McMansion (6 page)

The repo man crawled out from under the front of the bus and moved a lever on the side of his truck. The boom groaned and the front of the bus began to rise from the driveway.

“Besides, Billy knew you people on Main Street still looked down on him, no matter how much money he made.” Jimmy's matter-of-fact observation of the tattered remnants of the old social order before the population doubled was delivered without rancor.

“So what did he have against you?”

“Nothing. I was handy. If somebody else was standing nearer he'd have asked him.”

“What did the cops say when you said you were driving it for Billy?”

“They asked did I work for him. I said I used to. Not any more. So why would you be driving a truck for him? they asked. I said, ask Billy. They went to Billy and Billy and Eddie Edwards told them I asked if I could park the truck in Billy's barn.”

“Their word against yours?”

“I couldn't prove I didn't. The cops couldn't prove I had actually stolen the truck, thank God. But the railroad and the parents were on my case, so they settled for taking away my license.”

“So everyone went home happy.”

“Except me. No license. I couldn't drive the baseball teams last spring. Couldn't drive for summer school. I couldn't drive anything to make my payments.”

“Did you confront Billy?”

“Sure.”

“What happened?”

“He laughed at me.”

“That must have pissed you off.”

Jimmy watched his bus disappear around the corner. “When I heard that kid got him with the bulldozer I said to myself, ‘Why didn't I think of that?'”

I looked at him closely. “That was a pretty fancy job of bulldozer driving from what I saw.”

“I could have done it easy. I've been running machines my whole life….All I can say is I hope the kid gets off.” He stared, blinking mournfully at the empty space in his driveway. “Couldn't they get him time off for public service?”

“I'll suggest that to his lawyer.”

Jimmy manufactured a smile.

“So what are you going to do?” I asked him.

“See if I can find a job. Before they take my house.”

“You behind?”

“Only five months.”

“Maybe you can work something out.”

“Are you kidding? The mortgage company wants this house for a tear down. They already foreclosed on my neighbor.” It finally registered on me that the empty house next door had no For Sale sign. “With all the building going on the land's worth more than the houses. They'll tear both down, make one big lot and stick a McMansion on it.”

***

It looked like date night at Home Depot.

Couples were streaming in for a do-it-yourself evening out, sparkling with hope. The women wore makeup and had done their hair. Their guys hadn't gone to quite as much trouble in the looks department, but most had showered, recently, and slapped some mousse on their hair or covered it with a clean cap. Walking in alone and feeling suddenly out of it, I recalled a time when I was a kid before guys rubbed “hair product” in their hair, before they invented Home Depot—back when lumber yards existed for the express purposes of humiliating men who weren't contractors and offering women an opportunity to be leered at indoors.

Many women appeared to be test driving new guys. The guys looked happy to buy into Home Depot's I-can-do-it-myself promise—build that deck, tile that bathroom, install that Jacuzzi, lay that parquet, expand that kitchen. They puffed up around the tool department. But the women were leading the way toward Bath and Kitchens and while they let the guys stop, briefly, like dogs at hydrants, they were unfolding sheets of paper with measurements written down.

I was hunting a bankrupt contractor named Georgie Stefanopoulos, who used to specialize in decks, pool houses, and the surrounding landscape. We had played ball together when we were kids. By the time I returned to Newbury from my excursion into the wider world, Georgie owned a very large landscaping outfit. Last time I was here buying pressure-treated posts for Redman's corral, I had spotted him wearing a name tag that said “George” and an orange apron that read, “I Can Help In Any Department.”

I found him in Lumber, surrounded by flocks of customers, and trailed him as he answered questions on an orbit from Hardware to Plumbing to Electrical, outside to Gardening and back through Kitchen, Bath, Floors, Paint and Mill Work and back to Lumber, where I was finally able to make myself useful helping George help a carpenter on crutches who was buying three-quarter-inch birch-veneer plywood. We were breathing hard by the time we trundled the carpenter and his wood through checkout and loaded his pickup. I stood with George while he had a cigarette in the parking lot.

