Thriller, page 20
In front of him on the concrete walkway, joggers trotted past. Most were frowning. In pain? He laughed. He could tell them about muscle pain—after eight-hour days spent doing what he did.
To Miguel’s left, on an adjoining bench, a businessman had doffed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He sloughed back and gazed upward, as if praying for a tan.
Miguel took in the Mixmaster blend of all of the sounds cascading, swirling, descending upon him—and the laughter, the caw of gulls, the slap of water, the voices . . .
He remained motionless, a man lost in thought, for ten minutes, then rose and tossed his trash into a nearby bin, much to the disappointment—and ire—of a large gull.
Returning to the sidewalk, he paused momentarily and glanced into the Harbor, then walked steadily from the park.
Miguel Torres had work to do.
The next morning, he was on Paxton Street, which was tucked between the Brighton Heights and Stapleton Heights neighborhoods of Staten Island.
He wore what he usually did on the job: jeans and a flannel shirt—today gray and blue—over a black T-shirt. Today was summer scented and even warmer than yesterday and he’d left his jacket in the truck.
Much of the huge island, one of the five boroughs, or counties, of New York City, had been gentrified. These particular blocks had not been—but they hadn’t needed much spiffing. The houses were old but masterfully and solidly built. They were kept up well, and little trim was in need of painting. Most had decent-sized yards, both front and back. Miguel was presently hard at work, engaged in his most effective sales effort: walking from house to house and offering the occupants one of his cards or leaving one on the doorstep if no one was home. If he did have the chance to meet the homeowner and they were willing to listen, he’d offer a brief description of what he might do to make their property more beautiful.
And safer.
As was the case now.
He was standing in front of a single-family home in what was called gingerbread style, the gray siding like fish scales, the roof shingled with dark red asphalt. The windows were of beveled glass, the doorknob and hinges polished brass. He guessed the structure was one hundred years old.
The small front yard consisted of carelessly mowed and under-fertilized grass. Some dirt beds were home to a few shrubs and flowing plants, looking none too healthy.
What took his attention, though, was the dominant element of the property: a towering oak, sixty feet high. He knew the rate at which hardwood trees grew and he supposed that it had been planted as a sapling when the construction of the house was completed.
Miguel walked to the front door, rang the bell.
He heard footsteps and a moment later a woman opened the door. She was about his age, maybe a bit older, and had a narrow, striking face and abundant blond hair tied up in a ponytail.
“Yes?” she asked. If she was cautious about a stranger at the door, she gave no evidence of it.
“Hi. Good morning.” He had studied English from his grammar school days, and he had only a faint accent.
He offered his card.
A-One Landscaping
Miguel Torres
Trees, plantings, irrigation, stump removal, carting
Licensed and Bonded.
She glanced at it, then behind him, at his truck, a twenty-two foot Chevy 6500, which he kept in immaculate shape (the cleanliness was part of his sales pitch—to demonstrate his responsibility and the care he took in his work). The woman was in jeans and a close-fitting light-blue blouse. Her necklace was a cross. So, most likely a Catholic, like him.
“Oh, I’m renting. I can give you the number of the owner. He’d be the one to talk to about any work.”
She wasn’t from Staten Island. There’s a unique way native islanders talk. Her sentences would have diminished in volume at the end and trailed off to silence. And “owner” would likely have been “owniz” and “number” “numbaz.” Locals often added an “s” sound to singular words.
She also had a faint accent that was definitely not from the Island: He believed it was southern.
Miguel said, “Sure. I can call him. But I wanted to point out something. There’s a problem.” He turned to the oak. “That branch is about to come down.”
The twenty-foot limb drooped over her SUV, a black Honda, which was showing a dusting of pollen from the very oak tree that was threatening to cave in its roof.
“I never noticed it.” She stepped out onto the front porch and studied the branch, which was about a foot in diameter where it had begun splitting off from the trunk.
“What happened?”
“Could’ve been anything. Wind or that ice storm last winter. Maybe age. The tree’s healthy otherwise.”
She turned to him. They were about eye to eye, his deep brown, hers a glowing blue.
“I’m Katherine. With a K.” She noted his card. “And it’s your company. You’re Miguel?”
“With an M.”
A beat of a moment and she laughed.
They shook hands. He was always careful about this. His palms were calloused and very strong. But she didn’t shy, and her grip was firm too. When their hands retreated, she didn’t look away but scanned his face for a moment.
He too held her eyes, with a cocked head, then turned to the front of the property. “I’m thinking this could be a nice yard.”
“The owner doesn’t do very much. Obviously.”
“I wouldn’t mind getting a contract.” His eyes returned to hers. “Let me propose something. I’ll take care of the branch for nothing. If you could tell the owner about it and give him my number . . . What do you think?”
She debated for a moment. Then: “Well, you can’t beat the price. A deal. I’ll move the Honda.”
Katherine turned and with her left hand reached up and pulled some keys off a hook just inside the door. She was not wearing a wedding or engagement ring.
She backed into the street, then parked in front of his truck.
