The Practical Navigator (5 page)

“Well,
that
should be interesting. I think he still has that little contracting business. I don't know
how
he's getting by in this economy. Oh, but that little boy of yours,
so
cute.”

Bitsy Grant. Always so innocent and smiling, eyes like ice daggers. Anita remembers now. Bitsy Grant was a jealous, self-serving, backstabbing snake in high school.

“So, what exactly
have
you been doing, Neetsie?” Bitsy Grant sips her coffee and wrinkles her nose expectantly. “Hmmm?”

The “Neetsie” is what does it.

“Blowing Little Jimmy at the car dealership, now get out of my face!”

The porch goes silent. People look up to stare. Bitsy Grant blinks as if slapped.

“I said, beat it, you bitch!”

Bitsy's eyes turn from shocked to cold and calm. Her mouth purses in a tight, superior little smile. The mask gone, she is easily recognizable now. “So nice to see you too.” Rising, she picks up her bag and, looking neither right nor left, walks across the porch and down the steps toward the sidewalk. Her voice trickles back.

“Such a loser.”

Anita feels the eyes on her. Hears the amused whispers. There's a white pentagon next to her foot. She leans out of the chair and, bending down, picks it up. She puts it in her mouth and quickly washes it down with Keith Richards. Maybe she'll have another. Of both.

 

8

“Michael Hodge? I'm here to see Mr. Nash?”

If Michael's herringbone sports jacket is out of season, his tie never had one. And confidence doesn't announce its arrival with question marks.

The modern reception area has floor-to-ceiling views of San Diego harbor. The scripted logo on the opaque wall behind the receptionist's desk—
THE NASH GROUP
—suggests success and money. So does the blond receptionist. Miss California with computer skills.

“Do you have an appointment?” She's polite but skeptical.

“No, I don't,” says Michael. “But I think he'll see me. I'm a friend of the family.”

It's worth a try. And it works.

“Michael!”

John Nash is a lean, vital man in his sixties. Like Robert Caulfield, he wears the casual but expensive uniform of the California businessman—expensive loafers, tailored slacks, and golf shirt. The more exclusive the golf club, the higher on the pecking order a man stands, and John Nash has the small crossed-golf-clubs logo of Pine Valley on his breast. He rises and comes out from behind his desk, smiling warmly, as Michael, led by the receptionist, enters. Like the reception area, his office has a view of the harbor but also looks down on the Nash-built marina shopping center.

“Hello, John. Thanks for seeing me.” They shake hands. John's is strong and overly firm. It always has been. As if he's proving a point.

“Are you kidding? I'm delighted. But you shoulda called first, we'da had lunch or something. Come on, come on, sit down. You want some coffee, something to drink? Get us some coffee and sparkling water, Denise.”

The young woman nods. She turns to Michael, smiling. “Cream and sugar, sir?”

Sir. Depending on who one knows, in five minutes, even a man in an ill-fitting sports coat can come up in the world.

“Just cream.”

With a swirl of blond hair, the young woman exits. John Nash gestures toward the couch and some upholstered chairs.

“C'mon. I only have a couple of minutes here, so sit.”

Michael sits and sinks awkwardly back into the plush cushions. It feels like a defensive position.

“How're Jack and Doug doing?”

John Nash grins, happy to talk family. “Aw, Christ, they're great—great! Jack's in Richmond. Runs the East Coast office. Married, two kids. Dougie's in Sun Valley, in charge of one of our condo projects up there. Having fun is what he's doing. You should give'm both a call. They'd love to hear from you. I'll have Denise give you their numbers before you leave.”

Michael nods. Jack, who was his age, was always the student. Fun but straight-arrow serious. Football player, scratch golfer, Duke University. Never a doubt he'd work for his father. Doug, the younger of the two, sold drugs, partied, and finally flunked out of Arizona State, which was like failing at fucking off. Why bother trying when your father will always find you a job?

“What about you, still surfing?”

“No, not for a while now.”

“Jesus, Michael, I thought you went pro.”

“Being one and calling yourself one aren't quite the same thing, John.”

