Chapter 8
Eight
Accepting that Quilla Schultz escaped one kind of justice, only to be permanently separated from her only child for the next six months, Floy let that be enough and threw himself into work.
When the delivery for Myra Emory’s shingles arrived, he was at her house, waiting. The delivery company used their own forklift to get the shingle bundles off the flatbed, then distributed them as Floy ordered before they left.
Razor and Beau were already on the roof with nail guns and tool belts, waiting. Floy began loading shingle bundles on his ladder lift, then sent them up. Beau and Razor took turns removing bundles and scattering them across a portion of the roof, and then Floy joined them.
The steady speed with which three very skilled, agile men worked was a sight for Myra to behold.
It was a symphony of sound and movement—almost a dance—as they kept nailing one sheet after another and moving in unison, layering them with perfect precision.
She finally went back inside and began making peanut butter cookie dough to the rhythm of the nail guns’ pop, pop, pop.
The front half of the house was finished before noon.
She’d been informed when they took a break that the crew didn’t eat a meal when they were on a roof.
Their break involved removing their shirts, hosing the sweat off their bodies, and drinking from the hose, like they’d done when they were kids, before putting their shirts back on.
Myra came outside carrying a tray. “I know you said you don’t eat while you’re on the roof, but a peanut butter cookie and a cold lemonade shouldn’t hurt,” she said.
Floy saw the expectant expressions on the brothers’ faces and nodded. “No, ma’am, it shouldn’t hurt at all,” he said, and took a giant cookie along with a tall paper cup of lemonade.
The Langley brothers grinned as they received their snacks. “Many thanks, Myra,” they echoed.
Myra beamed. She’d driven all three boys to school when they were young. Now they were giving her a new roof. Peanut butter cookies and lemonade seemed just. She went back inside.
The house was on the small side, and the roof was finished before six p.m.
Razor and Beau were loading up the equipment as Myra came outside to view it from the front gate.
“Good job. That should keep me snug and dry for a few more winters,” she said, then handed Floy the check for the job. She gave each man a small bag of cookies for themselves. “Get some food in your bellies. Cookies after,” she added.
Razor and Beau got in their truck and headed home. They had farther to go than Floy and chickens that needed tending before dark.
Floy was bone-tired in the very best way as he put the cookies in the passenger seat, then turned to view the finished job one last time. As always, he had put the last nail in the roof. It was his thing.
He didn’t always get paid in cookies, but today, his first job since being released from jail felt like being fed filet mignon. He tipped his cap to Myra, then slid into the seat and drove back up Main Street for the hell of it, just to prove they hadn’t destroyed him after all.
On the way home, he was already calculating waiting time for matching shingles to arrive for Moe’s roof and grateful to have at least a day or two of respite before they started climbing again.
Home felt good again. The house was cool and quiet as he set the cookies on the island. He went straight to the laundry room and stripped off his sweat-laden clothes, dumped them in the washer with a scoop of laundry soap, and started it washing as he headed for the shower.
He reappeared in the kitchen later, barefoot and shirtless, wearing a pair of old sweatpants for the sake of decency, and dug through the refrigerator. Leftover meatloaf and scalloped potatoes were supper. Myra’s peanut butter cookies were dessert.
His phone rang in the middle of a Jurassic Park rerun. Something about dinosaurs chomping fools who’d created their own monsters seemed fitting.
He saw Caller ID and almost didn’t answer, then muted the sound on his TV and answered anyway.
“What?”
Chief Arnold winced at the tone. “Floy, the plumbing is backed up in the P.D. and—”
Floy hung up.
Arnold was cursing beneath his breath as he left his office and headed for dispatch, then he yelled at Watts upon arrival. “Find me a twenty-four-hour plumber who’ll come to Blackjack.”
“What about Floy?” Stuart Watts asked.
“He’s still pissed. It appears we have been permanently blacklisted for jailing him without sufficient evidence.”
Stuart’s eyes widened. “All of us? For real?”
“For real, and hustle, or this place is going to smell like an old outhouse by morning,” Arnold growled, then picked up the stapler from his desk and threw it against the wall.
Within a week, Floy’s Fix-It crew was on the barbershop roof in downtown Blackjack.
