Holy Rollers (11 page)

Farraday rubbed his hands along the wide island in the center of the room. Chase noticed his thick body was pressed tightly against the granite countertop and his eyes were closed.

“You okay, Farraday?”

A smile—small, but since this was Farraday, it counted as a smile—worked its way to the driver’s lips. “Better than okay. This is heaven.”

Grant wasn’t buying Farraday’s happiness. Farraday was
never
happy. “What do you know about kitchens? Except they can be used to store booze.”

The big man’s hand continued to stroke the granite. “I’m a chef.”

To which Grant said, “Get the hell outta here.” When Farraday didn’t answer, he added, “Really?”

Farraday finally opened his eyes. “Really.” He looked at his companions; doubt was painted on their faces. “There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me, Lambert.” He stroked the granite one more time. “You think all I can do is drive? We’re gonna do some good eating on this job.”

That was another thing Grant wasn’t buying. “Weren’t you the guy who was just telling us the Quarter-Pounders are better in Jersey?”

“Actually,” said Farraday, “I’m more of a Big Mac man. Especially from the McDonald’s out 46 near Teterboro. But that don’t mean I can’t handle a kitchen.”

“Okay, if you say so.” The skepticism was pronounced in Grant’s voice. “Now let’s check out the rest of the place. And it might be a good idea to memorize all the exits, ’cause I got a feeling a grease fire is in our future.”

And so they did, and nothing disappointed them, not that their standards were especially high. They were used to grimy walls, peeling paint, and vermin. Anything else could pass for the Waldorf.

But this place topped the Waldorf, or at least what they imagined the Waldorf was like, since the doormen would’ve never let them through the front door and the Teamsters kept chasing them away from the loading dock. From the living room with the 72-inch high definition television mounted on the wall to the pool table and bar in the finished basement to the six large bedrooms on the second floor, every inch of every room was fully furnished and designed for comfort. They shared an unspoken belief that it’d almost be a shame to have to leave it to pull the job.

“Maybe we should forget the Cathedral and just steal the house,” joked—or maybe
half
joked—Chase as they stood on the second floor landing, fifteen feet above the flagstone floor of the foyer on one side, the carpeted living room on the other.

“Tempting,” Grant agreed. “Too bad Lisa rented the place under her own name, so it’s out of consideration unless we screw her over. Although…” He stepped to the other side of the landing and looked down into the living room. “That TV
would
look nice in our apartment.”

“The only way that TV gets into our apartment,” noted Chase, “is if we knock out most of our walls, and a few of our neighbors’.”

The three men began their descent down the stairs to the first floor. Grant stopped them as they passed an oversized window framing the front door and pointed.

“Get a load of that.”

Above the tree line, and above the roof of the McMansion across the street, rose the cross marking the location of the Virginia Cathedral of Love.

“Lisa promised us close,” said Chase. “She got us close.”

Farraday sized it up, as only Farraday could. “That’s about three-eighths of a mile away.” He squinted. “Make that three-sevenths. Less than a ten-minute walk if there’s a direct route, but the way these streets twist, I doubt it’s walkable.”

“Since our cars tend to be of the borrowed-without-permission variety,” Grant said, “we’ll have to work something out when Lisa gets here.”

“We’ll figure it out,” said Chase. “Anyway, walking is good exercise.”

Grant and Farraday stared at Chase. They didn’t believe in exercise, and they weren’t sure they believed too much in good, either.

$ $ $

Their bags were not yet unpacked. They’d tossed them in the first bedrooms they’d come across until the rest of the gang—the female contingent—arrived.

In the meantime, Farraday hid the Caddy in the garage, since they all agreed a stolen car should not be sitting in their driveway where any passing busybody cop might see it. But besides exploring the house and playing six games of pool in the basement, that was all they’d done.

The three men stood in the kitchen trying to think of what they should do next, figuring maybe another game of pool sounded like a good idea.