“Good,” says John Nash. “Well, that's good. You were smart enough to realize that.”

Easy to figure out, Michael thinks, when you're sitting on a beach without enough money for a meal let alone a plane ticket home.

“So. What can I do for you, Michael?”

What can't you do? Where does a man begin?

More than once of late, Michael feels as if he has never made a proactive decision in his life. Things occurred, events took place, and he responded as best he could, hoping he was making the right move. What was that movie with Tom Hanks? A brainless innocent symbolized by a feather being blown by the wind, turning one shit pile after another into gold, never aware of what was happening to him until after it happened. That's me, thinks Michael. Only not so innocent and certainly not so lucky.

“John, I'm not sure you know that I've spent the last several years as a general contractor. Mostly single-family homes and remodels, but we've done good work, have a good local reputation. The thing is—”

What is the thing? Is there a thing?

“We've sort of reached our limit—
I
have—and what'd I'd like to do now is step it up to the next level.”

“What level is that, Michael?”

“I understand you bought the Delaney house down in the Barber Tract.”

“Sure did,” says John Nash with a satisfied smile. “Beautiful property.”

Charles Delaney was a movie actor. The “property” is an unheard-of three quarters of an acre of land right on Marine Beach. Michael can't begin to imagine what it cost.

“I've heard you're going to tear down the existing house and rebuild.”

“That's the plan.”

“I'd like to bid on the job.”

John Nash has grown serious. “Aw, Jesus, I don't know, Michael. This is a little more than a remodel.”

“I've built houses, John.”

“I'm sure you have but not like this. I'm looking at plans for fifteen to twenty thousand square feet. Underground garage with elevator, implanted girders, seawall. I can already tell you the building restrictions are gonna be a bitch to deal with.”

Restrictions. Developers hate restrictions. Especially those who are trying to tear down a historically designated house in a community-regulated coastal zone. Michael reaches into his binder and removes neatly folded printouts.

“I know that. In fact, I've pulled the overlays on the property and I can already tell you what it's subject to. And I think I can help with the permit reviews. I have relationships with people on the town council and the coastal commission. I can tell you, John, they'd all like to see a local contractor.”

And now John Nash looks amused. “I wouldn't be in business very long if I worried about
town councils,
Michael.”

Michael used to surf and play golf with Jack and occasionally with Doug. Skipped school when the waves were too choice to resist. Ate dinner at their house, stayed over. More than once he was taken by the family to Hawaii. “Enjoy it,” said Penelope, “but don't get used to it. And never count on those people for anything.”

“John, all I'm asking for is the opportunity to show you the work I've done and what I'm capable of. At the end of the day, you'll make your own decisions.”

John Nash shakes his head. “I'd like to help you, Michael, but really, it'd be a waste of your time. You're certainly entitled to make a bid but…”

Word on the street is that John Nash was caught sleeping with a bridesmaid at his own daughter's wedding. His wife, her story similar to that of Job, divorced him for it. That's why the new house. Fifteen thousand feet for a single, sixty-five-year-old man currently dating a twenty-three-year-old Asian model. Good luck.

John Nash rises. “So listen, you give Jack and Dougie a call, okay.”

“I will,” says Michael, rising with him.

“And hey, if the right thing rears its head…” John Nash points a finger at Michael as if it's a promise, something that might actually happen.

“Thanks for seeing me, John.”

“Anytime, Michael. You're family.”

Family. John Nash banished his younger son to Idaho through subordinates. His older son lives in Richmond, Virginia, because it's a full continent away from his father.

What was I thinking?

Michael turns for the door. He passes the blonde as he exits. She holds a cup of coffee in one hand, a small bottle of Perrier in the other. She seems surprised that Michael is leaving. Even more so when he pulls off his tie and hands it to her on the way out.

He is going north on Interstate 5 when his cell phone rings.

 

9

“He's on his way, right?”

“Last I heard.”

Leo sits in Michael's outer office fiddling impatiently, both annoyed and relieved that Rose Guerrero is ignoring him. Women have always made Leo nervous and Rose is a lot of woman.

