The Contractor

by Paul Moomaw

  He extends an index finger and waves it around him in a vague circle. “But the potential is here. Business is good, and growing, and all I need now is extra cash to do marketing with. My web site gets me some sales, but too many people just nibble and go away. A good quality catalog, glossy paper, all that, would add class. In this business, class is what it’s all about. That’s what I’ll use your investment for.”

  He has shifted verbs, gone from conditional to future tense. I let that hang for a moment, then say, “If I invest.” I empty my glass and stand up. “I think will take you up on your offer of a bed.”

  Maxfield smiles broadly. I can tell he is convinced that he almost has me now. “You’ve got it, along with soap and towels, toothbrush, razor, anything you need.”

  “You’re well supplied.”

  “Shit, I could run a bed and breakfast if I wanted to.” He shrugs. “Maybe I will, some day.” He nods toward the hallway and a flight of stairs. “I’ll show you your room, and then in the morning I’ll give you the full tour.”

  The next morning I am up early as usual. I always wake at half past six, unless I need to be up earlier, and I never need an alarm. It is one of my minor talents that I can set a clock in my mind and it wakes me without fail.

  * * *

  Maxfield is up even earlier, and is puttering around the kitchen when I go downstairs. He points a two trays and a stack of plates on the center work station.

  “There’s fruit and muffins,” he says. “Straight from Safeway.” He smiles and spreads his hands. “A cook I am not, in spite of this professional grade kitchen.” He points to a Cuisinart drip machine, the kind that can be set to grind and brew at a specific time. I have the same machine, except that mine is black plastic and Maxfield’s is brushed chrome steel. “Coffee’s over there. It’s good. Little place in Salem imports first rate beans and roasts them three times a week.”

  A row of mugs stands on the counter next to the coffee maker. I fill one, then step over to the trays of fruit. I take a few peeled orange segments and some slices of cantaloupe and honeydew. I am partial to honeydew. I have no idea why, but I never turn it down. The muffins are mostly the sweet, sticky kind, but there is one large one of bran and nuts. I add that to my plate and stand at the counter to eat. I grab a knife and cut the muffin in half, then in quarters, composing myself for the task ahead. Maxfield stations himself across from me and uses a fork to spear pieces of fruit and transport them directly to his mouth. We eat silently. At length he stands back and motions toward the food, his eyes a question mark. I shake my head no.

  “Let me show you the place, then,” he says.

  We leave the house and walk toward the barn, where a four-door Toyota Tacoma pickup truck is parked. He climbs into the driver’s seat and I pull myself up to the passenger side. The truck stands high off the ground and there is no running board to step up on. I am aware of trying to get into the truck smoothly, without apparent effort. This con artist already has me wanting to make a good impression.

  Maxfield takes me around the perimeter, and down a few roadways that run arrow-straight between rows of fruit trees.

  “Peaches, pears and apples. I tried apricots, but no luck.” He points to black hoses visible among the trees. “I use strictly drip irrigation. No wasted water that way. Right now I hire a guy to turn the water on and off. Some day I’ll be able to pay for a computerized system. Then I won’t need Donny. That’s the guy who does the work now. That will save me money, too. But like they say, you got to have money to save money.”

  Two sides of the orchard are bordered by grapes that appear to extend for several acres.

  “That’s another place where some extra cash would help,” Maxfield says. “I pay another outfit to turn the grapes into extract. It’s popular stuff. I sell every bit I have to home wine makers. But I’d keep more of the profit if I could make the extract myself.”

  We return to the main house.

  “Come in and tell me what you think,” Maxfield says. He leads me into a room with windows that open onto the back of the house and a view of the composting vat. There are no books here, either. A massive deal table that looks made of cherry wood dominates the center of the room. Along one wall a gun case stretches almost from corner to corner.

  “I collect. You like guns?”

  “They have their uses,” I say. To me a weapon is strictly valuable for its utility.

