by Brad Smith
“This is what I was telling you about,” he said. “Homer Parr’s farm runs right up to the edge of the village. Now this is all zoned hamlet, which means residential building permits are a snap. Rubber stamp. This is the interesting part: the zoning runs the length of the concession—the whole of Parr’s farm. Shit, he could sever as many lots as he wanted, make a fortune, if he knew about it.”
“Why doesn’t he know?” Sonny asked.
“Nobody knows. These villages were laid out 150 years ago, when the railroad went through. Back then, nobody knew whether a place like this would end up with a hundred people or a hundred thousand. So they’d designate anywhere from fifty acres to five thousand as being hamlet. Somebody would write it down in a dusty book somewhere, and that’d be it. I came across one like this north of Toronto—paid for my place in St. Barts.”
Sonny had a cigar in his hand, and he used it to point at the bush lot, which separated the “town” from the country. “You’re telling me I won’t need rezoning.”
“Not for Parr’s farm,” the Rock said. “And you already own the co-op on the other side of the concession. It’s zoned commercial, which is perfect for you. After that, it’s just a matter of persuading the board to let the whole concession go.”
“And you know these people?”
“I deal with them all the time.”
“And they can be had?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Sonny smiled. “No, you wouldn’t—because if that were true, I wouldn’t need you. Right?”
“I didn’t say that either.”
It was afternoon when they got to the Augustine farm. The sale was half over. Not that it mattered—Sonny wasn’t interested in rocking chairs or antique crockery or hay balers or suckling calves. The only reason Sonny was there was the acreage.
He parked the BMW along the side road, and the two of them walked in. Sonny, as was his custom when dealing with the local farmers, was dressed the part, wearing jeans and a duck canvas jacket, a ball cap with a seed company logo on his head, work boots.
He and the Rock walked up the lane, stopped to give the house a look. It was a handsome two-story brick with leaded glass windows and a porch across the front and along one side; once Sonny owned it, he would have it torn down. They wandered over to the barns. There was a trailer there, owned by the auctioneer, where Sonny acquired a cardboard placard with a number to be used in the bidding. The woman who gave him the number told him that the farm would be on the block within the hour.
Sonny was leaning against a sugar maple in the yard when he was approached by a man with a bushy gray beard, wearing a plaid mackinaw and rubber boots caked with shit.
“You’re Stanton?” the man asked.
Sonny smiled at the gruff manner. “I guess I am.”
The man in the mackinaw obviously didn’t know Sonny, but he’d already decided that Sonny was a stand-up guy. And it had nothing to do with Sonny’s appearance, or his manner, or his reputation. It had everything to do with his money. It was a wonderful thing, Sonny thought; he’d recommend it to anyone who could swing it. Money can make an ugly woman presentable, a fat man thin, a moron a wit. And rumor had it that it made the world go round.
“They tell me you’re gonna take on the wheat board,” the man was saying.
“Isn’t it about time somebody did?” Sonny asked.
“Anybody can say it.”
“You’re a farmer?” Sonny asked.
“My whole life.”
“So you plant your corn, fertilize it, irrigate for it, harvest it, dry it, and store it. And yet they control it. That make sense to you?”
“Never has.”
“Well then, you just watch. I’m gonna do something about it. This country can’t get along without the farmer. The farmer’s always known it; it’s about time somebody informed the country.”
The man nodded sagely into his beard as he moved away. Then the Rock walked over, a strange smile on his face. When Sonny looked at him he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the paddock.
“What?” Sonny asked, looking.
“Along the wall,” the Rock said.
Sonny looked, and after a moment he saw a grizzled old man in a cowboy hat, and standing beside the old man—sonofabitch—was Ray Dokes. Sonny’s hand tightened on his cane when he saw Ray.
“Well, well,” he said.
“Thought that might interest you,” the Rock said.
“When’d he get out?”
“Don’t know. But he’s out.”
“Then he’s on parole,” Sonny said. “They gave him five, fucking psychopath.”
