The Practical Navigator (2 page)

“How much?”

“To infinity and beyond.”

“You got it.”

Michael looks up. Beyond the gate, a tall, middle-aged woman in a long dress is approaching across the playground. Michael hands Jamie his knapsack. “There's Mrs. McKenzie. Go on now.” Jamie doesn't move and so Michael nudges him. Nudges gently again. Jamie finally turns and hurries forward through the gate to meet his teacher.

Seeing him advance, Karen McKenzie stops and waits. Once he's in front of her, she looks down her long nose at him with mock formality. “
Mister
Hodge. Are we ready for second grade today?”

Jamie briefly meets her eyes and then his head bows and he studies the ground. There is a small smile on his lips. “Are you having tuna for lunch?”

“Yes, I am. And I am sharing it with
you
.”

A murmur of pleasure. A single word. “Okay.” All is now right with the world. Karen McKenzie throws a quick reassuring look to Michael, takes Jamie's hand, and they turn and move across the playground together. Michael fights the urge to call Jamie back. All too often, he feels that he is sending a lamb out into a world of wolves. Thank goodness there are shepherds. On the way back to the truck, his cell phone rings. The day has begun.

 

2

In the Upper Muirlands, a house is being built. The workers' pickups and old-model cars are parked on the street among the neighborhood's BMWs, Range Rovers, and Lexus Hybrids. For all their money, people who live in this upscale neighborhood never seem to use their driveways or garages. Instead they park on both sides of the already narrow street, turning it into a one-lane road so as to play chicken with one another when they approach from different directions. The winners are invariably soccer moms in SUVs late to pick their children up at school.

Leo, a thickset, red-bearded man of forty, and Luis, an impassive Mexican, roughly the size and strength of an oak tree, are unloading building materials from Leo's pickup. Leo is the construction foreman. Which, to Luis's mind, means Leo stands around most of the time, talks too much, and lets others do most of the work.

“You got how many kids, Luis?”

“Cuatro,”
grunts Luis. Four.

“By how many wives?”

Luis shrugs. “Two a them I no marry.”

“But you pay support.”

Another shrug. Luis does. It's like feeding worms to starving, clamoring baby birds. There's never enough.

“Luis—” Leo sounds exasperated. They've only had this conversation a million times before. “You get your high school equivalency, you can get a job with the city. You get a pension, benefits. You're golden. They're hiring beaners, Luis. They gotta, it's their civic duty.”

Luis would like to explain to Leo that the city of San Diego is hiring no one, especially beaners. They're too wrapped up in pension overruns, football stadiums, and the endless sexual-harassment suits still being brought against the ugly
judio
mayor who couldn't keep his stupid hands to himself. As a matter of fact, the only interest the city of San Diego has in beaners is in deporting them. But explaining anything would be a useless waste of time. Leo has no use for facts. Luis has noted that a lot of white men doing manual labor are like that. They spend too much time dreaming of the fishing boats they're going to retire to someday down in Baja. In Luis's humble opinion, boats sink and fish stink. Luis would rather drown on dry land close to Petco Park and a good taco shop.

“You gonna talk or you gonna work?”

Work is important to Luis, he likes it and he's good at it. You don't work, you don't get paid. And you don't have to be
un genio
to know that the whole construction biz is precarious, sometimes up, sometimes down, rarely steady. And without the construction trades, Latinos, blacks, and, at the bottom of the food chain, uneducated whites, even well-meaning,
pelirrojo
ones like Leo, are pretty much screwed. Ah, well, there's always yard work. In fact, Luis's sister-in-law's son, Rafael, runs a crew and Luis makes a mental note to call him, just in case there's nothing else immediately available when this construction job is over.

Leo and Luis both turn as Michael's pickup pulls up and parks on the street behind a shiny Porsche. Michael gets out and approaches. Luis likes Michael. He's a good boss, fair and generous and more than willing to get his hands dirty.

“Hey, big chief,” says Leo, grinning.

“Where is he?” says Michael, his face grim.

“He's checking out his ocean view. Location, location!”

Michael turns and continues on into the building site. Leo glances at Luis, the shit-eating smile still on his face. “This oughta be good,” he says. A good excuse not to work, thinks Luis. He reaches for a stack of two-by-fours.

Michael crosses the rough yard. The foundation has already been poured, the first-floor deck is in place, and Bobby, a lean, muscular white kid in jeans and a bandana, and Jose, both his arms sleeved in tattoos, have begun the framing on the first floor's interior walls. Out beyond them on what will be the back deck of the house, a short, balding man in a polo shirt, sports coat, and pleated slacks stands talking on his cell phone. In truth, thinks Michael, Robert Caulfield has just a glimpse of ocean view. Still, not bad for a dermatologist who only practices three days a week. He turns as Michael approaches. He holds up a finger, telling Michael to wait.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. What's the option date again? Uh-huh. Uh-huh. And for how much?”