That’s when they heard a “yoo-hoo” coming from outside the front door and hoped it was meant for someone else, because they were far more inclined to play another game of pool than answer a
yoo-hoo
.

“Yoo-hoo!” the woman’s voice sang out once again, which answered the question of what they’d do next.

They looked at each other and no one said or did anything until Grant slumped his shoulders. “I’ll see who it is.”

It wasn’t a visitor; it was visitor
s.
As in two people. As in the
yoo-hoo
ing woman—blond and toothy with excessively taut, excessively tan skin—and a man who could have been her blond, toothy, taut, tan twin.

Grant opened the door and eyed them warily. “Can I help you?”

The woman looked very briefly and quizzically at the man, and then focused a ferocious smile back at Grant.

“Welcome to the neighborhood!” she said, a bit too loudly. “I’m Tish Fielding, and this is my husband Malcolm.”

“Malcolm,” said Malcolm, feeling the need to
also
introduce himself. He stuck out his hand and Grant shook it. It felt impossibly soft and cool to the touch, like he soaked it in moisturizer whenever he wasn’t using it to do absolutely nothing.

“We live at 462.” She tossed her too-blond mane—a color that looked as if Chase’s highlights had taken control of her entire head—in the general direction of the opposite side of the street. “And we’re thrilled to have you as our neighbor!”

“Yes,” Malcolm added, causing Grant to wonder how he spoke without moving his jaw.

He nodded politely—or at least in an approximation of politely—and started to close the door. “Nice meeting you…”

“Just one thing,” said Tish, broadening her smile as she reached out and stopped the door from closing. Grant couldn’t help but notice the red of her nails as her fingers clamped onto the door.

“But an important thing.” Malcolm raised one index finger as he also pretended to reach for the door, but didn’t quite make contact. The tenseness in his eyes showed that he hoped his soft hands wouldn’t have to touch anything solid. Not this door; maybe nothing. Ever.

“Go ahead,” Grant said, holding the door in the half-closed position as Tish’s red nails balanced it from the other side. In his experience “just one thing” usually wasn’t good…especially when it was also “important.”

Tish said, “It’s the condition of your yard.”

Grant looked out over the yard. He lived in urban New York City and therefore didn’t have much experience with trees and grass and leaves and bushes and other green things, but it looked fine to him. “What about it?”

Lock-jawed Malcolm said, “The lawn needs to be mowed.”

“Oh.” Grant looked again, and again it seemed fine to him. It was green, wasn’t it? “You sure?”

“And,” Trish added, talking right over Grant’s doubt, “the hedges need to be trimmed. It probably wouldn’t hurt to weed the flower beds, either.”

“Oh.”

Malcolm rubbed his palms together. “We were going to complain to the HOA. But when we saw you move in, Tish and I felt it would be the neighborly thing to knock on the door and take care of things in a neighborly way.” He oh-so-neighborly strained to give Grant a neighborly smile, which made a vein in his neck quiver.

“Yes,” his wife agreed. “No sense in dragging the HOA in for such easily remedied violations.”

Grant was confused. “HOA?” He tried pronouncing it out. “What’s a hoa?”

Which in turn confused Tish. “Hoa? I have no idea what…”

“I think,” sniffed Malcolm, “our new neighbor was trying to pronounce H-O-A.”

Tish and Malcolm narrowed their eyes. Their smiles dimmed slightly and they exchanged glances that Grant read as
the new neighbor doesn’t understand what we’re talking about.

So Grant asked, “Whatcha talking about?”

The Fieldings exchanged another glance, as if to decide who had the duty to explain The Way Things Worked Around Here to the imbecile in front of them. Grant picked up on that, too.

With a noncommittal shrug from Malcolm, the explanation fell to Tish. “The Home Owners’ Association, of course. HOA: Home Owners’ Association.”

“Oh.” Grant thought about that. “But I’m not a homeowner. I’m just renting.”