“What’s he doin’ here?”
Sonny looked across the yard as he considered the question. “I don’t know. Maybe him and the old coot are here for the stock. Probably looking to steal one of those broodmares.”
As if on cue the auctioneer announced that the bidding on the horses was about to begin. Sonny smiled.
“Come on,” he said. “Keep an eye on that fucking Dokes. Don’t let him near me.”
“He won’t pull anything, not if he’s on parole,” the Rock said. “But I’d be happy to break his goddamn neck.”
They walked over to the railing of the paddock to watch the auction. The geldings went first. Sonny kept his eye on the pair across the corral—neither Dokes nor the old man made a move during the bidding. Then the colt came up, and the old man came forward immediately, his eyes bright, his step quick.
“Lookit this,” Sonny said softly.
He looked at the bay colt and saw nothing special. Not that Sonny—around thoroughbreds most of his life—could claim to have an eye for horses or know much about them. The auctioneer began his spiel.
“—two-year-old out of Canfield Dancer and Lady Jane. In the interest of fair play we have to tell you that this colt did not run as a two-year-old as a result of a bowed tendon. This horse is being sold under the caveat buyer beware—”
* * *
Across the paddock Ray heard the auctioneer’s warning, and he felt Pete’s razor-sharp elbow dig into his ribs. The old man was thrilled with the auctioneer’s caution. Ray held his sore ribs and looked at Pete—he was as giddy as a kid getting his first bicycle.
The price started at five grand, with three bidders joining in. The going was decidedly unenthusiastic; Ray saw right away that Pete was going to get his horse. The first bidder dropped out at seven thousand, and the second—a stout man in a beaver hat—quit when Pete went to eighty-five hundred. The auctioneer said the once, and he said the twice, and he had the gavel in the air.
“Eighty-five hundred and one,” a voice called from the crowd.
Until that point the bid increments had been one hundred dollars. There was silence as the auctioneer sought out the new bidder. Ray followed his eyes, and then he saw Sonny Stanton, standing across the corral, cardboard number held high. Ray’s stomach knotted.
“I’ll be goddamned,” he heard Pete say. And then: “Nine thousand!”
“Nine thousand and one!” Sonny said before the auctioneer could speak.
There was a large bald man with Sonny, and now he began to make his way toward Pete and Ray. He had gold hoops in each ear, and he wore a long leather coat that reached to his knees. Ray watched him cautiously.
“We’ve got nine thousand and one,” the auctioneer was saying. Ray could tell by his tone that he was pissed at Sonny’s bush-league bidding.
“Ninety-five hundred!” Pete called.
“Ninety-five and one!”
“You might as well forget it,” Ray said then. He could see the veins in Pete’s neck.
“Ten thousand,” Pete said, but his voice was losing its timbre.
“Ten thousand and one!” Sonny was standing out from the crowd now, his number high above his head. People around him were watching in wonder. Some were smiling at the show.
The bald man had moved to within ten feet, and he had his back to the bidding, staring
Ray down. Ray gave him a look, then turned away.
“How much money you got?” Pete asked him.
“Doesn’t matter,” Ray said. “It’s over.”
“I got a few hundred,” Pete said desperately. “Can we make up a grand?”
“Probably, but it won’t matter,” Ray said. “You see what he’s doing. It’s over.”
“Eleven thousand,” Pete called out.
“Eleven thousand and one!”
And that was it. Ray could see that Pete’s large gnarled hands were clenched into fists, and he knew he had to get him out of there. He pulled him gently, and when that didn’t work he pushed him, not so gently, until finally Pete started to walk, his whole body shaking with rage. The bald man smiled when they passed.
“That’s it, boys,” he said. “Tails between the legs.”
Ray kept his hand on Pete’s shoulder and pushed on, refusing to look at the smiling man. He got Pete to the pickup, and then he got behind the wheel and drove them out of there.