He hadn't put on a pound since high school, still a tightly wound little guy, with arms and legs as taut and strong as aircraft cable, the woven stainless steel wire rope that will not stretch.

“How you doing with the probation?” I asked. Management was on his case, he had told me last time, for flaring up at a customer who had annoyed him.

“Where'd you hear about that?”

“You mentioned it last time I saw you.”

“I did?” He laughed, dryly. “I was spilling my guts, like the rage counselor said to. Yeah, it's okay, now. I'm off.”

“Congratulations.”

“Freakin' stupid thing to be congratulated for. Freakin' idiot customer endangers his life and everyone in the aisle by climbing a wood rack and I'm the one who gets in trouble. They had a guy killed in the wood rack couple of years ago. It's like a factory floor in there but people treat it like they're buying cotton balls in the drug store. I had no idea how stupid people were 'til I got into retail.”

“I'll bet you miss construction,” I said, unsubtly. He looked mad as hell and that's exactly the frame of mind I wanted him to discuss his nemesis Billy Tiller.

He said, “I miss the money. I miss being my own boss. I miss my garage full of machines. I don't miss the headaches.” Then he launched into more philosophy than he would have back then. “Freakin' customers, come to you thinking they want a pool or a deck or a—a…”

“Patio?”

“Doesn't matter if it's a patio or pool or freakin' pool house. They want the same thing. They want a dream realized.”

This was a conversation that would have made more sense in a bar, on the third round. I blamed his sessions on channeling rage.

“But since they are incapable of expressing their dream in any concrete manner, they expect you the contractor to express it for them so that the job looks exactly like what they dreamed—note I say dreamed, not imagined, as they don't have any freakin' imagination to speak of, only a checkbook and a desire to own something perfect they can show off to their freakin' friends.”

“I wanted to ask you about Billy Tiller.”

“Billy? That scumbag. Funny coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“We're talking about dreaming, here, right? That's what Billy sold. From the get go. From the time he got out of high school.”

“I don't follow you.”

“Billy was a con man.”

“He started a con man. But he became a developer.”

“He was a con man.”

“Originally,” I said. “But he became—”

“Remember the oil change scam?” he laughed. “There were cars in Newbury that shared the same oil for three years running. God knows how many turbos he burned up.”

George was surprising me. He sounded almost admiring of a man I had assumed he hated. “My favorite,” he said, “was the car rental scam.”

“I missed that one.”

“Don't you remember, when he had the garage, Billy got a car rental franchise?”

“Right. Pink mentioned that. So Billy's repair customers had to rent a loaner instead of getting it free. That's not exactly a con.”

“He didn't do it for the customers. He did it for the parts.”

“What parts?”

“Batteries, tires, transmissions. Entire engines. Which he would swap out of the rentals and replace with the guts of clunkers.”

“You're kidding.”

“The man was a genius.”

“But are you saying he was con man as developer, too? I thought he had kind of moved up a rung.”

George shook his head. “It's not a big jump from cheap con man to developer. They're both into risk. They're both opportunistic. Both amoral, if not immoral. And they're both naturally entrepreneurial.”

“Not every developer is a crook.”

Georgie looked off into the middle distance, as if somewhere between the Home Depot, Stew Leonard's, and a discount liquor warehouse, he might glimpse one who wasn't. “Maybe not,” he conceded at last. “But these are people who get stuff done. Which means getting your way over other people. You gotta hand it to them. They're self-starters. Say what you will about Billy, he was a self-starter. And a darned smart one, too.”

“Do you think Billy was really smart?”

“You better believe he was smart. Listen, I was in business a long time. He was one of the smartest guys around. Smart businessman. Smart con artist. All he needed was a break. When he got it—when his uncle left him the farm—he went from a small time grifter to a big time developer. How? Simple. It's the same head. And don't forget, you make your profit by cutting corners, which can include not paying your freakin' bills to suckers like me.”

“If you knew that, why did you get involved with him?”