  “They can be beautiful, too.” He walks to one end of the case. “Look at this one.” He points through the glass to an odd looking rifle with a dark wooden stock inlaid with ornate ivory carvings of hunting scenes.

  “Flintlock?”

  Maxfield shakes his head. “Older than that. It’s a Sixteenth Century matchlock. The hammer looking thing actually holds a fuse. When you pull the trigger the fuse drops to the powder pan and sets everything off. Must have been hell to use in the rain.” He pulls me down the case toward another weapon. “Now that’s a flintlock. See that flared barrel. That’s what they called a blunderbuss. That big barrel shot several slugs at once, and the idea was that the horizontal oval shape would keep the slugs from overshooting or undershooting.” He moves farther down the array. “Here’s my pride and joy,” he says, and points to a double-barreled flintlock. “This is a jaeger rifle. Jaeger is German for hunter. These were the first really accurate rifles. This one was made in Germany in 1755.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say, and I am. These weapons are works of art. How can I, of all people, resist the melding of death and beauty?

  Maxfield settles at a stuffed leather office chair on one side of the table and motions me to a similar one on the other side. He smiles again and reaches under the table. When his hand reappears it holds a large revolver. I freeze. Maxfield grins and places the weapon on the table.

  “Just had to show this one off, too. It’s my security piece. Ruger Blackhawk .45 Long Colt.” He picks the gun up again, pops open the loading gate at the rear of the cylinder, and pops out a cartridge. He holds it up for my inspection. “I load my own. Two hundred and forty grain, half jacket hollow point. It doesn’t move that fast, but it’ll knock a bear down, not to mention a man.” He places the gun back onto the table and leans back in his chair, his hands locked behind his head.

  “What do you think?” he says.

  “I think I want to see that composter in operation.”

  “Absolutely,” he says, and jumps up from his chair. “Let’s go do it.” He leads me out of the room and down a short hallway to a back door. He opens it and motions me through, then follows me outside.

  “You know how to lead a horse?”

  “Yes,” I say. Just don’t ask me to ride one, I add silently to myself. Even though I grew up in Montana, I never learned to ride, and as an adult every experience I have had in a saddle has been a disaster.

  Maxfield leads me to the horse barn that houses the Clydesdales. They come to the stall gates as we enter, ears up. One of them whinnies softly.

  “They love this,” Maxfield says. He grabs a soft hackamore rope from a peg on the wall, then opens one gate. As the horse steps out he slips the rope over its head, rolls it over its nose and makes a loop. Then he hands me the rope.

  “Her name is Maggie. Just lead her out and wait by the composter,” he says.

  I take the hackamore in my hand and start walking toward the stable door. Maggie follows me like a dog, a huge dog with big ears and dark, soulful eyes. I have often wondered what horses think about when they are just standing around. In the gentrified rural areas outside of Seattle that have erupted with twenty-acre ranchettes I see many horses alone in small, fenced pastures. If they are thinking about something, it probably is of how lonely they are. Horses are herd animals. Keeping one without a companion is cruel. I think people are no different. Even I, as much as my work requires a solitary life, need occasional human contact.

  I reach the composter with Maggie and wait while Maxfield catches up.

  “Sta
y right there,” he says. He leads the other horse, a gelding whose name I do not know, to one of the long bars that extend from the composting drum. At the end of the bar is something akin to a yoke. Maxfield leads the gelding up to this device, and the horse waits patiently while he is hitched. Then Maxfield reaches up and scratches the horse’s neck behind the ears. He walks over to me and Maggie. “You want to do this one?”

  “I’ll let you.”

  Maxfield takes the lead, walks Maggie to the other pulling bar, and hitches her to it. He steps back and makes a clucking sound with his lips and tongue, and the horses begin to pace in a giant circle. I can hear a churning sound coming from inside the composting drum.

  Maxfield walks to the edge of the drum and raises the pie-shaped lid that covers the compost. “Take a look.”

  Just as I look in the big paddle passes that point, and the surface of the compost roils and ripples.

