by Tara Lain
AB walked to the truck with him. Artie said, “You okay? You need anything?”
“Yeah. Pretty much. I’ve got a few construction jobs coming up, ’cause shit, man, who can live on what I make at Taco Heaven?”
Artie dug in his pocket, grabbed some bills he had ready, and handed them to AB. “Here. This’ll tide you over until you get those jobs.”
“Oh, you don’t have to, man. I know you haven’t got much left over.” But he already had the money moving toward his pocket. “Thanks, bro. You’re great.”
“No problem. See you soon.” He gave AB a one-armed hug, then walked around the truck and slid in. Fact was, the money was to ease his guilty conscience. He’d gotten AB a job once with one of his contractors, and he’d done such a crappy job, the contractor hardly let Artie forget it. Now, Artie gave AB money—but no jobs.
With a long, easy breath, he pulled away from the curb and pointed the truck straight for his buddies’ favorite bar. After a beer maybe he’d do a little work, just so he wouldn’t have lied to his dad. Hell, he hated to add one more lie.
Chapter Two
AN HOUR later he was trying to keep from bouncing his leg and shifting in his chair. Walt Kowalski and Raoul Martinez had been at the bar since they’d left the job. Hope they get a burger or something before they try to drive. Jimmy Ray Farmer, a name that always made Artie smile, had come in a couple of minutes after Artie got there. He’d immediately asked about Artie’s shirt—that seemed to be the joke of the night—and they’d all laughed and shot the shit, but damn. For some reason the shit felt like shit tonight. One more conversation about how crappy the various bosses were, how great the rack on the new waitress was, whether or not the Ducks could ever beat the Bruins or the Maple Leafs, or crap like that could drive him over the cliff. Jesus!
Some thread in his mind missed Dusty, the cute kid he’d met when he was working on that house in Laguna. The homeowner had hired Dusty to supervise their work. Truthfully, it was a good thing, because the supervisor assigned to the job by the contractor was spread way too thin and did a crap job. The other guys resented Dusty, but Artie liked him. Dusty took his work seriously and had really nice taste. Cute too, but Artie thought the kid had a crush on the handsome dude who owned the house. Not that Artie was interested—exactly.
Suddenly it was like his legs got a brain, and he found himself standing.
Walt looked surprised. “What’s up, man?”
Me, apparently. “Uh, I gotta get back to work.”
Walt waved his glass of beer and it sloshed on the floor, getting a glare from the cute-racked waitress. “Shit, man, take a break. You make the rest of us look bad.”
“Nah, nobody’s gonna see me. In fact, I’ve gotta double-check I didn’t fuck something up. So no worries. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He bumped fists with Walt.
Jimmy Ray leaned back in his chair. “Yeah, more of the same old, same old.”
For a second Artie stared at him. How many fucking times do I have to hear that in a day? Shit. He gave a salute to the guys and walked out. Take a breath. He trotted across the street from the bar and hopped in the truck, then stopped. Why did I pretend to be a screwup? Just to make other people feel comfortable. I’m fucking messed up.
He turned over the very loud engine and pointed the beast toward Sanderson Hall. Had to go or at least see if the night guard would let him in because—well, he said he would.
It took twenty minutes to get there and pull into the back lot. The big building had lights on—it always did—but compared to the blaze of brilliance when a show was on, it felt hulking, dark, and a great place for a mystery movie or something.
He slid out of the truck, grabbed his tool bag from the back, and walked up to the employee entrance. The guard—Juan—looked up. Artie nodded. “Hey, man, I need to check some stuff on the installation I was doing in the bathrooms before tomorrow when people might start using them. Is it okay?”
“Sure, Artie, no worries. There’re a couple people inside somewhere but mostly empty. If you need lights, let me know, okay?”
“Thanks, man.” He bumped fists and walked inside. There was a pool of light around where Juan sat, but beyond, the illumination dropped off. Not dark, just dim with safety lights.
