by Rob Byrnes
To which Chase said, “Don’t worry, Farraday. The doctors and lawyers of Virginia are probably more afraid of crooks from Brooklyn than you are of them.”
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.” Farraday maneuvered the car around yet another curve in the road. Before them, another two dozen almost-identical McMansions lined both sides of Old Stone Fence Post Road, bricked front façades and pale yellow siding and rear façades almost blending together.
Grant pointed at a mailbox just ahead of them.
“Four-fifty-five.”
“So it is.” Farraday slowed the car and turned into the driveway.
When the engine was off, they sat in the car for a moment, staring at the house.
“Nice place,” Grant finally said.
“McMansion,” said Chase.
“Shuddup.”
They took their bags from the trunk and followed a slate walkway to the small concrete porch. Grant fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. Their entrance was greeted by a loud chirp; Grant found the security alarm panel on the wall behind the door and punched in the code Lisa had given him. A mechanical voice of indeterminate gender cheerfully announced, one evenly spaced syllable at a time, “A. Larm. Off. Wel. Come. Home.”
Grant picked up at the point the alarm’s voice left off as they stepped into the foyer. “Welcome to our living quarters for the next several weeks, gentlemen.” He flipped a light switch and a chandelier glowed, barely noticeable in the sunlight already flooding the atrium stretching two stories above them.
They eyed the foyer warily, as if afraid the legitimate owner would show up and call the cops. To the right, a wide curved stairway ascended to the second floor; to the left and straight ahead, arched openings led to the house’s interior; left-center, a carpeted stairway led downstairs.
“I don’t know if I can handle this many ways in and out and up and down,” said Grant.
“Think of ’em as escape routes,” said Chase.
“I guess if we have to hole up, this is as good as it’s gonna get.” Farraday selected the opening under the center archway to start his exploration of the house, then made a sharp left.
Chase followed. “Yeah, you only wish you could live in a place like this.”
Grant followed Chase. “I know I do.”
Farraday said, “Might as well get familiar with the place, since it’s gonna be home for the next—Holy crap!” He stopped so abruptly that Grant and Chase walked into him.
“What’s this?” asked Chase, trying to make out the dark room.
Farraday said, “I think it’s a kitchen. A real kitchen, not a New York kitchen.”
Grant found the light switch. It was indeed the kitchen. “Did this lawyer guy run a restaurant out of the joint or something?” He gawked at the room, mentally tallying the number of cupboards, stoves, and pantries, instinctively working out how much they could hide and how well they could hide it. “The kitchen’s bigger than our apartment. It’s almost a shame we’re gonna mostly use it for takeout pizza.”
Farraday rubbed his hands along the wide island in the center of the room. Chase noticed his thick body was pressed tightly against the granite countertop and his eyes were closed.
“You okay, Farraday?”
A smile—small, but since this was Farraday, it counted as a smile—worked its way to the driver’s lips. “Better than okay. This is heaven.”
Grant wasn’t buying Farraday’s happiness. Farraday was never happy. “What do you know about kitchens? Except they can be used to store booze.”
The big man’s hand continued to stroke the granite. “I’m a chef.”
To which Grant said, “Get the hell outta here.” When Farraday didn’t answer, he added, “Really?”
Farraday finally opened his eyes. “Really.” He looked at his companions; doubt was painted on their faces. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Lambert.” He stroked the granite one more time. “You think all I can do is drive? We’re gonna do some good eating on this job.”
That was another thing Grant wasn’t buying. “Weren’t you the guy who was just telling us the Quarter-Pounders are better in Jersey?”
“Actually,” said Farraday, “I’m more of a Big Mac man. Especially from the McDonald’s out 46 near Teterboro. But that don’t mean I can’t handle a kitchen.”
“Okay, if you say so.” The skepticism was pronounced in Grant’s voice. “Now let’s check out the rest of the place. And it might be a good idea to memorize all the exits, ’cause I got a feeling a grease fire is in our future.”
