The Fixer by Joseph Finder Read Free Book Online Page B

plate under one bubble-swathed speaker and realized this was going to take two trips out to the car.
    “Pretending you ever gave a shit.”
    “Not this again,” he said with a groan.
    “I’m sorry, Rick, but you were so not ready for marriage. I have no idea why you even proposed.” She’d sold the diamond engagement ring for not much money to a jeweler downtown. He thought they should have at least split the proceeds, but he was too demoralized to wage battle over it.
    “Because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. Which, by the way, you were totally into until the paychecks stopped.”
    “Oh, please.” She put one hand on her slender waist. She was in even better shape than when they lived together. Mourning their engagement obviously hadn’t kept her from Pilates. “You couldn’t have been less interested in my inner life. I was an . . . accessory. Every time we walked into a party or a fund-raiser it was so clear I was just your arm candy. You were so into the way other people were looking at me. You showed me off like I was your goddamned fire engine–red midlife-crisis Ferrari Testarossa.
Eat your heart out, look who I’m tapping
.”
    He bristled a bit. “You just didn’t want to live in poverty, and you finally figured that out.”
    “No, Rick, I figured
you
out. You were always clocking who’s up and who’s down. I was that tall blonde who looks great in tennis whites. You loved the idea of making other people jealous.”
    “That’s not true. I loved you.”
    “No, Rick. You loved
that
.”
    He shook his head and scowled, but something acid at the back of his throat told Rick she might have a point.

8
    M usic was blasting from the house on Clayton Street by the time Rick pulled up in his red BMW the next morning, angry-sounding rap, so loud it was distorted. He parked behind an old Ford flatbed truck, a beater with DEMO KING TRASH-A-WAY painted on its side, and not by a professional.
    The front door was wedged open. Plaster dust was everywhere. Three guys in white polypropylene coveralls and white plastic helmets, wearing respirators, were tearing off chunks of wall. Plaster chips were flying. The floors were covered with Masonite panels duct-taped together. A gray plastic trash barrel was heaped with scrolls of ancient wallpaper and scraps of lumber with nails sticking out.
    A radio blared:
You ain’t gotta like it ’cuz the hood gone love it.
    “What the hell?” Rick said, but the guys in the white suits didn’t hear him. One of them was prying off a door casing, the nails screeching a protest as they pulled out.
    I’mma kill it . . . I buy a morgue in a minute.
    “There he is! You better put one of these on.” Jeff handed Rick a dust mask, a white cup with elastic loops. “You don’t want to breathe that shit.”
    “Where’s all the furniture?”
    “DeShawn and Marlon and Santiago have been working since seven—they moved stuff into the basement. Put tarps on it and all that.” He reached down and shut off the radio or CD player. The guys in the white suits turned to look. “DeShawn, Santiago, Marlon, this is Mr. Hoffman. He’s the owner.”
    The three workers were huge, tatted guys, two black and one Hispanic, one bigger than the next. One of the black guys thrust out his hand. “Marlon.”
    “Rick.”
    The other two just nodded, regarding him suspiciously.
    “Demo crew?” Rick asked Jeff.
    “Construction, too. They do everything for me. I don’t use subs. Keeps the costs down.” He pointed toward one of the trash barrels. “You see the black mold on that plaster? It’s bad.” Then he pointed to a big section of the wall that was open. “The old lath-and-plaster construction. They put horsehair in the plaster, which makes it a real pain in the ass when it comes to demo. I get hives.”
    “How long is this going to take?”
    “Demo, a week, maybe. Most of the house gets left intact. But you’re not staying here. I, uh . . . I notice you