mulching mower, summarized the myriad advantages of the shade garden in the northwestern climate zone.
“Wow,” she said. “I wish I were that passionate about my job.”
After the leftover pizza was boxed to go, we stayed for another pitcher, during which Remy confessed her dissatisfaction with waitressing, a dissatisfaction I was, of course, well acquainted with.
“What could you do instead?”
“More.”
“More of what?”
“Just more. I don’t know, that’s the problem. Maybe I should go back to school and become a teacher.”
“Do you wanna teach?”
“Not really. But at least it has meaning. I feel like I have these qualities, and this energy and this desire, but I can’t find the wall to throw any of it at.”
“I know the feeling.”
I squared the check with my hundred-dollar bill from Goble, leaving an inordinately large tip that was not lost on Remy.
“Your mother taught you well.”
And there we were in a parking lot again, leaning against Remy’s car, waiting for a cue to proceed.
Remy finally made the move, and we were soon kissing. She tasted of lip balm and anchovies, and her tongue was much more active this time, slithering around in my mouth like a live goldfish. I didn’t really know what to do with my hands, until Remy placed them around her waist. We were conjoined for a good five minutes, her hands patrolling my denim-clad butt cheeks without ever straying toward my crotch.
Finally, she pulled away, breathless.
“You wanna come to my place?” she said.
And there it was: the monkey, the burdensome, shameful, flea-bitten pest that had been clinging mercilessly to my back since the dawn of puberty, the one howling ceaselessly in my ears through adolescence and into adulthood, the one Nick continually teased and fed peanuts to, that monkey had just been served to me on a golden platter. How much nagging insecurity and self-doubt, how many flinty, overcooked, indigestible rib eyes and flat sodas had I endured to get to this point? No way was I going blow this.
“Uh, I’ve actually got a big day tomorrow at work.”
“On Saturday?”
“Yeah, I know. The guy I work for is a real dynamo. You’ve probably seen his realty signs all over town—‘Team Goble. Goble or Go Home’? Anyway, he’s got all these new properties that he wants me to—”
“I get it,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yeah, I do. It’s actually kind of sweet.”
“It is?”
“Most guys want to move too fast. I think it’s nice that you don’t want to rush.”
“You do?”
“Like I said, your mother taught you well.”
She gave me a little peck on the lips and touched my cheek. “You know, we don’t have to have sex.”
“We don’t?”
She smiled mischievously, squeezing my butt and pulling herself into me. “Not right away.”
Clubbin’ It
The next morning, Goble knocked impatiently on my shed door. Before the door had fully opened, he ducked inside and started sizing the place up, which didn’t take him long.
“Mike, you really need some new digs.”
“I’m working on it.”
“C’mon, let’s grab some breakfast. I’ve got a proposition for you.”
He took me to the Agate Pass Café, the new place next to the Tide’s Inn. We call it the I Got Cash Café. But since Goble was buying, I had an omelet with salmon and capers in it. I wasn’t crazy about the capers, to tell you the truth. Goble had two egg whites and a slice of sprouted-wheat toast.
“Look, Mike,” he said, sipping his coffee and patting his lips dry. “I’ve got a very exclusive job for you. Can you borrow a truck?”
I immediately thought of Dale’s truck, then Rocindo’s truck.
“Something that looks decent?” Goble added.
I tried unsuccessfully to think of someone else’s truck.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll borrow one. Hell, maybe I should just buy one. It’d be handy. Look, this is the country club we’re talking about. It doesn’t get more exclusive. This place has zero turnover. If they do sell, they usually use Sotheby’s or one of their own. I had to do several favors to land this listing. And I mean direct favors. Three percent of 6.6 mil—do the math. I’ll do it for you: it’s a lot. So don’t fuck this up, Mike. And I don’t mean the yard. I know you’re good. But you gotta look like a pro for this one. This is one of the most exclusive communities in Washington we’re about to infiltrate. They don’t want to see For Sale signs in their neighborhood, and they don’t wanna see Mexicans, either—Mexican Mexicans, I mean. You’re okay, we already went over that. What they really want to see is a whole lot of old white people eating leg of lamb and swinging croquet mallets. But times are tough, even for some of these people.”
“Screw those people.”
“Shhh,” he said. “See, this is what I’m worried about with you. Team Goble has to look like a classy outfit. You’ve got to suck it up a little and quit with all this grumbling. I’m not asking you to go to Princeton and start wearing a bow tie, but clean up a bit, comb your hair. Go out and buy a pair of coveralls—white, if you can find them. Yeah, white, that’s genius. Rich people like stuff that’s hard to maintain. I’m going to get you a truck temporarily. But eventually, you’re going to have to buy your own. You can’t drive around with a lawn mower in the trunk of your Datsun and expect to make a living wage.”
“It’s a Toyota. So pay me more, and I’ll get my own truck. I’ll get some white coveralls. I’ll get a haircut. I’ll get new tools.”