George tossed his butt under a Volvo. “I was your classic con victim. I wanted to believe. I needed to believe. I needed the work. I was suddenly in trouble. Got overextended. He offered a deal that could have saved me. Hell, it would have if he had kept his word and paid me what he owed me. Instead I'm bankrupt and working for fifteen bucks an hour. At this rate I'll have my debts cleared up in 2030.” He said it in a bantering tone, but his eyes were bleak.

“Couldn't you earn more driving a machine?”

George looked at me, hard. The tendons in his neck went taut. “I won't drive another man's machine. I tried. Couldn't stand it.”

“What did you think when he got killed?”

George laughed. “Not what I would have predicted.”

“What would you have predicted?”

“That I'd be glad. I actually opened a beer and started to toast the kid who got him. Couldn't.” He looked across the lot at the couples streaming into the big store. “I don't know what happens. You get older or what, I don't know. But it just didn't seem right to laugh about a dead guy. I mean, if anyone deserved to get killed it was Billy. But it's not funny. He was killed. Think about his last moments. You want to be that scared? You want to
make
somebody that scared? Even somebody you hate? I mean, would you really do that to somebody?”

He looked at me, demanding an answer. I said, “No.”

“Neither would I.…I know what you were thinking, Ben. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Chapter Seven

Jeff Kimball's mother looked like she had been drawn with sharp pencils and a straight edge. Her hair fell in a direct line to her shoulders, her cheek bones were high and strained her skin, her chin was pointed. She had a surprisingly full mouth, turned down at the corners. There was anger in her face, but she was not severe, not with the despair that clouded it like a bruise.

“What can I tell you?” she asked, meaning she had nothing to say. Maybe not, but I was running out of options.

We were standing at the front door of her once-pretty clapboard farmhouse. The paint was fading and newer homes were crowding the property. On one side, a road opened into the heart-stoppingly ugly mansions of Tiller Woods—Billy's first project. On the other side were a raised ranch that dated back to the mid 1990s and a late 1990s McMansion. Trees had been cleared and a foundation poured for a third house, which would be even bigger than the McMansion. Even if I hadn't already checked the records at Town Hall, it would be obvious that Jeff's mother had been reducing her tax bill, or making ends meet, by selling bits and pieces of her land.

Having already introduced myself, I asked, again, “May I come in?”

“Why?” she asked. “You're working for the lawyer Jeff's father hired. I have no say in all of this.”

“I am trying to do everything I can to help your son beat a very serious charge. The more I know, the more I can help.”

“Did you talk to his father?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And I want the boy's mother's take, too.”

“He's not a boy. Not any more.”

“Well, frankly, ma'am, from what I've seen, he's not a grown man either. He's a kid caught somewhere in between and I'm not sure he's even able to fully comprehend how much trouble he's in.”

She said nothing.

I said, “His lawyer just learned this morning that the state's attorney is going for first-degree murder. Premeditated.”

“Premeditated?” she said loudly. “Based on what? They can't unseal those court records. He was a juvenile.”

“The ELF fliers in Jeff's backpack apparently have the state's attorney believing he doesn't need to unseal those records. Though don't think he won't try. He thinks he can beat a self-defense plea. If he does, it won't be manslaughter. Jeff could get life in prison. Or lethal injection.”

“Oh, God,” she said, but still didn't move from the front door.

“The clock is ticking,” I said. “I don't know if you're familiar with Connecticut judges, but this is not California and these are not TV courts. Connecticut judges demand a clean, quick, disciplined trial. As good as Attorney Roth is, he fears Jeff will be facing a jury very, very soon. Can you help me?”

She gave an angry sigh. “Jesus Christ. All right, talk. Come in. Do what you want.”

Her furniture, rugs, and draperies were worn and beaten down and on no surface or any object did I see the sheen of hands laid regularly, appreciatively, or lovingly. The windows were dirty. She led me to the kitchen. It was fairly clean, but not at all cheerful, despite the sun pouring in. An older television sat on the counter. “Look out for the wires,” she said and I stepped over the cable and electrical connection. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to me. Tell me anything about Jeff that might help me help his attorney defend him. Could we start with when he drove away that morning?”

“He had no car.”

“I thought his father bought him a Jeep.”

“He gave it away.”

“To whom?”

