Pound Foolish (Windy City Neighbors Book 4) (19 page)

     “Oh definitely. They say a dog’s sense of smell can be ten thousand times more sensitive than humans.”

     “Amazing. So I suppose you had to spend a lot of time training her.”

     “Yeah, we trained together some, but she was primarily trained at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas.”

     Greg let the conversation die as Harry darted through traffic. As interesting as Harry’s K-9 partner sniffing out drugs on trains might be, he needed to focus on meeting the men at the Bible study. How much should he say about SlowBurn? It was probably
not
the place to actually sell product—and he hadn’t brought any samples with him—but perhaps a lower-key approach would work best.

     As Harry backed his car into a tight parking space in front of a brick three-flat, Greg asked, “Now who lives here?”

     “This is Peter Douglass’s place. He and his wife, Avis, are leaders in our church, but some of the guys in the study are from other churches too. You’ll like ’em.”

     “You always meet here?”

     “Usually, unless Peter’s out of town.”

     They climbed to the third floor, and Harry tapped on the door that had been left ajar.

     A growling voice said, “Get on in here, Bentley. You’re late. We were beginning to think you were off on one of your cross-country trips.”

     “That’s Ben Garfield,” Harry murmured over the back of his hand as they entered the apartment. “He’s got a voice like a bullhorn, but he’s really an old teddy bear.”

     Greg followed Harry’s example of slipping off his shoes and adding them to the pile near the door. The shiny hardwood floors set off the bright area rugs and the modern beige-and-black furniture as they entered the living room.

     “All right now. Everybody behave.” Harry swept his hand to indicate the whole group. “This is my neighbor, Greg Singer. And this motley crew is made up of Peter Douglass, who lets us hang out every week—or maybe it’s his wife who’s the tolerant one.”

     Douglass, a tall, smartly dressed African American, his white shirtsleeves rolled up a turn, extended his hand.

     “The guy next to him is Ben Garfield, the loudmouth of the group.”

     “Hey, hey, that’s no way to recommend me. What’s he gonna think with an introduction like that?” Garfield was older, white, a little dumpy with gnarled hands and a reddish, bulbous nose.

     “Denny Baxter and his son, Josh.” Josh had a shock of light brown hair and appeared to be in his early twenties but wore a wedding ring. His dad’s tan face and trim frame did not suggest a desk job. “Denny’s the athletic director at West Rogers Park High,” Harry offered while they shook hands.

     Greg tucked that into the back of his mind. One more connection to young athletes.

     “And this is Carl Hickman. He’s the plant manager at Peter’s company, Software Symphony.” Carl was a wiry black man with what Greg thought were the lines of a hard life etched in his face.

     “How ya doin’?” Carl kept his seat, gave a small wave.

     Harry Bentley scanned the room again. “Looks like a couple of brothers are missin’ tonight, but this is most of us. Why don’t you have a seat over there on the sofa, Greg, and I’ll take this chair.”

     “And,” put in Peter, “looks like you’re the one to open us up in prayer, Harry.” He turned to Greg. “We’ve got this tradition where the last man in before we start has to pray. But you’re exempt . . . at least for now.”

     After Harry’s prayer—crisp and to the point—Peter asked the group to turn to First Corinthians and began reading chapter 16. He read aloud until he came to a natural break, and then another man read the same verses in a different translation, more of a paraphrase.

     Greg’s ears perked up as they discussed the second verse: “On the first day of every week, each one of you should set aside a sum of money in keeping with his income, saving it up, so that when I come no collections will have to be made.”

     “Does that mean we have to tithe?” asked Josh. “If so, what about the person who doesn’t have enough to pay the rent? Some of the people in the building where I work literally spend every penny on rent, the electric bill, and food. And they’re on food stamps too.”

     Carl spoke up. “Well, it’s in the Bible. ‘Will a man rob God? . . . Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse.’ I heard more’n one message on that in my day.”

     “I don’t know ’bout that,” argued Harry.

     The debate went on until Ben Garfield held up both hands. “Hold it a minute.” He waited until he had everyone’s attention. “I’m not saying you’re right. I’m not saying you’re wrong. But this is why you
goyim
. . .” He turned to Greg. “Uh, that just means a non-Jew, so don’t take offense.”