Winding through the maze of halls, he made his way to the bathroom. He pushed open the door and pressed the light switch, then squinted against the brightness. Just to satisfy the claim he was working, he quickly tested the toilets and faucets to be sure the water pressure was okay, and even double-checked the automatic soap dispensers.
Okay, enough.
He reached for the light switch as he opened the door—and froze.
Music. Not huge and filling the whole hall like earlier. This was like one kind of instrument. A piano? Oh man, what a piano. Could a person really make it do that? Maybe it was two or three pianos?
He turned off the light, dropped his bag next to the wall in the hall, and crept to the auditorium doors. The closer he got, the more he felt like he was getting sucked into some tractor beam.
If I open the door, will it bother them? The hall was dark and quiet, so it shouldn’t even be noticeable if he sneaked in.
Very slowly, he cracked the big door open. Odd. Dark inside. Even darker than the hall, but the music just kept coming. Maybe it’s a recording or the radio or something? Artie stepped inside and let the door close behind him even though it made him even blinder. He felt his way to a back-row chair and sat.
Oh my God. He could barely catch his breath. The music felt like part of him, inside him. His heart beat differently, his blood rushed in his ears along with the music until he couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. The stage was darker than the auditorium. If there was someone up there, he or she played with no light at all. Artie never wanted it to stop. He closed his eyes and drifted with the music to someplace so unlike everything he knew. He smiled. Except his fish. His fish and this music belonged together.
Suddenly the music stopped, as if someone pulled the plug. Feeling like somebody punched him, Artie sat up and stared into the darkness, but nothing. Maybe there were some footsteps. He couldn’t be sure.
He stood and felt his way down the aisle, then turned right around the pit where the instruments usually played. Nobody seemed to be there. He found the door that led to the back areas, went through into even blacker blackness, and then felt around for the steps to the stage. Finally, at the top, he saw a soft light he hadn’t been able to see from the back row. A big piano sat in the middle of the huge stage, but no one was there. Nobody. Artie approached the piano like it was some kind of amazing bird. Gently he touched the keys. Warm. Warm from somebody’s hands.
Talk about a gift. Damn. How much would he have had to pay to hear that kind of music? More than he could afford, that was for damned sure.
Still feeling half-drunk, Artie managed to get off the stage, back to where he’d left his bag, and down the hall to where Juan sat watching TV. “Hey, Juan.”
“Did you get done, Artie?”
“Yes, thanks. Hey, who else’s in the building?”
“A couple guys in set building, why?”
“Who was playing the piano?”
He stuck out a lip. “Nobody I know of.”
“Really? None of the performers are here?”
“No. No one signed in. Maybe one of those people building sets is a frustrated piano player.” He laughed.
“Yeah, no. Whoever was playing that thing was no wannabe, trust me.”
“You sure you didn’t fall asleep and have a nightmare, man?”
Artie nodded. “Yeah, now that you mention it, maybe. Thanks. You saved my bacon, man. See you tomorrow.”
“Maybe you’ll find your mystery player.” He turned back to the TV. Football again. Doesn’t it ever end?
Artie walked to the truck. Nightmare my ass. That was a dream I’ll never forget.
THE WHOLE next day Artie worked mostly on the kitchen plu
mbing, so he couldn’t hear the music, which drove him nuts. He kept running down the hall to listen at the auditorium doors, but every time it was the orchestra playing. Not a bad thing, but his brain had moved on and wanted more of that amazing piano. No such luck. By the end of the day, he couldn’t make up any more reasons to go to the men’s room. He tried one more time. As he stood outside the auditorium door, it opened, and a young woman walked out carrying a black case. “Uh, excuse me.”
She turned and gave him a smile. “Hi.”
“I was wondering if you had somebody playing the piano in there today.”
“No. There’s a piano soloist playing some special performance, but he wasn’t there today.” She smirked. “I guess he’s too good for us.”
“How can you do that if you don’t ever play together?”