Miguel got his climbing gear from the back bed and one of the smaller chainsaws.
“You mind if I watch?”
He laughed. “Won’t be as dramatic as a hundred-foot redwood coming down. But be my guest.”
After mounting the climbing spikes on his boots, he slung the canvas strap around the tree and clipped it to the rings on his utility belt. The chainsaw went over his shoulder. He flipped the strap upward so that it encircled the trunk about three feet above his head. He pulled it taut and, flexing his arms and climbing with the spiked boots, moved upward. He kept repeating the process until he was at the branch.
He glanced back and saw her sitting on the porch studying him.
She called, “Like Spiderman.”
He chuckled and pulled on goggles and yellow ear protectors then fired up the chainsaw. It took only four strategic cuts for gravity to take over and the limb fell to the ground as undramatically as Miguel had promised.
He now descended and removed the climbing gear. He untucked and removed his flannel shirt, folded and set it on a boxwood nearby. The T-shirt revealed his muscular frame and from the corner of his eye he saw Katherine swiftly study his torso and then look back to the branch.
He tugged the saw to life once more and within a few minutes the limb had become six separate logs.
Removing the goggles and earmuffs, he asked, “You want it stacked for firewood? It’ll have to dry for a few months.”
“I won’t be here much longer than that myself. I don’t think the fireplace works anyway.”
“I’ll get rid of it.”
In Staten Island homeowners can leave their own yard waste at curbside for pickup, but what professional landscapers generate has to be hauled away by them. One by one, Miguel squatted, lifted the wood, and threw it in the bed of his truck. Each weighed about fifty pounds, he guessed, but they were nothing for him.
“Where will you take it?” Katherine asked.
“We have approved dump sites. Not too far.”
He wiped his forehead with his shirt, then replaced it on the shrub.
“Would you like some water?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
Inside, the house was quite nice. Majestuosa—stately—was the word that came to mind.
It featured wood-paneled walls, leaded-glass panels in the doors, red-and-black oriental carpets, and more brass fixtures.
“You mind if I wash my hands?”
She pointed to a bathroom and Miguel stepped inside. Like in many old houses there were separate hot and cold faucets, with the hot too searing to use alone. He filled the basin, washed with a lavender foam soap, and then rinsed off in cold water.
He joined Katherine in the spacious kitchen, where she moved a stack of papers off the high-top island. This room seemed to serve as an office.
“Take a seat,” she said, indicating the stools.
He hesitated briefly and then sat. While customers sometimes offered him water, none had ever asked him to sit down; they usually seemed eager that he finish his drink and leave.
“Or coffee?”
This had never been offered either.
“No, just water’s fine.”
She got a glass from a cabinet, added ice, and filled it from the faucet. He wondered if she’d sit too, but no. She remained standing and sipped from a coffee mug.
After a moment of silence, he asked, “You’re only here for a while?”
Katherine replied, “I work in IT—you know, internet. A four-month assignment. It’s usually cheaper to rent a house than pay for an extended-stay hotel.” She looked him up and down again. “You done landscaping all your life?”
“No, no. Started five years ago, when I came here from Mexico.”
“I only ask because . . .” Her voice trailed off, and not because of a Staten Island dialect. She seemed to regret where her comment had been going. About his excellent English and grammar, he guessed.
“Down there I wore a suit and tie.” His shoulders rose and fell. “But my degree didn’t mean much here, so I started my own company.”
“That’s not fair.” She was frowning.
“I thought so at first, but I like this better. Much better. I’m my own boss. Outside, working with my hands.”
“Why’d you leave?”
His face darkened “Too dangerous. The cartels. A new president comes in. ‘Oh, I’ll clean it up. I’ll make the country safe . . .’ A joke. They never do. I brought my parents and sister too. They’re in California.”
“But you didn’t go there?”
“No. I like New York. It’s special.”
“It is. Very special. I’ll be sad to leave when the job’s over.”
She refilled the coffee mug, which did not seem to need refilling. “You mentioned your family . . . Anybody else come with you?”
“No. Just us.” A pause. “There was a woman I was seeing.” He shrugged. “She could have come. But she wanted to stay. I can’t blame her. It’s the hardest thing in the world, leaving your family. She couldn’t do it.”
He thought about Consuela a lot. He tried not to but that usually proved to be impossible.
“You’ll meet somebody here.”
“I’m in no hurry. My mother always says, ‘Just wait and see what fate has in store for you.’ ”
“That sounds a little . . . can I say? Ominous.”
“I always thought that too.”
They shared a laugh and their eyes met once more. Was she offering a flirt, perhaps an invitation of some sort?
He wasn’t sure.
But what he did know for certain was that he was.
The spell broke. He finished the water and rose. “I should go.”
Together, they walked to the front door and onto the porch. She glanced out into the yard. “That other work you wanted to do here. Why don’t you just come back and do it? If the landlord won’t pay I’ll get my company to.”
“Well . . .”
“No. Really. It’s too nice a yard to look like it does now. Gets prettified, it’ll be nice to sit on the steps and have a glass of wine.”