     Greg nodded. “None taken.”

     “Anyway, that’s why you need me, an old Jew who knows a thing or two. It’s not as simple as you make it out to be, you know. The Torah prescribes different kinds of tithes and offerings. So if you want to follow the Law, then you couldn’t brag about merely contributing ten percent of your paycheck. And today Jews don’t technically pay
tithes
. To whom would they pay them? There’s no temple, so there’s no ordained Levites or priests, who are the only ones authorized to receive the tithes. Instead, religious Jews pay an annual fee for membership in their synagogue—for building maintenance and salaries—and in addition, most contribute to charity. But for me”—he shrugged—“that was my old life. I think God looks at the heart.”

     
That’s my kind of man
, thought Greg.

     Harry jumped in. “But a lot of people use that as an excuse to contribute next to nothing to God’s work. And they’re not even regular.”

     “You’re right there,” said Peter. “You know, if you make fifty thousand a year and put a twenty in the offering every week, you might be feeling rather proud of yourself, but . . .” He paused and closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s only about two percent.”

     “Yeah, and that still doesn’t say anything about where your heart is.”

     When they ran out of time discussing the Bible passage, Peter invited prayer requests around the circle. When it was Greg’s turn, he searched for how to say what was on his mind. “Well, I was stuck in a rut in my old job, but God’s given me a great opportunity. I’m starting a new business. So I could use some prayer. And the prayer is, I need the right kind of associates: people who have ambition, people who aren’t afraid to speak to other people about a good product, and people who need to make more money than they’re making now. So, if you’d just pray that I’d find the right people, I’d be grateful.”

     Greg was moved that two or three of the group took his request seriously and prayed for him during the prayer time that followed.

     After the group was over and the guys were just hanging around talking, Ben Garfield came up to Greg. “So what’s this business you’re starting?”

     Ah. A spark of interest. “Well, it’s multilevel marketing, direct sales with the highest rate of return I’ve ever seen.”

     “You don’t say. I’m a retired Buick salesman, myself. Number one at the dealership year after year. I think they made me retire just to give someone else a chance.” He chuckled. “Nah, just kidding. But I never would’ve retired if I’d known the wife was about to have twins—at her age, can you believe it? But because of those little rascals, I’ve gotta be flexible. Gotta help Ruth, ya know. So I couldn’t go back to a nine-to-five—though it was usually ten-to-ten. How is it workin’ for yourself?”

     Greg clapped the man on the shoulder. “Well, maybe we should get together and talk. You got a phone number, Ben?”

Chapter 18

Nicole had been up half the night with Nathan. He had the flu—at least she hoped it wasn’t anything worse. The poor kid had been erupting at both ends from midnight to 4
A.M.
before the Pepto-Bismol finally slowed things down. He had a fever, too, as far as Nicole could tell by touching his sweaty forehead, but now that he was finally asleep, she didn’t want to waken him to check it.

     When the sun’s rays broke into his room at half-past-five, she got up from the cushions on the floor by his bed and closed the blinds. The kids’ bathroom was a testimony to the poor guy’s battle and desperately needed cleaning. And it smelled as bad as it looked. Down on her hands and knees, she scrubbed the floor, the toilet, and the bathtub. She took all the towels and the throw rug down to the basement and started the laundry.

     On her way back up to the first floor, Greg called from their bedroom. “Nicole? What’s all the noise? Isn’t it too early to be doing laundry? I was hoping to get another hour or two of sleep.”

     She stepped to the bedroom door. “Nate’s sick.”

     “What? Sick? I’m sorry. Is it serious?”

     She sighed. “Don’t think so. Seems like the flu. I’ve been giving him Pepto-Bismol, and he finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago.”

     “That’s good. How ’bout you? You coming back to bed?”

     “Just cleaning up the mess.”

     “Oh. Well, don’t take too long.” He flopped back down and mumbled groggily, “You need your sleep, too, honey.”

     Yes, she did, but Greg hadn’t offered to take over, had he? Nicole climbed to the second floor as quietly as possible, put out clean towels in the kids’ bathroom, and opened the window a few inches. The vent fan might make noise. She peeked in on Becky.
Thank God, she seems to be sleeping okay.