And so they did, and nothing disappointed them, not that their standards were especially high. They were used to grimy walls, peeling paint, and vermin. Anything else could pass for the Waldorf.
But this place topped the Waldorf, or at least what they imagined the Waldorf was like, since the doormen would’ve never let them through the front door and the Teamsters kept chasing them away from the loading dock. From the living room with the 72-inch high definition television mounted on the wall to the pool table and bar in the finished basement to the six large bedrooms on the second floor, every inch of every room was fully furnished and designed for comfort. They shared an unspoken belief that it’d almost be a shame to have to leave it to pull the job.
“Maybe we should forget the Cathedral and just steal the house,” joked—or maybe half joked—Chase as they stood on the second floor landing, fifteen feet above the flagstone floor of the foyer on one side, the carpeted living room on the other.
“Tempting,” Grant agreed. “Too bad Lisa rented the place under her own name, so it’s out of consideration unless we screw her over. Although…” He stepped to the other side of the landing and looked down into the living room. “That TV would look nice in our apartment.”
“The only way that TV gets into our apartment,” noted Chase, “is if we knock out most of our walls, and a few of our neighbors’.”
The three men began their descent down the stairs to the first floor. Grant stopped them as they passed an oversized window framing the front door and pointed.
“Get a load of that.”
Above the tree line, and above the roof of the McMansion across the street, rose the cross marking the location of the Virginia Cathedral of Love.
“Lisa promised us close,” said Chase. “She got us close.”
Farraday sized it up, as only Farraday could. “That’s about three-eighths of a mile away.” He squinted. “Make that three-sevenths. Less than a ten-minute walk if there’s a direct route, but the way these streets twist, I doubt it’s walkable.”
“Since our cars tend to be of the borrowed-without-permission variety,” Grant said, “we’ll have to work something out when Lisa gets here.”
“We’ll figure it out,” said Chase. “Anyway, walking is good exercise.”
Grant and Farraday stared at Chase. They didn’t believe in exercise, and they weren’t sure they believed too much in good, either.
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Their bags were not yet unpacked. They’d tossed them in the first bedrooms they’d come across until the rest of the gang—the female contingent—arrived.
In the meantime, Farraday hid the Caddy in the garage, since they all agreed a stolen car should not be sitting in their driveway where any passing busybody cop might see it. But besides exploring the house and playing six games of pool in the basement, that was all they’d done.
The three men stood in the kitchen trying to think of what they should do next, figuring maybe another game of pool sounded like a good idea.
That’s when they heard a “yoo-hoo” coming from outside the front door and hoped it was meant for someone else, because they were far more inclined to play another game of pool than answer a yoo-hoo.
“Yoo-hoo!” the woman’s voice sang out once again, which answered the question of what they’d do next.
They looked at each other and no one said or did anything until Grant slumped his shou
lders. “I’ll see who it is.”
It wasn’t a visitor; it was visitors. As in two people. As in the yoo-hooing woman—blond and toothy with excessively taut, excessively tan skin—and a man who could have been her blond, toothy, taut, tan twin.
Grant opened the door and eyed them warily. “Can I help you?”
The woman looked very briefly and quizzically at the man, and then focused a ferocious smile back at Grant.
“Welcome to the neighborhood!” she said, a bit too loudly. “I’m Tish Fielding, and this is my husband Malcolm.”
“Malcolm,” said Malcolm, feeling the need to also introduce himself. He stuck out his hand and Grant shook it. It felt impossibly soft and cool to the touch, like he soaked it in moisturizer whenever he wasn’t using it to do absolutely nothing.
“We live at 462.” She tossed her too-blond mane—a color that looked as if Chase’s highlights had taken control of her entire head—in the general direction of the opposite side of the street. “And we’re thrilled to have you as our neighbor!”
“Yes,” Malcolm added, causing Grant to wonder how he spoke without moving his jaw.