She shrugged. “He’s playing Chopin. It’s mostly solo, so I guess it’s not a problem. Are you coming to the performance?”
He shook his head.
“Probably no loss.” She grinned. “See ya.”
He watched her go, not sure about the “no loss” part. Wonder what show-pan is?
Martinez waved from the end of the hall, and Artie trotted back to him. Martinez said, “Beer?”
“Sure. Meet you there.”
Martinez walked off toward the exit, and Artie stopped and looked back. This had been a pretty cool three days. Not just the regular grind like on somebody’s house or something. He mentally shrugged. Take a good look, because you’ll never see the inside of this building again.
A feeling in his chest he thought of as his tickle whispered If you had your own business, you could bid on jobs like this. You could do whatever work you wanted. He shook his head. Somebody else’s dream. Not one for guys like him.
Turning, he glanced at the text on his phone from JT that gave him the address of a house in Newport Beach—one of the real ritzy areas. I guess it’s back to the house grind. Repairing plumbing, maybe some carpentry. Next week’s assignment. Be glad you have the work.
For now, it was one more beer with the boys.
MONDAY MORNING early, after making it past the Nazi at the gate, Artie navigated the truck through the winding streets of the super-exclusive area near the ocean in Newport. This place was so fancy, the gated community had houses with their own gates. Places like this made him itch, like maybe he could break the china just by looking at it.
He spied the numbers on the wall in front of one house. Must be the place. JT’s truck wasn’t in sight. His phone dinged. Ring the bell at the gate. JT.
Artie maneuvered the truck close enough and managed to press the buzzer. It beeped and the gate slid open. Je-sus. He drove through expecting something from one of those English movies, but it wasn’t that big a deal. The front of the house was right inside the gate, but the driveway continued up the side and he could see JT’s truck up there, so he followed it.
After he parked behind the truck, he slid out.
“Yo, Artie, back here.”
He followed the voice and went through yet another gate into a really pretty backyard with a big swimming pool, a giant patio, outdoor kitchen, and a pergola to prevent frying. Man, he could be persuaded to spend an hour or two here.
JT, short, stocky, and full of smiles, stepped out of a partly framed structure in the far back of the property. “Hey, Artie. Glad you could do the job.”
“Me too. The timing worked out great.”
“This is it. It’s like a guesthouse.”
Artie glanced at the back of the giant traditional home in front of him. “They must have a lot of guests if they need more house than that one. Hell, this place is huge.”
JT lowered his voice. “Actually, I think the woman doesn’t much like strangers in her house, so she wants to exile them out here.” He chuckled.
“Guests aren’t usually strangers.”
“I think this lady has a strict definition. Honestly, I can’t imagine her having any guests at all, but she wants this house as quickly as possible.” His face got serious. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted you for the job, Artie. You can do your work and not mess with anybody. This lady’s very particular. I had Fred Gray out here, but you know how he can be chatty. She asked me to get rid of him.”
“Man, Fred never hurt anybody.”
“Yeah, well, she’s got a bonus for finishing this job on time, so get it done and it’s yours.”
“Who’s on with me?”
“You and you, mostly. She likes things under control. Here’s a list of a few subs and their numbers if you need them.”
Whoa. JT had never put Artie in charge before. That gave him a little thrill. “Thanks, JT.”
“All the cabinetry is being built off-site, so you’ll be in charge of installation only. Tell the cabinetmakers to keep their vehicles outside the gates of the community as much as possible and carpool in.”
“What’s the client’s name?”
“Juliette Desmarais. Madame Desmarais is what she likes.”
“The hell you say. Madame?”
“Yep. French.”
“So De-mar-ay.”
“Close enough.”
“Does she live here alone in this giant place?”
“No. I hear she has a son, but I’ve been here six or seven times and I’ve never seen the dude. Some of the guys who worked here before said he stays in his room.”
“Maybe he’s sick or something.”
JT shrugged. “Could be. Feels like the start of a horror movie, doesn’t it? Muwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.”
“Monsieur JT?”
