There, I pick up my phone and call my boss at Patten Securities, “Hey Slate.”
“S’up?”
“Is next week still on?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I may need a few more jobs until Suds and Sam gets off the ground.”
“Huh.” In Slate-speak, when the line goes silent, it means he’s waiting for an explanation.
“I’m trying to stash some money away for a ring but holy shit. Every time I get a few pennies to rub together, it goes someplace else. I want to do right by her.”
“And Sam?”
“She says she don’t mind but I’m damn tired of her family making remarks about her naked left hand.” At my pathetic admission, a young woman stops cleaning tables and gives me a look of pure pity.
My friend, however has no such mercy. “The rock’s not important. Talk to her.”
“I’ll get right on it.” I picture myself on one knee and her disappointed face as she opens a fuzzy box with a tiny diamond. Damned if that wouldn’t suck wind.
“Check your emails. I sent you Dana Springfield’s contact information. He’s divorcing his third wife and wants proof of infidelity. I got to go.” He hangs up without saying goodbye and I grin. Unlike me, Slate spends words as if they were hundred dollar bills.
I send the famous actor an introductory email and put him on the list of folks to call later. Hopefully, he won’t nickel and dime us to death. The only thing worse than a cheating spouse is a rich one.
Thoughts of infidelity conjures my past and images flash in my mind’s eye. Still dressed in fatigues, my dad tousles my hair, grabs his green duffle bag and walks out the door.
“Daddy? Dad? Come back.” I run down the cracked sidewalk after him and he turns with tears in his eyes.
“I got to go, Sebby.”
“But why can’t you stay here with me and Mom?”
“Grown up reasons. I’ll come get you this weekend and we’ll talk.”
People ought not to get married unless they plan on staying together. They need to be damn sure, especially if there are kids involved.
Back at home, the jackhammer continues nonstop. Catrina yowls, my teeth grind, and I check the web for noise ordinances in Brooklyn. Apparently, it’s perfectly alright, between the hours of eight AM and seven PM to drive folks fucking batshit.
Online, I order two top-of-the-line noise-cancelling headphones, making sure they arrive tomorrow. We can deduct them from our taxes at the end of the year because we sure as hell can’t do business without them.
Not only that, we’ll have to figure out someplace to meet with our customers.
I suppose, not having clients in our office for a few days, could be a sign. The grout in the shower crumbled away at least fifty years ago and I’m sure the floor underneath is rotten. The dentist, the former occupant, used the area as storage.
After shutting off our water, I lift a few tiles with a crowbar and moan.
“Damn, Catrina. Would you look at that rot?”
The kitten comes in, sniffs, then dashes under the couch.
Closing the door so she won’t get hurt, I smash shit and don’t notice the passing of time until Sam pats me on the shoulder.
Her brown eyes widen and her jaw drops as she stares at the demolished room. “Oh my God! What have you done?”
“What?” Lifting my gaze, I view the scene through her eyes.Okay, I may have gone a tad overboard.
“You said a little tiling. This is… Oh shit. How long is this going to take?”
