Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [11]
They shuffled among themselves like shy boys at a dance.
“Luis!” called Red. “Fix these fellows what they want and put it on my tab.”
The plumber stepped forward. A sallow young man of about thirty, he came close and spoke to Red in a low voice. “She let us off, said the work that was going to get done was done. I tried to tell her, just let me finish this one U-joint and I could at least turn the water back on. She said no, we should pack up our tools and go home.” He pulled his blue Dodger cap low on his forehead. “We did what she said, put our tools in our trucks, but you know, she owes all of us money—me quite a lot, as a matter of fact, since I’m under contract. So we stood there, thinking she’d come out with the checks. We waited and waited; then she and the boy came out all loaded down with suitcases. Look …” He stopped, removed his cap, and looked deeply into it, as if to read his next line or find a way to keep from speaking further, then gave up and put the cap back on. “I hate to be the one to tell you this.”
“It’s all right,” Red said. “Don’t worry. Go on.”
“Well, I think she was real surprised to see us all there on the porch. I had to step up and ask her for our money. I was real polite about it, I just said, ‘If the job’s really done, I guess we need to be paid.’ She looked at us for the longest time, with that suitcase in one hand, your boy’s hand in the other, then told the kid to go inside and she followed him. We stood there for ten minutes, sure she was writing our checks. But a couple of guys swore they saw her peeking out to see if we’d gone. Finally she came out, only this time she had that old shotgun you’ve been using on the ground squirrels.”
“Come on,” said Red.
“I’m not kidding,” said the plumber. “I know it’s just a four-ten single shot, but it doesn’t seem all that harmless when it’s stuck right up in your face. She was crying, crazy, saying stuff like, ‘I know where you guys go every night. You go down to that bar with the dopey name and get my husband to buy you drinks all night.’ Said we’d already been paid. She’d seen your monthly tabs, and we’d drunk up all our pay.”
“She knows drinks don’t cost that much,” said Red. “She’s just upset.”
“Oh, I know she’s upset,” said the plumber. “And we didn’t want to make her more upset. She could be in enough trouble as it is—brandishing a weapon and all. Some of the guys want to press charges.”
“Now, hold on,” said Red. “Everyone’s going to get his money.” Red told the men to wait while he went across the street to fetch his checkbook. He hurried back, sat down at the bar, and ordered a shot of Early Times with a beer wash. After another shot, he started writing checks, although his lawyering self feared she’d already cleaned out the accounts. That was always his first advice to female dissolution clients: clean out the bank accounts, rent a U-Haul, and take everything that’s not nailed down. Get yourself into a bargaining position. …
The men came up one by one, naming their prices and taking their checks, then leaving their drinks and drifting out until only the plumber remained. He folded his check, stuck it in his shirt pocket. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay,” Red said.
The plumber left and Red drank some more. He remembered the court recorder and the client, then forgot them again. When the three o’clock whistle blew at the packing plant, he got up and walked outside. Yvette was parked across the street in the Mercedes. Joe was in the front seat next to her. Between Red and his family, two large retrievers slept in the middle of Main Street. Red gazed helplessly at his wife, her face framed and dark within the car. Did she want to speak to him? Did she want him to speak to her? On both scores, he thought not. She just liked these