When the Rock walked back around the paddock Sonny was in the process of selling the colt to the man in the beaver hat.
“Eight thousand?” the man was asking, confused.
“That’s right,” Sonny assured him.
“I’ll get you a check,” the man said, and he moved away.
“You just dropped three thousand dollars in about five minutes,” the Rock said.
“Maybe so,” Sonny said, and he turned to see Ray and the old man drive away. “But that was about as much fun as a man can have for three grand.”
6
It was two weeks before Ray could get up in the morning without feeling as if his body was a seized piece of machinery. He had to oil his joints with coffee before he was loose enough to pull his socks on. He was surprised to find that he was in such sad physical shape, although he should have expected it. He hadn’t worked out much in jail. He’d meant to, but in the end he’d found it boring, like everything else inside.
The roofing crew was working in a new subdivision of low-income housing, just north of Kitchener. Three hundred and forty-two houses, two-story duplexes, basic cookie-cutter design, tiny lots, the backyards not much bigger than a good-size automobile.
Ray had hitched to work the first couple of days, and then Steve Allman had let him have an old Coupe de Ville that had been sitting in the compound. The Caddy was dark blue; the radio worked, and the air didn’t. The motor ran pretty well, smoked a little, but was quiet. Steve had let Ray have the car against wages.
They were getting paid by the square and could pretty much work their own hours. The crew was contracted to roof sixty of the houses in the subdivision. There were four men in the crew: Doc Randolph, Neil Mulvale, Ray, and Steve Allman. There was a kid whom everyone called Pottsy who cleaned up after the crew, ran for coffee, sometimes carried bundles.
Most days, Steve worked alongside his men, never came on like a boss or a wheel of any kind. Ray had trouble keeping up with the others for the first few days, but nothing was mentioned of it. Everybody kept to their own pace.
Friday morning, Ray arrived on site at seven o’clock, barely light out. He finished a take-out coffee sitting in the Caddy and then got out, strapped his belt on, and walked to the next house in line. Doc was sitting on a bundle of shingles, looking sleepily across the open field to the north.
“Morning,” Ray said.
“Ray.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Meditating.”
“What’re you meditating on?”
Doc stood up, shook off his lethargy like a wet dog after a swim. “I’m meditating on gettin’ this motherfucker shingled, gettin’ paid, and gettin’ laid. That’s what.”
“Well, you’re a spiritual sonofabitch, I’ll give you that.”
Ray walked to the truck, pulled down an extension ladder, propped it against the house, ran it up to the eave. Neil arrived, and the three of them spent the next half hour carrying bundles up to the roof. They were just starting to shingle when Pottsy showed up, driving his mother’s Jetta.
“Where the fuck you been?” Neil asked.
“I had a late night,” the kid said. “Went to see Urban Shocker in concert.”
“Who?”
“They’re this awesome rap group.”
“Shit,” Neil said.
It was a cool October day, a good day for working. Steve Allman was out pricing new jobs, and it was just the three of them shingling. The kid was dragging his ass, and Neil kept after him. By noon, when they quit for lunch, the house was a quarter finished.
They sat on the shingle pallets to eat. Pottsy hadn’t brought a lunch, and he drove to the corner store and came back with Fritos and root beer.
“You kids and your health foods,” Doc said.
Ray finished his sandwich and lay back on the pallet in the sun, stretching his back muscles. He was beginning to feel pretty good, making some money, getting in shape. Of course, just being able to come and go as he pleased was reason enough to feel good these days. What he might do with the rest of his life was another matter, something he was going to have to think about, but not today. Hell, he had houses to shingle.
“How can you listen to that rap shit?” he heard Neil ask the kid.
“How can you listen to country and western?” the kid asked back.
“Country and western is real music.”
“Well, rap is my music,” the kid said. “It’s poetry; I can relate to it.”
“Yeah,” Neil said. “You’re a white kid from Middleburg. You can relate.”
“Urban Shocker is white.”