JT’s face froze; then he seemed to construct a polite smile and turned. “Uh, hi, ma’am, I mean Madame. This here is Artie Haynes. He’s going to be taking over this job. I think you’ll like him and appreciate the quality of his work.”
She stared around JT’s stocky body and Artie gazed back, trying to look competent and harmless. The woman was really pretty if you liked the Ice Queen in that Narnia movie. Pale blonde hair was slicked back from her face and her eyes could have been ice cubes—that pale blue that almost didn’t have any color. She didn’t smile—not even close. He felt like he should lie down and let her stick pins in his wings while she examined him. Scary.
He stuck out his hand. “How do you do, Madame. I’m Artie Haynes. I’ll be working on your project. JT will give me directions so I don’t have to bother you, but if you have anything you want to tell me, I’ll be right here.”
She looked a little surprised at his being so forward and JT looked scared, but Artie smiled and held his ground. No point starting something he was miserable doing.
After a pause, she nodded real serious-like. “Bon, Monsieur Artie. I am Madame Desmarais.” She lightly touched his hand with her fingertips, then drew it back. At least she didn’t look like he’d contaminated her.
But he had to grin because it was so cute hearing her say Me-suor Ar-tie. She probably didn’t see it, though, because she turned and walked back to her house, her medium-high-heeled shoes that probably cost more than his truck clicking on the flagstone. Holy shit.
Chapter Three
ARTIE SIGHED. “Sorry, JT, this might be a short-term assignment. She didn’t seem to like me.”
“Hell, man, that was a huge hug compared to the way she greets most people. I think you’re okay. Just get to work like everything’s fine and I’ll bet it will be.”
“It’s a nice job. First-class materials.”
“Wait till you see the cabinetry.” JT clapped Artie’s shoulder. “You’ll do great.”
It made Artie nervous that JT seemed so anxious to get away, but it was clear JT didn’t exactly feel comfortable with Madame. Probably better he left and let Artie find his own way. “Sure, man. I’ll get my tools. Who sketched in the plumbing?”
“Not sure. Some dude before she fired them and gave us the job. Check it all, figure out what you need, and let me know. I’ll discuss budget with her, uh, I guess.”
; “No worries.”
JT released a long breath. “Thanks, Artie. Glad you’re on board.” He stared at his boots, then up. “Look. If you can make it through this, I’d like to talk to you about maybe something permanent and supervisory, you know?”
Artie’s heart slammed, but he put on a snarky smile. “Sounds like a bribe to me.” He laughed.
JT laughed back. “You’re right. Not everyone would put up with her, shall we say, demands. We can talk about it later, but just so you know, I want to make it worth it, and I need good men.”
Artie nodded seriously. “I appreciate that. We’ll talk.” Jesus, he didn’t even want to think about how a supervisor job with JT could be a step toward his dream.
Trying to look casual, Artie walked back to his truck with JT and grabbed his tool bag while he watched JT hurry down the drive and out the gate like he was escaping Lucifer on a Harley. “Okay, here goes.”
Back at the project, he started inspecting the work that had been done on the plumbing to determine where he needed to begin. The existing installation wasn’t crap, but the guy didn’t seem to have been too experienced. Artie could have done it more elegantly and efficiently, but he wouldn’t have to rip all of it out, which was a relief.
Crawling on hands and knees, he slithered through some framing to check an odd junction of pipes and ended up with his head close to the ground, neck craned upward, peering at the underside of the installation.
“Your butt crack is showing.”
Artie gasped, rose up, slammed his head into the pipes, smashed to the ground, and wound up moaning, rubbing his head with his hands as a very musical laugh rang out behind him. “Well, shit!”
The laughter subdued, absorbed in some hiccups and snorts of suppressed chuckling.
Frowning so hard his eyebrows probably touched, Artie backed out of his position—and yeah, his butt crack was pretty damned sure to be showing twice as bad—until he was clear of the mass of wood and pipes and could rise up on his knees.