  “The horses will keep on going until I tell them to stop. I don’t know how long they would go at it if I left them on their own.”

  He places his right hand on my shoulder. “What do you think?”

  I think it is time for Maxfield to die. His raised arm leaves the side of his body exposed. I slam my left fist into the right side of his abdomen. It is what they call a liver shot, and a good one leaves a person temporarily paralyzed, unable to breathe, talk or move.

  Maxfield stares at me without comprehension as I follow with a right to his breadbasket. He doubles over and I hammer him at the base of the neck, slamming his body into the ground. He moans and loses consciousness. I pick him up under his arms and drag him to the opening in the composter. I lift him up with some effort. He is large and a little overweight, and of course he cannot help me. I get his head and arms up over the edge, then squat and position my shoulders under his hips. I straighten up with him, then give a push, and his body rolls over the edge and into the compost. I am just in time. The big paddle has almost made a full circle. Maxfield lies on the surface of the muck and the paddle passes beneath him. As it does, it begins to suck him under, head first. By the time his body passes from view, it is only visible from his belt to his red and black boots.

  I step away from the composter and am walking back toward the house when I hear the sound of a truck engine, a diesel that labors and clanks and grows quickly louder. I sprint to the rear of the house and go inside, then move to the front room in time to see an old Ford pickup pull up next to my rental car. A man gets out and saunters over to the rental, peering at it with evident curiosity. He glances toward the front window of the house, and I pull away, cursing silently to myself.

  The man returns to his truck, opens the passenger door and begins to rummage around in it. He retrieves a large grocery sack and closes the door. Half way across the drive he pauses and looks toward the rear of the property. I am sure he must have heard the sound of the horses pulling the composter around. With a small shrug, he starts walking toward the rear of the house. I am not thinking now, because there is no need for thought. I assume that this must be the hired hand Maxfield referred to as Donny. Whoever he is, I cannot allow him to stay alive. I half run to Maxfield’s office, step to the large cherry table and retrieve the revolver he showed me. I check the cylinder to be sure it is loaded, then sprint upstairs to find my briefcase. I grab it and drop the gun inside, then I head downstairs and for the back door.

  The man is halfway between the house and the composter, standing with his hands on his hips and his back to me. He hears the door open and close, and turns to face me.

  “Are you Donny?”

  He nods.

  “Your boss got himself in some trouble,” I say. I point beyond the composter with my free hand. “I was just going to call for help when you showed up.”

  “What happened?” Donny asks.

  “I’m not sure, but he can’t walk.” I motion toward the back pasture again. “Come take a look.”

  He wheels and begins to stride rapidly toward the open area behind the composter, then stops. “I don’t see him,” he says, and turns as I pull the revolver from my briefcase. His eyes widen. Puzzlement, then fear, then anger flicker through them before I pull the trigger. Maxfield was right. The heavy bullet knocks Donny down like a sledgehammer. I move quickly to his side, ready to fire again if I have to, but the bullet has clearly slammed into his heart. He probably was dead before he hit the ground.

  I drop the revolver back into the briefcase, place the case on the ground, and grab Donny by the ankles. I pull him over to the composter, manage to avoid getting blood on me as I lift him to the opening, and roll him over the edge. This time I do not wait to see the churning paddle do its work. I zip the briefcase closed, pick it up, and return to the house. I do as thorough an inspection as I can, feeling the pressure of time as I do, to make sure I have not left any traces of my presence. In the kitchen I see that the dishes I used are still on the counter. I take them to the sink and wash them quickly, and use a dish cloth to place them on a drain rack. I go upstairs and use my handkerchief to wipe down any bathroom surfaces I might have touched, and the dresser in the bedroom, then go back down and wipe off the door knobs at the front and back of the house. I glance out the back window. The Clydesdales are still making their round, just as Maxfield said they would. I pass through to the front of the house, go out the door and close it carefully behind me. Then I get into my rental car and drive away.