“'Cause we gotta go over these plans.” He holds up the carefully rolled engineering paper for emphasis.

“That's the tenth time you told me that,” says Rose, not looking at him, her nose in some book.

“Yeah? Well, that's 'cause we do.” It occurs to Leo he'd better set Rose straight on a few things. “'Cause if you think I'm sitting here waiting 'cause I don't have better things to do, you're wrong.”

“I'm not thinking of you at all, Leo.”

Leo finds himself
doubly
annoyed and yes, relieved, that Rose is not thinking of him at all. He would like to leave it at that and keep his big mouth shut but that's not why he's here. I am courage, hear me roar.

“So when are we getting together, Rose.”

“Leo.” Rose is looking at him now, looking at him with her crazy, golden eyes. Camel eyes, she calls them, eyes, she says, that can put the
mal de ojo
—the evil eye—on those who deserve it, which is hopefully not him. “How many times I gotta tell you, you're not my type.”

“Yeah, you keep sayin' that but what you don't do is tell me what that is.”

“Not you.”

Ouch. She might as well be talking about stamps at the post office. “Not me? Why not me? How long we known each other, Rose? How long, huh?”

“Too long. That's why this is so stupid on your part.”

Stupid. Probably so. The truth is Leo had known about Rose forever and never thought twice about her. And then one day a year ago, her mother took a fall and, not wanting to wait for the bus, Rose needed a ride home. Michael wasn't available and so Leo stepped to the plate, driving immediately to the office to pick her up. Halfway to East San Diego it struck Leo that the woman sitting next to him, though certainly plump, was voluptuous, exotic, and in all ways attractive. That this happened to be the first woman to sit anywhere near Leo in several years only occurred to him later. He was a man dying of thirst discovering he was near potable water and by the time he dropped Rose off at her apartment in City Heights, Leo was infatuated.

“Uh-huh. So what is your type, Rose, huh? Antonio Banderas?”

“It's none of your business what it is. You want a date, go online where they can't see you.”

Again, ouch. Leo has had no luck with online dating. His ideal companion boiled down to a woman who liked to cook, eat, and help clean up after, sex appreciated but optional. Much to his surprise, he got no matches. As for social media like Facebook, his friends seemed limited to people who post photos of their dogs and their children.

“Yeah, well, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover.”

Even though she has an actual book in her hands, it's as if Rose doesn't hear him. The problem with the world is that women ignore heavy guys in work boots. Even women who are carrying a couple of pounds themselves. Even women whose lips, full and juicy as they may be, move slightly when they read.

“I'm not askin' again, Rose.”

“Good,” says Rose, closing her book and putting it aside. It's an intimidatingly thick book with a plain, dark hard cover. Rose's books all come from the library. Leo can only assume they're incomprehensible.

“'Cause the truth is, if you want to know the truth, the truth is I'm seeing somebody already.”

Where has
this
come from? But at least he now has Rose's attention.

“Seeing someone,” says Rose. It's Rose who now, if it's possible, looks uncertain.

Leo shrugs. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“Give me a name, what's her name.”

“Linda.” It's his mother's name but it's the best he can do on short notice.

“Linda,” says Rose. She crosses her arms under her breasts. Her bosom pushes up and out as if to confront Leo. “This Linda, is she cute?”

“Yeah,” says Leo. “Very.”

“Blonde or brunette?”

“Dark hair.”

“Sexy?”

“'Course she is,” says Leo. “Built.” He can see Linda in his mind's eye. She suddenly looks a lot like Rose.

“Then what's she doing with you?”

Cackling evilly, Rose uncrosses her arms, deflates her bosom, and turns to her computer. Leo rises. He puts the rolls of paper on the desk.

“Give these to Mike when he comes in.”

With quiet dignity Leo turns and walks out the door. It's not until he is getting in his truck that he realizes what he's done. He wonders if Rose will unroll the sheets of engineering paper, wonders if she'll see that they are blank. If she does, Leo hopes that she will realize that they are love letters and will stare at the pages for a long time.