“Shit, that’s even worse,” Neil said. “White kids pretending they’re black. Everybody in the world wants to be something they’re not. White kids wanna be black; black kids wanna be white. Poor folks wanna be rich.”
“You wanna be smart,” Doc added.
“Fuck you.”
Doc laughed and looked at Pottsy. “You gotta listen to jazz, kid. Black, white, it doesn’t matter. Jazz is the only original music ever to come out of North America. Ever.”
“What about rock and roll?” Pottsy asked.
“Fuck rock and roll.”
The kid finished his Frito lunch and walked over to throw the trash into the iron dumpster where he stowed the shingle remnants. Walking back, he looked at Ray, reclined on the shingles, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head for a pillow.
“What about you, Ray? What do you listen to?”
“Depends on what you’re doin’,” Ray said without opening his eyes. “If you’re traveling, listen to Hank Williams. If you’re lonely, listen to Hank Williams. If you’re having problems with a woman, then you better listen to Hank Williams. The rest of the time—well, I’d recommend Hank Williams.”
Steve Allman drove in then, got out of the truck, took his tool belt from the back, put it on, and walked over. Ray raised himself to a sitting position.
“Steve,” Doc said. “What kind of music you listen to at home?”
“I got one wife and four kids,” Steve said. “The only thing I want to hear at home is silence.”
They went back to work. Steve and Ray carried up a couple of lengths of valley and cut it to fit the dormers on the front of the house. They chalked the lines on the valley and then went back to shingling, each taking a dormer.
“You ever lay cedar shakes?” Steve asked after a time.
“Once or twice, when I was a kid,” Ray said.
“I priced a place this morning,” Steve said. “Old farmhouse in Caledon. Guy wants the original cedar roof. Figured you and I could do it next weekend.”
“Sure.”
When Ray got home from work, it was full dark and Pete Culpepper was gone. Ray took a cold beer from the fridge, filled the bathtub with water hot as he could stand it, and climbed in. He laid his head back against the porcelain, drank the beer, and let the water lubricate his muscles. He drank the beer so fast he had to get out after a few minute
s and walk wet-footed into the kitchen for another.
The telephone began to ring, and he let it. It would be for Pete anyway. The phone rang maybe a dozen times—Pete didn’t have an answering machine and wouldn’t know how to operate one if he did—and then it quit. Ray leaned back, drank the second beer slowly, and willed his body and brain to relax.
When he got out, he put on clean jeans and a cotton shirt. In the kitchen he fried a steak and three eggs, ate standing up against the counter. Then he put the dishes in the sink and sat down at the kitchen table and wondered what to do.
It was Friday night, he had money in his pocket, and nothing that resembled responsibility to any thing or any person. There had been a time, in his younger days, when he wouldn’t even have made it home after work, just headed straight for the bars. He’d had more energy then, he remembered, along with a huge capacity for getting himself into trouble. One had waned; with a little luck, and better judgment, maybe the other would as well.
He found Etta’s number in the phone book, sat down, and looked at the phone on the wall for a long time. She would be home with Homer, he figured. Ray wondered if Homer really had Alzheimer’s. Could be he was just getting old and forgetful. Maybe in time he’d forget about hating Ray’s guts. He closed the phone book and grabbed his jacket from the peg inside the door and drove into town.
He had no intention of driving to the ballpark, but he drove there anyway. He saw the floods from two blocks away and knew that there was a game on. Home games were always played on Fridays. The ballpark was located on Canal Street, and it was built along the bank of the old feeder, in a valley of sorts. Ray parked up above, on the main street, which ran out of town. The teams were on the field, the game in the third inning when he arrived. He got out of the Caddy and sat on the hood, thinking he would watch a couple innings before he went down to see the guys.
He could see Bo Parker, sitting in the dugout, obviously not in the lineup. Pudge McIntyre was beside him, still managing the team, Ray guessed. Pudge was working over a wad of gum like it was the enemy, meaning he was still off the smokes.