He said it’d been struck by lightning and had been lying out in his backyard for five years. The man had stood there, ready to leave, looking at the tree he was leaving behind. He told Thorn, if he wanted to bring back the smell of that wood, nice honeydew aroma, he’d have to treat it like a woman he’d been married to for fifty years. All the smell’s still in there, he said, but you have to rough her up a little to get it back.
Thorn watched Jack turning that sink for a few minutes, then stepped back and looked at the skeleton of his house. It was at a stage now, there were a dozen projects to choose from. He could mill the siding boards or spend the day doubling up the top plates for the roof trusses. Or set up the builder’s level, that telescope on a tripod, and shoot all the levels, going from corner to corner, making sure everything was dead even, shimming up the low spots.
Or he could stretch out in the hammock, have a beer from the cooler. He could watch Jack work for a while. Lie back and feel the new stirring in his chest that Darcy Richards had set off.
Deputy Sheriff Sugarman rolled into Thorn’s yard at that moment. In his patrol car, and in uniform. And as he got out of the patrol car, Thorn could see he was in a bad mood. The way he huffed when he had to open the door again and pull out a wad of papers. The stiff, military way he walked across the yard toward Thorn. The sharp nod he gave Jack as he walked past the scream of the lathe. The tug he gave the zipper on his jacket.
Normally he was a handsome man. Dark eyes, straight, thin nose, café con leche skin. A short Afro. Harry Belafonte as a young man, riding the lobster boats ashore. A couple of inches over six feet, just taller than Thorn. But you wouldn’t call this man stalking across the yard handsome, not today.
Up close, his anger was even more obvious. He glared at Thorn, shoulders heavied down, an almost imperceptible shake of his head. If they hadn’t been closest friends since they were six years old, Thorn might’ve run for cover. As it was, he said, “What’d I do now?”
“Nothing,” Sugarman said.
“Whew, that’s a relief. I was getting palpitations.”
“No, no, buddy. This nothing is a bad nothing. This nothing is a nothing that should’ve been something.”
Sugarman looked off at the dark line of clouds to the north.
“Thorn, you didn’t file for a permit, you don’t have a licensed contractor, you got no proper plans.”
“I have plans,” Thorn said. “Yeah, I do, over there.”
He hustled over to a stack of mahogany siding boards beside the stone barbecue pit, looking for that book of poetry by John Ashbery. Thorn had found it in a remaindered bin at the Book Nook. He’d bought it because he liked the name, Ashbery. But the poems seemed to be encrypted by the insane. So Thorn was using the printed pages to start the nightly charcoal and the blank end pages to sketch on.
He found the page with the plans sitting on the barbecue pit and brought it back to Sugarman.
“This is just a box,” Sugarman said. “A box on six stilts.”
“Exactly right,” Thorn said. “Our plans.”
“Give me a break, man. This is worthless. You need detailed blueprints.”
“Look at the house, Sugar,” Thorn said. “We’re doing fine with these plans.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“Well, the point is somebody has a wild hair at Building and Zoning, and they’re going to make your life shitty till you go along with the rules for once. That’s all there is to it. And next time they send a cop out here it won’t be me, and it won’t be a warning. They’ll put you in the tank.”
Sugarman frowned, massaged his brow, his receding hairline.
“How’s the food in the jail these days?” Thorn said. “Still serving tacos on Fridays?”
“You never quit, do you?”
“What’s to quit?” Thorn said. “It’s still us against them, isn’t it, Sugar?”
“I’m afraid it’s us
Thorn watched Jack turning that sink for a few minutes, then stepped back and looked at the skeleton of his house. It was at a stage now, there were a dozen projects to choose from. He could mill the siding boards or spend the day doubling up the top plates for the roof trusses. Or set up the builder’s level, that telescope on a tripod, and shoot all the levels, going from corner to corner, making sure everything was dead even, shimming up the low spots.
Or he could stretch out in the hammock, have a beer from the cooler. He could watch Jack work for a while. Lie back and feel the new stirring in his chest that Darcy Richards had set off.
Deputy Sheriff Sugarman rolled into Thorn’s yard at that moment. In his patrol car, and in uniform. And as he got out of the patrol car, Thorn could see he was in a bad mood. The way he huffed when he had to open the door again and pull out a wad of papers. The stiff, military way he walked across the yard toward Thorn. The sharp nod he gave Jack as he walked past the scream of the lathe. The tug he gave the zipper on his jacket.
Normally he was a handsome man. Dark eyes, straight, thin nose, café con leche skin. A short Afro. Harry Belafonte as a young man, riding the lobster boats ashore. A couple of inches over six feet, just taller than Thorn. But you wouldn’t call this man stalking across the yard handsome, not today.
Up close, his anger was even more obvious. He glared at Thorn, shoulders heavied down, an almost imperceptible shake of his head. If they hadn’t been closest friends since they were six years old, Thorn might’ve run for cover. As it was, he said, “What’d I do now?”
“Nothing,” Sugarman said.
“Whew, that’s a relief. I was getting palpitations.”
“No, no, buddy. This nothing is a bad nothing. This nothing is a nothing that should’ve been something.”
Sugarman looked off at the dark line of clouds to the north.
“Thorn, you didn’t file for a permit, you don’t have a licensed contractor, you got no proper plans.”
“I have plans,” Thorn said. “Yeah, I do, over there.”
He hustled over to a stack of mahogany siding boards beside the stone barbecue pit, looking for that book of poetry by John Ashbery. Thorn had found it in a remaindered bin at the Book Nook. He’d bought it because he liked the name, Ashbery. But the poems seemed to be encrypted by the insane. So Thorn was using the printed pages to start the nightly charcoal and the blank end pages to sketch on.
He found the page with the plans sitting on the barbecue pit and brought it back to Sugarman.
“This is just a box,” Sugarman said. “A box on six stilts.”
“Exactly right,” Thorn said. “Our plans.”
“Give me a break, man. This is worthless. You need detailed blueprints.”
“Look at the house, Sugar,” Thorn said. “We’re doing fine with these plans.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is?”
“Well, the point is somebody has a wild hair at Building and Zoning, and they’re going to make your life shitty till you go along with the rules for once. That’s all there is to it. And next time they send a cop out here it won’t be me, and it won’t be a warning. They’ll put you in the tank.”
Sugarman frowned, massaged his brow, his receding hairline.
“How’s the food in the jail these days?” Thorn said. “Still serving tacos on Fridays?”
“You never quit, do you?”
“What’s to quit?” Thorn said. “It’s still us against them, isn’t it, Sugar?”
“I’m afraid it’s us
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