Tish thought that was one of the funniest things she’d ever heard and emitted a high-pitched laugh for a full twenty seconds until she realized that Grant wasn’t joking. When that reality hit her, the laughter stopped abruptly, although she mostly managed to hold the strained smile on her face that sort of passed as friendly.

“Seriously, Mr.…?”

“Williams.” It was a last name he often used when he wanted to blend in. “Mr. Williams.”

“Mr. Williams.” Her eyes narrowed again. “Do you have a first name?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

She tried again. “Do you have a first name you’d be willing to share?”

He shrugged. “Grant.”

“
Grant
. Grant, I know you’re new to this, but Old Stone Fence Post Estates has a certain reputation, and our immaculate lawns are part of that reputation.” Her arm swept across the vista of McMansions. “Weeds are pulled, grass is cut, hedges are trimmed and tidy. Our neighbors with children keep their yards free of debris—”

“She means toys,” said Malcolm.

“Yes, toys. Cars are parked neatly and
never
on the lawns.” She whispered, “That’s trashy. Don’t you agree?”

Grant nodded, not that he cared.

“Barbecue grills are kept in the backyard. Hoses are coiled in the garages. Trash and recycling bins always stay in the garage until the morning of collection day. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

Grant thought,
Yeah, lady, you’re trying to say you and your neighbors are tight-asses
, but what came out of his mouth was, “We’ll keep everything neat as a pin. Neater.”

Tish flashed her teeth, which was all the smile she was able to muster at that point. “I have no doubt you will, Mr. Williams.”

Grant finally freed himself from Tish and Malcolm Fielding and returned to the kitchen.

“So what’s the story?” asked Chase.

“The story,” said Grant, “is that Old Stone Fence Post Estates is no place for a New Yorker. And to prove that, get ready to do some yard work.”

“Yard work?” sputtered Farraday. “You mean, like, outside?” Unlike Grant and Chase, he’d never even spent the younger years of his life outside New York City’s five boroughs. Paul Farraday was born-and-bred Brooklyn, and not in one of those neighborhoods where a tree might grow.

Grant nodded a confirmation. “You’ll love it. And you need to get outside more.”

“That is not a true statement, Lambert.”

$ $ $

Across the street at 462 Old Stone Fence Post Road, Malcolm Fielding opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio while Tish retrieved the wineglasses. They were quite proud of their visit with Grant Williams and the way they had pleasantly but firmly laid out their rules for the neighborhood.

Williams had potential to be the perfect neighbor. It was clear he didn’t want any trouble with the residents of Old Stone Fence Post Estates, and he seemed agreeable enough. True, he appeared to be more than a little déclassé for the subdivision, but he wasn’t belligerent, like those Herrens and Fords on Black Oak Manor Terrace, with the kiddie pools in their front yards and the unfortunate habit of leaving their bins out at the curb all day on recycling day, exposing the entire neighborhood to empty liquor bottles.

It was outrageous that the HOA kept letting that type of incivility slide without so much as a warning. That was why there were HOA Rules—and there were better, more exacting Fielding Rules.

Which reminded Tish…

“Can you believe that blank look he gave me when I mentioned the HOA?” She laughed, shaking her blond mane, and took a sip from her wineglass.

“He’s certainly crude.” Malcolm’s jaw moved ever so slightly, an indication of what might have been excitement. “But I can live with that. As long as he keeps the property up, I can live with a
soupçon
of crudeness.”

“Agreed.” Tish clinked her glass gently against her husband’s, then laughed again, and in a broad imitation of Grant, said, “But I’m not a homeowner. I’m just renting.’”

The Fieldings sank to the kitchen floor in peals of laughter, Tish sinking so quickly she almost chipped the red polish off a nail as she tried to steady herself.

They were, they knew, the perfect couple. And perfect together. And if they ruled Old Stone Fence Post Estates with an iron fist, it was in pursuit of continued perfection. College sweethearts, they’d been together for twenty-five years and married for twenty-one without so much as a single fight. They were just that much in sync.