He considered me closely for a while—my dark hair, my olive skin, my dark eyes, my missing teeth. “If you don’t fuck it up, I’ll pay you twenty-five.”
“That’s too much,” I said.
“Make it twenty-four, then.”
“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 morn
ing, bright and early, old Mike Muñoz, 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 Muñoz. A Mike Muñoz 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 Muñoz 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 Muñoz!
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 Muñoz, 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?
Finally, for lack of anything else to do, I retired to the truck for my spanking-new broom and began sweeping the brick walkways. After a while, I was visited by the distinct sensation that someone was watching me, like I was back at Truman’s all over again. Once, glancing at the fortress next door, an equally formidable Victorian edifice, I saw an upstairs curtain waver, then a shadowy figure peeking out from behind said curtain. I pictured Miss Havisham or some other waxworks skeleton lurking up there, subsisting on a diet of dust and spiders. It gave me the creeps. So I swept my way farther in the direction of the greenhouse, but the whole time I felt like I had a target on my back. Finally, I swept my way around the far corner of the house, where I was free from observation.
With nothing to occupy myself, I returned to the truck for my rake, figuring I could clean up the rose beds. As soon as I was out front of the house, the eyes were on me again. I could’ve sworn I’d seen some movement behind the hydrangea next door, maybe fifty yards away. Otherwise, the whole country club was eerily still. The place seemed deserted. No kids shrieking, no dogs barking, no bottle rockets whizzing overhead. No idling diesel delivery trucks. What seemed idyllic a half hour ago felt suddenly haunted.
Shrugging off my uneasiness, I set to work on the rose beds, raking out the debris. I was at it about five minutes, marveling at the fact that for every two and half minutes I worked, I was making a buck, when a voice startled me from my reverie.
“ ‘They would fall as light / As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be / Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!’ ”
I turned to find a silver-haired fox about sixty, in wire-rimmed glasses, pink chinos, and a baby-blue polo shirt. His hair was perfect: thick as hell, powder white. Good-looking guy, too, and statuesque. Imagine a third-term senator, with a slight drinker’s tan.
“Those autumn damasks came all the way from Europe,” he said. “My mother remembers when they put them in the ground. Jud Piggot,” he said, extending a hand. “You must be Doug’s new lawn boy.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
He smiled, but I didn’t smile back, because I didn’t want him to see my teeth.
He looked me up and down like a side of lamb. I couldn’t help but straighten up a little in my white coveralls, aware of my scuffed boots.
“What do you think of this old place?” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Think somebody will buy it?”
“If they can afford it, yeah.”
He chuckled like I’d made an inside joke. “Say, when you’re all done here, suppose you could come over and take a look at my Cartiers? Fear I’ve got a touch of black spot.”
“Uh, sure. I guess that’d be cool.”
“Great. Come around to the side door when you’re ready.”
He gave a little nod and walked away. The guy had a breezy walk and an altogether breezy manner. Hands in pockets, shoulders loose.
Roses were not my specialty, but I knew my way around them a little bit. Not that I was any expert in black spot, but I had a few ideas about r
oses based on years of observation. In my experience, most rich people liked to tend their own roses.
Viewed from the outside, Piggot’s place was meticulous: a neat wall of laurel, pruned to a vertical face. But inside the perimeter, the place was wild. Out-of-control hydrangeas. Blighted juniper. Rogue lavender. My old nemesis, morning glory, had claimed one of the outbuildings.
I was greeted at the side door by a pair of fat little pugs, snuffling like emphysemics. Persistent little fuckers. One of them started lifting his leg on the cuff of my coveralls, so I gave him a little nudge with my boot. That’s when Piggot emerged from the side door.
“Willoughby!” he scolded. “Stop this instant.”
The little pug kept at it, nuzzling my ankle.
“Willoughby!”
Piggot’s second command unheeded, the other pug scurried for the hedges just as Piggot strode up and gave Willoughby a swift kick in the ass. The little guy squeaked like a rubber toy, but within seconds, he was back at it, panting and wheezing like he was in heat, his tongue darting rapidly in and out of his ridiculous sad-eyed face. You had to admire his spirit.
Finally, Piggot scooped him up and banished him inside.
“Territorial,” he explained.
Piggot led me around the old house to the small rose garden, which was the only feature on the grounds, aside from the laurel blockade, that had undergone any recent attempt at cultivation. Still, it was pretty sad. There were four or five varieties, all suffering one malady or another.
“What’s the prognosis?” said Piggot.
“That big spruce on the bluff isn’t helping your cause.”
“I don’t follow.”
“See how it’s starting to lean to the south as it slides down the bluff? It’s blocking your sunlight.”
“Ah,” said Piggot.
“But that’s only part of the problem. I don’t think you’re getting good drainage. This is low ground. Either you’ve got to do something about that spruce, which is holding up your hillside from the looks of it, or you’ve got to move the roses somewhere else. That’s probably the better option.”