  * * *

  Passing through Salem I look for a pay phone. I find one near the entrance of a supermarket. It still sports a directory that has not been badly vandalized. I look up the number for the county sheriff, and dial it using a pre-paid phone card. I tell the woman who answers that they can find two bodies in the composter at the Cooperage. She asks me to repeat myself, but I hang up. The only reason I have risked calling is to make sure something appears in the news for Angwin to see.

  * * *

  By afternoon I am on a train again, heading for Seattle. I cannot avoid feeling a little tense. In my paranoid fantasy, someone will come down the aisle with a dog, and the animal will smell the revolver in my briefcase. I imagine I can smell it myself.

  I am upset with myself. I have killed someone I did not intend to, and unlike the Pentagon, I do not approve of collateral damage. This was not a clean job. I let myself get too fascinated by Maxfield. I was seduced by the allure of seeing a con man in operation. I wasted time. I worry that I am losing my touch. I settle deeper into my seat with a silent sigh and stare out the window, wondering if I am past my prime, if it is not time for me to think of retiring. It is not a thought that has ever occurred to me before; but this job was sloppy. I was careless, took foolish risks. All at once I wish I were not sitting on the train alone, and immediately my fantasy places Katherine on the seat next to me. I worry that she has become a distraction, and that this is part of what is creating problems for me. Maybe I am falling in love with her, and that is interfering with my ability to do my job. Worse, sitting next to her, touching her, feeling her presence, right this moment, appeals more to me than anything else.

  When I am home again, I see that I have two telephone messages. One is from Katherine. I gave her my number just before we met in Spokane, but this is the first time she has used it. The message suggests a trip to the zoo. The second message is from Angwin. He is whining again. I cut it off half way through and erase it.

  Chapter 27

  Today is to be the excursion to the zoo, but I wake up to rain, a soft, slow Seattle drizzle that looks good for the entire day. Frankly, I hope the weather will trigger a change of plans. The Woodland Park Zoo is excellent as such places go. It spreads out over more than ninety acres, and tries to house its animals in a naturalistic way, with ersatz savannas and jungles. The operators make every effort to be environmentally sound and proper. They even have a Spring Fecal Fest each April, when lucky lottery winners can pick up a truck load of what they coyly call Zoo Doo. But I do not like zoos. They depress me. When I was a boy t
here was a place in the foothills west of Livingston that housed exotic animals. I think it was called Safari Land. It was small and dingy, the rusty leftover of someone’s dream of bringing romance and adventure to the mountains of Montana. My father hated it, and made a point of saying so at least once a month. They ought to shoot all the damn monkeys and zebras and use the land for something useful like raising cows, he would say. Someone did shoot some of them when I was ten, and I wondered if it was my father. He stopped talking much about the place after that. I went there once, on my own, riding my bicycle, carrying some money I had earned sweeping and mopping a mom and pop drugstore. It took me all morning to get there. Going home was faster because it was downhill. I spent my money for admission and went through the place. It was the one time I had to admit my father was right. The animals all looked sick and listless, and the experience helped form my opinion of zoos.

  After breakfast I drive to meet Katherine at her house on Lake Washington. It is Sunday, but in Seattle that no longer matters to the traffic, and the rain makes things worse. The journey down Queen Anne Hill, north across he Aurora Bridge, and then east to Lake Washington takes almost three quarters of an hour. Only after I reach Sand Point Way does the number of cars diminish, and in Katherine’s neighborhood, the streets are almost empty.

  Her battered Volvo sits at the side of the house. I walk across the gravel drive to the front door, which I have learned she never locks when she is at home. It opens silently. She has oiled the squeak. Music fills the small house. I enter quietly and shut the door behind me. Katherine sprawls barefoot in an over­stuffed chair, her feet on an ottoman. She wears a purple t-shirt and shorts. The gray green light from the window makes the skin of her legs glow like white jade. I stand just out of her line of vision and watch as she listens to the music. It is something with a violin and some other strings, odd and lonely sounding.

  The movement ends, and Katherine shuts the player off with a wave of the remote.