Nobody's Fool

“That’s a big house, Mr. Anderson.” He’d located the house, the largest on Upper Main, in his mind.
    â€œThe plan is to convert it into a B-and-B,” Miles Anderson confided.
    â€œOkay, I’ll bite,” Sully said. “What’s a B-and-B, besides brandy?”
    â€œBed-and-breakfast,” Anderson explained. “Surely you’ve heard of bed-and-breakfasts?”
    â€œNever.”
    â€œThey’re the rage.”
    â€œOkay,” Sully said agreeably.
    A good pause. “Anyway, the place is in, shall we say, imperfect condition. In fact, the whole place needs sprucing up.”
    â€œSprucing?” Sully said.
    â€œA little of everything, I fear. Painting. Lots of painting. Plumbing. Electrical. Insulation. Also yard work. Two tree stumps that need digging up and carting off. There’s time, though. I won’t actually need to take possession until spring. Mid-May, in all likelihood. The plan is to open in August for the racing season.”
    â€œI don’t do electrical work,” Sully said. “I can recommend someone though.”
    â€œYes … well … that might work, mightn’t it?”
    â€œIt might,” Sully said. In fact, he was calculating in his head just how well. A winter’s worth of work, done at his own pace, when his knee permitted. Good timing, too. After the ground froze, Carl Roebuck would have little for him until late April.
    â€œI understand you own a truck?” Miles Anderson said.
    â€œMost days.”
    â€œYou own it most days?”
    â€œI own it every day. It runs most days.”
    â€œI see. Yes. Well, what else can I tell you? It’s going to be strenuous work, I fear.”
    Since Miles Anderson made that sound like a question, Sully answered it. “I’m used to strenuous work.”
    â€œHmmm. Yes. Well. All right then. Listen, I hope you don’t mind my asking how old you are?”
    â€œI’m sixty,” Sully told him. “How old are you?”
    â€œTouché. I wonder. Would you be willing to drop by sometime tomorrow morning and see the place? Give me an estimate? I have to be back to the city in the afternoon.”
    â€œWhich city?”
    â€œNew York City. I wonder. Did your hourly rate just go up?”
    â€œNo,” Sully said. His hourly rate had gone up when Miles Anderson had used the phrase “mightn’t it.”
    They agreed that Sully would meet him at the house at eleven. Sully took down the address. “I live about two blocks from there,” he said.
    â€œIndeed,” Miles Anderson said, his voice rich with indifference.
    â€œWho recommended me, by the way?” Sully thought to ask before hanging up.
    â€œSeveral people,” Miles Anderson said. “You have an excellent local reputation.”
    Sully hung up. He’d considered asking Miles Anderson if he had any objection to paying him under the table, but decided that part of the negotiation could wait. Miles Anderson didn’t sound like a man who’d be hung up on an ethical matter.
    Wirf was nearly finished with Sully’s dinner when he returned. “I just talked to a man who said I had an excellent reputation,” he told Wirf.
    Wirf wiped a patch of glistening gravy from his chin with a cocktail napkin. “Out-of-towner, huh?”
    â€œNew York,” Sully said.
    â€œBig job?”
    â€œAll winter, sounds like.”
    â€œHe’ll pay you under the table?”
    â€œI didn’t mention it yet, but I will.”
    â€œGood, no records. They catch you working, we’re kaput.” Wirf said, then added, “Hey, I got a hell of an idea. Let’s you and me sit right here and drink beer all night.”
    â€œOkay,” Sully agreed, deciding not to mention the man in the dark sedan or the fact that he might already have been caught. In fact, he halfhoped he had been caught. Then the die would be cast. Right this minute, he felt good. His knee was murmuring but not singing. Could it be things were looking up? Had he yanked himself out of his stupid streak in record time? It was a possibility worth contemplating. “Maybe if we stay right here long enough that deadbeat bartender will buy a round.”

FRIDAY

    C live Jr. sat across the breakfast table from his mother, trying to match the splinters of the demolished Queen Anne chair, which sat in an impressive pile at his feet. His mother was fully