Tales of the City 08 - Mary Ann in Autumn

ELANO’S M ARKET WAS JUST AROUND the corner from the dog park, but Ben took Roman all the way back to where the car was parked on Eureka, so he could drive into the market’s basement entrance. This was one of the few occasions when he’d leave Roman in the car, having heard too many stories about dogs being snatched for use as “bait” in dogfights. It sickened him to think that such cruelty could happen here, but it did, and not infrequently. In fact, one of Roman’s playmates at the park, a nervous little boxer named Mercy, had been rescued during a dogfight bust in the Excelsior.
    Leaving a window cracked, Ben locked the Prius and headed up the stairs to the market. Just before he reached the top, his cell phone tingled against his thigh, so he retrieved it from a tangle of biodegradable poop bags and checked the readout.
    It was Michael’s gardening assistant, a cub named Jake Greenleaf.
    “Hey there,” said Ben.
    “Hey, Ben. You seen your hubby? He’s not picking up, and one of our clients is looking for him.”
    “He should be at the house,” said Ben.
    “He’s not answering, if he is.”
    “Then he must be with Mary Ann.”
    “Who?”
    “You know … the one who came out when Anna had her stroke.”
    “The hot Connecticut mess?”
    Ben chuckled. “Whatever.”
    “What’s she doing here?”
    “I dunno. It’s all very mysterious.”
    “Well, if you hear from him, tell him Karl Rove’s got a bug up his ass again.”
    “Will he know what that means?”
    “Oh, yeah,” said Jake. “Oh, yeah.”

Chapter 3
Solid Proof
    T he nastiest clients, in Jake’s opinion, were not the rich ones but the ones who used to be rich, the ones who made a huge wad during the dot-com boom and lost it in a big way. Downsizing, as they liked to call it, had turned them into assholes who couldn’t afford a driver anymore but still wanted a gardener to boss around.
    Like this client—the one who looked like a younger Karl Rove—who came charging out of his house the moment Jake returned his cell phone to his backpack.
    “Did you reach him?”
    “Not yet. I left a message.”
    The client grunted and rolled his eyes.
    Jake had tried to be nice to this loser, but the guy was always such a dick. He never asked for Jake’s opinion about anything. When Michael wasn’t around, in fact, he barely spoke to Jake at all. Jake was just a day laborer in Karl Rove’s eyes, not a junior partner in the business, and these failed dot-commers always had to talk to the boss.
    “Here’s the deal,” said Jake. “This is my specialty. I’ve been doing rock gardens for Michael for over three years. If you wanna turn that fountain back into a planter you’re gonna need drainage, and that means we’re gonna hafta hammer a hole in that concrete. You can talk to Michael, but he’ll just tell you the same thing—”
    “I don’t doubt that, Jason—”
    “Jake.”
    “Whatever … Jake.”
    “I spoke to Michael’s husband,” Jake said evenly. “He’s dealing with a family emergency.” It wasn’t the truth, but it was sort of the truth and easier than explaining that Michael’s favorite drama queen had just rolled into town with a fresh steaming load of drama. Besides, Michael was pushing sixty and having serious issues with one of his rotator cuffs. He had earned the right to some downtime, whatever the reason.
    Jake lifted the jackhammer off the ground, letting it swing from his hand gunslinger-style. “Want me to keep going?”
    The client nodded sullenly. “Yeah … just have Michael call me.”
    “No problem.”
    Napoleon headed back toward the house, then stopped and turned with a mean little smirk on his face. “You might wanna …” He tapped his forefinger against his cheek. “Your beard is splattered with something.”
    He knows, thought Jake. He knows and he’s having fun with me .
    Jake’s free hand shot to his beard and made an exploratory search. “Oh … the jackhammer. Hit a wet spot. Hope it wasn’t cat shit.”
    He was trying to show that he was indifferent to mud and beyond humiliation by this douche bag, but the wildfire raging across his face told another story. He hated those telltale blushes. They came less often these days, but when they did, they came with a holy vengeance. And that wasn’t who he was anymore. Or at least who he wanted to be.
    Maybe it’s the testosterone, he thought. Maybe the hormone intensifies what’s already there—like it does with hair growth and