“Somebody out west.”

“Okay, so that morning, did you drive him somewhere?”

“He wasn't staying here.”

“Where was he staying?”

“I don't know. He had been gone for two weeks.”

“Where?”

She shrugged. “Probably on one of his ‘expeditions.'”

“What do you mean? ELF?”

“What do you think I mean? When they announced those indictments out in Oregon, I thought, oh God, he got caught at last.”

“He told me he didn't know that bunch.”

“They always say they don't know each other,” she cut me off angrily. “They're like Alcoholics Anonymous.” Her face twisted with a bitter expression. “I thanked God it wasn't him. Now I wish it been him. He wouldn't be in this mess.”

Suddenly, tears trembled in her eyes. They ran down her face. She lowered her head and wrapped her arms around her chest. I moved back, not sure what to do. Her shoulders heaved, violently. It was wracking her whole body and I knew I had to do something. I stepped slowly closer, laid my hand on her shoulder, then my arm, and gradually drew her into both arms.

“Oh God,” she gasped. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'll stop.”

But she was crying like someone who had put it off a very long time and she could not stop. She cried and cried and cried. She began shaking so hard I started to fear for her life. She was having trouble breathing. I held her even tighter and patted her head like you would comfort a kid or a dog, which didn't help at all. I tried to edge her toward the sink to pour her a glass of water, but small as she was, I couldn't move her.

She tried to speak, several times. But all that came out was something that sounded like, “He,” as in Jeff, and she could not form a sentence. She started hiccupping uncontrollably, and for some reason that started her laughing. I thought, Oh my God now we're exploding into complete hysteria, but it was not hysteria. It was just the laugh of someone finally blessed with the ability to see some small, unexpected relief from her misery.

“Water?”

She reached blindly. I filled a glass and closed her hand around it. She took a sip. It slipped from her hand. I was almost quick enough to catch it, but it slipped from me, too, and shattered at our feet, which proved to be a godsend. Suddenly we had a job to do mopping up broken glass. By the time we had wiped gingerly with paper towels, then mopped the water with more towels, then found the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed for shards, she had returned to something like normal.

She splashed cold water on her face and I handed her the last towel from the roll.

“Oh my God. I'm sorry, Mr. Abbott. I just—I don't know what hit me.” Her face, reddened, clouded. Her voice grew dull. “I guess it all hit me. Whew.” She sat the kitchen table, staring at the back of the TV.

“Why don't I make you coffee,” I said.

“Thanks.”

I found some coffee in a can and a cafetiere that hadn't been used in a long time and boiled water while she sat in silence, dabbing her face with the paper towel. After it had brewed and I pressed it and poured, she said, “Jeff is very brave.”

“I suspected that,” I said.

“There is something in him that won't let him turn his back on what is wrong. And it is a terrible thing that he will be locked up for the rest of his life for being brave.”

“He's not locked up, yet, in that sense. He's awaiting trial. He's got the best lawyer in Connecticut.”

“His father always demanded the best. Even when he couldn't afford it.” She sipped the coffee, then looked up at me. “Where does a child develop passion?”

“Home?”

“Not in this home.”

“Are you sure of that?”

“Deathly sure. Before Jeff went away, when he was younger, he used to ask, ‘Why did Dad leave?' What was I supposed to tell my child? Your father left us to become rich and famous which he couldn't do when he was tied to us? In this home all he found was anger.”

“The set to he had with Billy Tiller. Was that when his father left?”

She didn't hear me. “My anger scorched this house. I used to love this house. It was my parents' country house when I was growing up. But my husband poisoned it for me. I only stayed because Jeff wanted to. Then when Tiller destroyed the woods, he was heartbroken. His anger—against his father for leaving, against me for letting it happen, or making it happen, God knows—all came out at Tiller. Tiller became everything that went wrong in Jeff's life. He couldn't help it.”

I looked away to hide my face. She thinks Jeff killed him, I thought. Same as his father. They both think he did it.

“I tried to find a boyfriend to find Jeff a father. But I couldn't pull it off. And by then, he didn't even want a father. He found an enemy that took the place.”