     Back downstairs, she curled up on the sofa and pulled the afghan over her. Maybe she could get a little more sleep, but at least she could hear Nathan from here if he needed her.

* * * *

Greg’s voice woke her from their bedroom. “Oh, no. It’s nine-forty! Nicole, did you turn off the alarm? I’ve got an appointment with Ben Garfield in twenty minutes, and I’m not even showered. Could you make some coffee and toast for me?”

     She hadn’t turned off the alarm, but she hadn’t set it either. Ever since Greg had stopped going in to Powersports, there’d been no need to get up with an alarm. She always awoke at about the same time and would give Greg a push when she got up to get him started on his day. Ten or fifteen minutes either way didn’t make much difference. But of course, last night had messed with her internal clock.

     Nicole staggered into the kitchen to start the coffee, then went upstairs to check on Nathan.

     “Mommy, my head aches. I still don’t feel good.”

     Nicole checked his forehead. “Hmm. I want to take your temperature. Maybe we can give you some Tylenol. How’s your tummy?”

     “It kinda feels glooky.”

     “Like you’re gonna throw up again?”

     “No, just glooky.”

     Greg’s voice came from downstairs. “Nicole, did you make my toast?”

     “Sorry. Came up here to check on Nate.”

     “Is he worse?”

     “No. Better. Sorry about the toast. Can you make it yourself?”

     “I don’t have time, Nicole!” She heard the frustration in his voice.

     “Then drink one of your energy drinks.” She felt guilty the moment she said it, but good grief! The man wasn’t helpless.

     Greg didn’t answer, but she could hear him grumbling and banging around in the kitchen. He was obviously worried about his appointment, but she couldn’t be in two places at once even if she wasn’t so tired.

     When she came down fifteen minutes later, he was gone. They needed to have a talk. This business of him being around the house all the time without taking more responsibility for the kids—or himself—wasn’t working. She’d sometimes thought the claustrophobia of being cooped up in the house all day would be eased if she just had another adult to talk to. She’d even called some other homeschool mothers to see if they wanted to combine their kids on some days just to have company. Nothing had worked out so far. But having Greg around wasn’t solving anything either.

* * * *

Greg was ten minutes late arriving at Ben Garfield’s house.

     Ben met him at the door. “Come in, Singer. Sit down. You’re lucky. The twins are at school, and Ruth’s at some birthday celebration at Manna House.”

     “Manna House?”

     “Yeah, that’s a shelter for homeless women where she and some of her Yada Yada sisters help out sometimes.”

     Greg decided not to ask what Yada Yada was. He was here on business, not to write a family diary. He took a seat on a well-worn sofa that sank as low as a pillow on the floor. The house had a faint smell of baking bread and black coffee. Greg felt hungry.

     Ben listened patiently while Greg explained SlowBurn and sampled the energy drink without commenting one way or the other on its taste, but Greg noticed he didn’t finish the whole can.

     “So who d’ya think is going to buy this energy drink?”

     “Anyone. Anyone who drinks tea, coffee, Coke, juice. It’s better than any of those. We like to call it ‘the Time-Release Energy Drink that won’t let you down!’”

     Ben threw out a bunch more questions in his gravelly voice, the obvious ones as well as questions that hadn’t even crossed Greg’s mind—like whether he needed to be registered with the state and if not, how they’d collect and pay state sales tax. “’Cause even if you’re not incorporated and are operating as a sole proprietorship,” Ben pointed out, “every retail business has to file a Form ST-1 and pay sales tax.”

     “Of course,” Greg said hastily. Hopefully that sort of thing would be covered at the SlowBurn training in a couple of weeks. He still needed to get registered for that. “But you don’t have to worry about that here on the front end while you get started.”

     Ben rubbed his chin and flipped the brochure over for the fifth time as if it would reveal new information when he did. “Tell you what I’ll do. Give me a starter kit, and we’ll see how it goes. Maybe we’ll do more, maybe not.”

     Knowing the man was an experienced salesman, Greg gently tried to talk him up to the bronze or silver level, but the old man was resolute. “Nah. I’ll know very quickly how people respond to this stuff. If it goes well, I can always move up, right? If not, I don’t want to have more invested in it than I know I can get out.”