Chapter 7 #3
“Mike Woods,” the gruff voice carries through the phone, and I’m relieved he answered. Must mean I’m not in his contacts, so he doesn’t know it’s me.
“Hey, Woody, it’s Jameson Flynn.”
“You find the trophy, you little fuck-a?” Woody’s thick Boston accent and two-pack a day habit sometimes make it hard to understand him. But he’s coming through loud and clear this morning.
My father and Woody were on a weirdly competitive bowling team together for nearly two decades, and their claim to fame—besides how many beers they could drink and still bowl a nearly perfect game—was that they’d won the league championships five years in a row.
The winning team got their name engraved on a trophy that dated back to 1965 and got to keep it until the next year’s championship.
Somewhere in the chaos of my dad leaving town, that trophy disappeared.
“Jesus, Woody, was it plated in real gold or something?” He acts like my father lost the Stanley Cup. “That trophy is long gone, just like my father.”
“What the hell are you calling me about, then?”
“Funny story,” I say as I take another look through the windows into the house, “but I’m standing on the front porch of a property you’re working on in Brookline. Nice brick house set up a hill.”
“You know Josh Emerson?” His voice is distinctly hostile.
“I knew him. He passed away a couple weeks ago.”
“Shit,” Woody rasps. “That asshole owed me eight grand. I stopped work because he didn’t pay his last bill.”
“Hard to do from the grave,” I say. “What’ll it take for you to come remove this sign from the yard and the permit from the property?”
“Eight grand. Why? You gonna pay me?”
“If you walk away from this job, yeah.” The money to settle this account should come from the estate, but since the house wasn’t in the trust and Lauren certainly doesn’t have the money right now, my life is easier if I pay him to walk away.
“If you can meet me here in an hour with the house key and a copy of the contract you had with Josh, I’ll have your eight grand for you. ”
He grunts, and I know he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of him running over here to get his money, but he also wants to be paid. “Fine,” he says, and the line goes dead.
The front porch appears to have at one time wrapped around the side of the house closest to the driveway, but that side has now been finished off with floor-to-ceiling windows.
I press my face up close to the glass and notice that this room hasn’t been demoed, possibly because it’s newer?
It looks like it might be right off the kitchen, so it could be a good playroom for the girls.
I shoot a text off to Derek with the wording of a quick agreement to terminate Woody’s contract to work on this house, which I need him to draw up and send back to me; then I dial Jules’s number.
She sounds distracted when she answers the call, so I say what I know will capture her attention. “Boy do I have a project for you.”
“I don’t have the time or capacity for another project, Jameson. I have a six-month waitlist and people asking for us to take on their projects every day.”
“I’m not asking.”
“Oh?” Annoyance flashes through the single word.
“Let’s say I’m calling in a favor.”
She scoffs. “I don’t owe you a favor big enough . . .” Her voice trails off as the realization hits.
“Vegas.” The one word is all I need to say.
“Well, that’s the nuclear option, isn’t it?” Jules’s reaction is just as pissy as I’d expect it to be at my resurrecting this memory.
“It is.”
“What is so important that you’d call in that particular favor?”
“You’ll see. Can you meet me in Brookline now?”
“Really? It’s Saturday morning,” Jules complains, even though I know she’s been on the couch with her laptop, working on ordering supplies and invoicing customers since before I even woke up.
“Yeah.”
“Can I wear my pajamas, at least?”
“Suit yourself. But bring your tool belt.”
“Have I mentioned I don’t have time for this?” she says, and sighs.
“How many times do I need to say ‘Vegas’ before you actually get your ass over here?”
I can hear her snap her laptop shut. “Say it again and you’re on your own for whatever this project is. Ask nicely, and I might come over right now.”
I take the stairs down the front porch. “Please get your ass over here. And check your email first. Derek’s sending you some paperwork that I need you to print out and bring with you.”
She mutters something about how she really doesn’t want to know what’s going on, then disconnects the call.
Meanwhile, I follow the driveway along the side of the house.
There’s an older garage set back in the corner of the property and a low fence that runs between it and the house.
Beyond that, there’s a nice-size backyard and a deck that comes off the back of the house.
Even without going inside yet, I already know that this house is much more Lauren than the Park City house was. And I hate Josh a little less now that I know he picked a place she’d love. Maybe he was doing the right thing after all.