The patch job on the small roof was quick, and then they moved inside, removing the disintegrating Sheetrock from the water-stained ceiling, replaced the sheets, bedded and taped them, then could go no further until all of that dried.
Two days later, they returned to the apartment, checked the walls, then prepped for painting, spreading drop cloths over the floor and furniture as Moe draped his giant TVs with king-size sheets.
The women in the salon heard the men laughing as they worked, as well as the undercurrent of their voices without distinguishing the words.
Moe was downstairs, still being the barber.
As always, when Floy and his crew finished a job, Razor and Beau carried the tools and equipment back to Floy’s truck, while Floy went down to tell Moe they were done.
“We took our drop cloths off, but we didn’t mess with the sheets on your TV,” Floy said. “No more roof leaks. No more saggy ceiling.”
Moe beamed, then gave the customer in his chair a quick tap on the shoulder. “Hang on a second, Roy. I need to pay the man.”
Roy Jenkins eyed the transaction as Moe opened the cash register, pulled out a check he’d already written, and handed it to Floy.
“Damn fine, job,” Moe said. “I saw the roof during my lunch hour and peeked in at the painting before Roy arrived. You sure know your stuff.”
Floy slipped the check into his wallet. “Thanks,” he said, and walked out.
“Heard he got all high and mighty and raised his rates,” Roy muttered.
Moe’s smile froze, then faded as he picked up the comb and scissors. He turned Roy back to face the mirror.
“High and mighty? No. He’s just royally pissed at this whole town, and with good reason.
Times change, Roy. He runs a business and has for the past twenty years.
He is a freaking magician at figuring out what’s wrong and how to fix it.
His work is perfection, and he’s earned his reputation as a licensed and very skilled jack-of-all-trades.
Anyone who doesn’t respect that can just pick up their phone and call for an out-of-town service.
Their rates will really give you something to gripe about. ”
Moe kept snipping and combing and snipping and combing while watching the changing expressions on Roy Jenkins’ face, then he added one last caveat.
“Matter of fact, I’ve been thinking about raising my rates, too. They haven’t changed in fifteen years, but the price of living sure has. Yep . . . I need to do a little figuring on my own and see about that.”
Roy’s mouth opened, then shut, his mind racing with landslide possibilities.
All it took for a dam to give way was for one crack to appear in the bedrock, giving a structure permission to start shifting.
The town had come crashing down around Floy because of gossip without facts, but instead of being crushed by the fall, he’d crawled out from under the debris, mad as hell at the betrayal of people he’d trusted.
And now, he was literally making them pay.
Now Moe was talking about raising his rates. How many others would follow?
Summer moved into fall, and Floy heard through the grapevine that Rance Webster had passed.
He thought of the old man sitting beside him in the waiting room, telling him he had ‘the cancer,’ and remembering how Rance said he would not be sorry when his time came, because he was looking forward to seeing his sweetheart again.
He thought of the old house back up in the hills that would stand empty now, then let it go. Good times came. Hard times followed. That’s how life rolled.
After that, Floy’s life shifted into a routine. At work by daylight, home by dark. Tired. Dirty. Hungry. He was alone, but not lonely, and the more time that passed, the easier it became to let the world settle around him.
They were never out of jobs, large or small, but on his days off, he was constantly repairing and updating his house: adding insulation in the attic and recaulking windows, adding storage in the barn, turning the old chicken house into more storage, and adding a three-sided shed to the side of the barn with a drive-through wide enough to back in his flatbed trailer.
At this time of year, jobs were geared more toward people preparing for winter.
Floy and the Langley brothers spent their days repairing appliances, replacing flues for wood burning stoves and fireplaces, and wrapping heat tape around plumbing fixtures under trailer houses so their water didn’t freeze.
He took jobs spraying insulation in attics and caulking other people’s windows as he’d been doing for himself.
He and his crew were up and down the mountain weekly, answering calls for everything from getting heat lamps set up in chicken houses for the old-timers who still raised chickens as a matter of course, to fixing porch steps and hand railings for the days when snow or ice would cover the ground, and they would need stability to maneuver through one more winter.
After a while, the higher rates people had grumbled about became a matter of course, just like the price of everything else. Their choices became need balanced against want. And need always wins out.