“‘Prettified.’ That’s a new one to me.”
Katherine’s eyes were very much the color of Upper New York Bay on a sunny summer afternoon.
Another silence. Neither moved.
He came a second away from easing forward to see how receptive she’d be to a kiss. He sensed: a lot.
But then he told himself firmly: Careful there.
Which he modified to: Take. Your. Time.
“I can start tomorrow?” asked Miguel.
“Tomorrow would be perfect.”
Overnight the temperature had dropped, and it was now ten degrees cooler than yesterday. Overcast and windier too.
The oak, one limb less, swayed, and the budding leaves rustled.
Miguel hit the doorbell button and just a moment later he was aware of footsteps approaching.
Katherine opened the door. She was smiling. He reciprocated. And, though it seemed like an odd gesture, he stuck his hand out. She gripped it firmly and the contact lingered.
He couldn’t stop his eyes from sweeping down and then back up. Her outfit was of gray, shimmery cloth, silky. Almost like pajamas.
No, exactly like pajamas.
“Morning,” he said.
“Buenos dias.”
He laughed. Her pronunciation was terrible. “So. With the wind, I checked the tree again. All good. You’re safe from falling branches.” He noted she’d kept it parked on the street overnight.
“My hero.”
“I’ve got lime and fertilizer and some acid for the hydrangeas. Rose food too. Where would you like me to start?”
A frown, a tilt of her head. “Here.” She took his right hand and put it on her breast.
Miguel was motionless for a moment. One had to be careful nowadays of course, but if this didn’t qualify as “consent” he didn’t know what might. So he slid his other hand around her waist to the small of her back and pulled her to him, kissing her hard.
She gripped his lips with her teeth. Then opened her mouth and kissed him back just as passionately.
Katherine turned and led him into the hallway, closing the door behind them. Then, still gripping his hand firmly led him into the bedroom. The lace curtains were partially open, and you could see a portion of the gardens surrounding the backyard. They were in even worse shape than those in the front.
Miguel Torres didn’t care.
He opened his eyes to find her dressing.
It was noon. Two hours had passed since he’d arrived, and only the past fifteen or twenty minutes had been devoted to sleep.
She noticed he was awake and smiled.
He did too.
And told himself not to think of Consuela. Though he did, concluding that, as good as such times had been with her, none had risen to this level.
He sat up, swung his feet to the floor. Sipped from the bottle of water on the bedside table. She’d set it there while he dozed.
Katherine walked close and kissed him. She whispered, “Sleepyhead.”
“I’m awake now.”
She glanced down. “You certainly are.”
He lifted an eyebrow. It was an invitation. To accept or reject as she wished.
She clicked her tongue and her face registered disappointment. “I’ve got an associate who’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Well,” Miguel offered, “maybe tomorrow.”
She frowned.
He shook his head.
She said, “What’s wrong with tonight?”
His answer was a firm kiss.
Miguel rose to wash up and dress while she made the bed.
Together they walked into the kitchen.
“Coffee now?”
He’d been just a water-drinking handyman yesterday. His status had changed.
“Black.”
As she poured two cups the doorbell sounded.
“That’d be Tim,” she said, handing him the brew. He took it and sipped. Strong. He liked it.
She walked to the front door and opened it, letting inside a stocky man in his thirties, dressed in jeans, a white dress shirt, and a navy blazer. He was blond, his hair longish. He carried a backpack on one shoulder, a computer bag over the other. It dangled at his side like a large purse.
He said to Katherine, “Morning,” though his eyes were on Miguel.
She introduced him and added, “He’s a friend.”
Miguel had wondered if she’d say, “My gardener.”
“Nice to meet you.”
Miguel’s impression, however, was that he didn’t feel it was so very nice. A smile was on his face, but it was one of those smiles—of questionable DNA.
The men gripped hands. Tim’s fingers were long but were the digits of a computer person, not an outdoor worker.
Miguel was careful not to exert too much pressure.
She poured Tim some coffee, as well, and added cream and sugar.
He took several sips and then set the cup down on the island and opened the computer bag. He extracted his laptop, a big one, the seventeen-inch model. He set this on the kitchen table, tugged open the lid, and booted the Dell up. After loading some documents or diagrams—Miguel couldn’t see clearly—he scanned the screen and pointed to some portion of it. Katherine bent down and read.
She said, “Good. They delivered on time. We’re right on schedule.”
Tim nodded but his face didn’t register the same satisfaction hers did.
Which had nothing to do with their project. Tim was jealous.
As Tim looked over Katherine, Miguel studied him. He was not an attractive man, but round and fidgety, unathletic—a high school student who’d kept waiting to flower, to slip from nerd to cool, but had never been able to get beyond the video-gaming, candy-sneaking, girl-ogling years.
His crush on Katherine would run deep and he knew she would always be interested in the Miguels of the world. He would have talents, important ones—like making sure things ran “right on schedule”—but that was different.
Tim, of course, couldn’t resent her, not openly, given the infatuation and the obvious fact that she was his superior.