He nodded politely—or at least in an approximation of politely—and started to close the door. “Nice meeting you…”
“Just one thing,” said Tish, broadening her smile as she reached out and stopped the door from closing. Grant couldn’t help but notice the red of her nails as her fingers clamped onto the door.
“But an important thing.” Malcolm raised one index finger as he also pretended to reach for the door, but didn’t quite make contact. The tenseness in his eyes showed that he hoped his soft hands wouldn’t have to touch anything solid. Not this door; maybe nothing. Ever.
“Go ahead,” Grant said, holding the door in the half-closed position as Tish’s red nails balanced it from the other side. In his experience “just one thing” usually wasn’t good…especially when it was also “important.”
Tish said, “It’s the condition of your yard.”
Grant looked out over the yard. He lived in urban New York City and therefore didn’t have much experience with trees and grass and leaves and bushes and other green things, but it looked fine to him. “What about it?”
Lock-jawed Malcolm said, “The lawn needs to be mowed.”
“Oh.” Grant looked again, and again it seemed fine to him. It was green, wasn’t it? “You sure?”
“And,” Trish added, talking right over Grant’s doubt, “the hedges need to be trimmed. It probably wouldn’t hurt to weed the flower beds, either.”
“Oh.”
Malcolm rubbed his palms together. “We were going to complain to the HOA. But when we saw you move in, Tish and I felt it would be the neighborly thing to knock on the door and take care of things in a neighborly way.” He oh-so-neighborly strained to give Grant a neighborly smile, which made a vein in his neck quiver.
“Yes,” his wife agreed. “No sense in dragging the HOA in for such easily remedied violations.”
Grant was confused. “HOA?” He tried pronouncing it out. “What’s a hoa?”
Which in turn confused Tish. “Hoa? I have no idea what…”
“I think,” sniffed Malcolm, “our new neighbor was trying to pronounce H-O-A.”
Tish and Malcolm narrowed their eyes. Their smiles dimmed slightly and they exchanged glances that Grant read as the new neighbor doesn’t understand what we’re talking about.
So Grant asked, “Whatcha talking about?”
The Fieldings exchanged another glance, as if to decide who had the duty to explain The Way Things Worked Around Here to the imbecile in front of them. Grant picked up on that, too.
With a noncommittal shrug from Malcolm, the explanation fell to Tish. “The Home Owners’ Association, of course. HOA: Home Owners’ Association.”
“Oh.” Grant thought about that. “But I’m not a homeowner. I’m just renting.”
Tish thought that was one of the funniest things she’d ever heard and emitted a high-pitched laugh for a full twenty seconds until she realized that Grant wasn’t joking. When that reality hit her, the laughter stopped abruptly, although she mostly managed to hold the strained smile on her face that sort of passed as friendly.
“Seriously, Mr.…?”
“Williams.” It was a last name he often used when he wanted to blend in. “Mr. Williams.”
“Mr. Williams.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Do you have a first name?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
She tried again. “Do you have a first name you’d be willing to share?”
He shrugged. “Grant.”
“Grant. Grant, I know you’re new to this, but Old Stone Fence Post Estates has a certain reputation, and our immaculate lawns are part of that reputation.” Her arm swept across the vista of McMansions. “Weeds are pulled, grass is cut, hedges are trimmed and tidy. Our neighbors with children keep their yards free of debris—”
“She means toys,” said Malcolm.
“Yes, toys. Cars are parked neatly and never on the lawns.” She whispered, “That’s trashy. Don’t you agree?”
Grant nodded, not that he cared.
“Barbecue grills are kept in the backyard. Hoses are coiled in the garages. Trash and recycling bins always stay in the garage until the morning of collection day. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Grant thought, Yeah, lady, you’re trying to say you and your neighbors are tight-asses, but what came out of his mouth was, “We’ll keep everything neat as a pin. Neater.”
Tish flashed her teeth, which was all the smile she was able to muster at that point. “I have no doubt you will, Mr. Williams.”
Grant finally freed himself from Tish and Malcolm Fielding and returned to the kitchen.
“So what’s the story?” asked Chase.
“The story,” said Grant, “is that Old Stone Fence Post Estates is no place for a New Yorker. And to prove that, get ready to do some yard work.”
“Yard work?” sputtered Farraday. “You mean, like, outside?” Unlike Grant and Chase, he’d never even spent the younger years of his life outside New York City’s five boroughs. Paul Farraday was born-and-bred Brooklyn, and not in one of those neighborhoods where a tree might grow.
Grant nodded a confirmation. “You’ll love it. And you need to get outside more.”
“That is not a true statement, Lambert.”
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Across the street at 462 Old Stone Fence Post Road, Malcolm Fielding opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio while Tish retrieved the wineglasses. They were quite proud of their visit with Grant Williams and the way they had pleasantly but firmly laid out their rules for the neighborhood.
Williams had potential to be the perfect neighbor. It was clear he didn’t want any trouble with the residents of Old Stone Fence Post Estates, and he seemed agreeable enough. True, he appeared to be more than a little déclassé for the subdivision, but he wasn’t belligerent, like those Herrens and Fords on Black Oak Manor Terrace, with the kiddie pools in their front yards and the unfortunate habit of leaving their bins out at the curb all day on recycling day, exposing the entire neighborhood to empty liquor bottles.
It was outrageous that the HOA kept letting that type of incivility slide without so much as a warning. That was why there were HOA Rules—and there were better, more exacting Fielding Rules.
Which reminded Tish…
“Can you believe that blank look he gave me when I mentioned the HOA?” She laughed, shaking her blond mane, and took a sip from her wineglass.
“He’s certainly crude.” Malcolm’s jaw moved ever so slightly, an indication of what might have been excitement. “But I can live with that. As long as he keeps the property up, I can live with a soupçon of crudeness.”
“Agreed.” Tish clinked her glass gently against her husband’s, then laughed again, and in a broad imitation of Grant, said, “But I’m not a homeowner. I’m just renting.’”
The Fieldings sank to the kit
chen floor in peals of laughter, Tish sinking so quickly she almost chipped the red polish off a nail as she tried to steady herself.
They were, they knew, the perfect couple. And perfect together. And if they ruled Old Stone Fence Post Estates with an iron fist, it was in pursuit of continued perfection. College sweethearts, they’d been together for twenty-five years and married for twenty-one without so much as a single fight. They were just that much in sync.
Oh, perhaps they had both started to drink a bit too much, and too early in the day, but it was a harmless diversion. If Malcolm was spending later and later hours in DC at his job as a telecommunications lobbyist, and Tish was increasingly frustrated by her inability to become one of The Real Housewives of Washington, DC, and if his secretary was just a bit too good-looking for her tastes, and if her tennis instructor called her at inappropriately late hours, and if they each kept a tiny secret or two from the other every now and then, well…
That was okay. Just…perfect.
They knew these were the types of things that would never come between them, which was precisely why they never talked about them. Because they were perfect, and lived in a perfect house in a perfect subdivision with perfect rules.
Which was pretty much perfect, they thought, as Malcolm opened another bottle of wine. A perfect bottle of wine.
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They found what they needed in the garage.
“Think you can handle the lawnmower?” Grant asked Farraday.
“Rider?”
“Yeah.”
“I can drive anything.”
“Okay, you take the grass and I’ll take the hedges.” He turned to Chase. “You’re on flower duty, lover boy.”
“I don’t know anything about flowers. All my knowledge comes from the Korean deli, and even then only on Valentine’s Day and your birthday.”
“The deli does it, so how hard can it be? Fake it.”
Farraday backed the lawnmower out of the garage, Grant grabbed the hedge trimmers, and Chase picked up a spade and a pair of shears.
The lawn never stood a chance.