Robert Caulfield listens a moment and then rolls his eyes at Michael as if to say,
all I deal with are idiots.
Which is probably right. When not burning precancerous cells with frozen nitrogen, Caulfield makes it known to all who will listen and those who have no other choice that he's made his
real money
investing in privately funded REITs—real estate investment trusts—available to only a select, privileged few.

“No, no. Forget it. I don't care what he says about the upside, tell him it's off. I don't want to hear about it again.”

Michael has long since realized that a lot of the guys in high school who couldn't throw balls or get dates now seem to be the ones who drive Porsches, wear expensive clothes, and, in particular, order people around on cell phones.

“Look, I gotta go here. Yeah, yeah, I'll call you from the car.
Okay,
already! Yeah, good-bye.”

Caulfield disconnects and immediately shifts from annoyed deal breaker to ebullient glad-hander. “Mikie, my man! How ya doin', buddy? It's really coming along here, huh?”

“Glad you think so,” says Michael.

“Are you kidding? It's looking great, you're the best, the best! But hey!” Robert Caulfield clasps Michael on the shoulder, confirming that they're in this together, joined—if not at the hip at least near the upper armpit. “You know what I was thinking? Instead of the open deck here”—Caulfield gestures vaguely—“what about a glass-enclosed sunroom? We could still do the Jacuzzi. What do you think?”

This is nothing new. Caulfield changes the floor plans on a weekly basis, extended family room to home theater, master bath to his and her
toilettes;
and Michael usually tries his best to be accommodating. After all, it's not his house. But today it is, at least part of it.

“Leo tells me we're still having a little problem with our cash flow.”

Caulfield frowns as if surprised. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, no problem. I'll get a check in the mail, end of the week.”

“Leo was supposed to have it today.”

Caulfield chuckles. “Mikie, I forgot. You know how it goes.”

“As a matter of fact, no, I don't. What I know is I have men doing a job and I pay them for it. You don't pay me, they still get paid but they do the job somewhere else.”

Caulfield stares at Michael. His eyes have narrowed. All the false bonhomie has gone out the window.

“Is that a threat?”

“No, that's how it goes.”

Caulfield now looks about as friendly as a shark with gastritis. “I'm not sure I'm satisfied with the work.”

“Oh, really?”

“Maybe I should just get myself another contractor.”

It's both a threat and a challenge. Other contractors would get in line for the job and both Caulfield and Michael know it. Michael turns and calls back over his shoulder.

“Leo!”

Leo has moved from the pickup truck to the edge of the foundation. His arms are crossed. He's been waiting.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Tell the guys to start tearing down the framing. We're out of here.”

“You got it!” Leo turns away, happily calling out in Spanglish.
“Luis! Jose! Consiga the fucking lodoso martillos!”

Behind his wire-rims, Robert Caulfield's eyes have widened in surprise. “What? Hey, wait, wait—Michael, what are you doing?”

“I'm quitting.”

“What?”

“Quitting. As in out of here.”

Michael turns quickly away. Just as quickly Caulfield follows, blinking and sputtering. “Wait, what? You can't.”

Michael turns back, abruptly enough that Robert Caulfield stumbles so as not to bump into him. “You want another contractor? No problem. But believe me, I take what you haven't paid for with me.”

“You can't do that.”

“No?” Michael calls out to Bobby who's loving this. “Bobby! Pull those pipes and start loading them onto the truck!”

“Got it, boss!” Bobby drops the nail gun and heads toward the plumbing fixtures. Again, Michael turns and starts walking, and again Robert Caulfield follows. The crease in his golf slacks seems to have evaporated. Amazing what saying no does to a man who's not used to it.

“Michael, please, let's start over here. You gotta know, I want you on this job!”

“Nah, you're just saying that because you're seeing your January move-in date fly out the window. You'll be lucky now if it's
next
January. Good luck explaining it to your wife.”

Wham!

Nails shriek and wood splits as what was going to be the framing for an inner kitchen wall goes down, the victim of Luis's twenty-pound sledgehammer.

“Knock it down, Luis!” Michael calls. “Every bit of it!”

Robert Caulfield looks pale. “Michael, for the love of Christ, how can I prove to you I want you on this job!?”

Breathing an inner sigh of relief, Michael turns to gaze at Robert Caulfield. Too often it's like this. Workers, men barely getting by, are most often open and honest, willing to give you more than you give them if you treat them with honesty and respect. Those hiring are just as often suspicious and manipulative and more than happy to take advantage of you at a moment's notice. Maybe it's not their fault. Maybe they've been screwed one too many times in the past. Still. Is it any wonder Michael feels the occasional need to throw off his clothes and run naked and gibbering down main street, waiting for God knows who to take him away to somewhere safe and sane? The world is that crazy.

 

3

It's around eleven when Michael arrives at the office to find that his receptionist, accountant, purchasing agent, and secretary, Rosalina Guerrero, is, as usual, at her desk, working.

Michael's office is in a low-set building on a shady side street near a church. He shares the building complex, more like a series of converted trailers than anything else, with a landscape architect and a man who tutors high school students on college aptitude tests. Both the architect and the tutor seem to consider both a contractor and each other beneath them and so all seldom speak to one another.

Rosalina, called Rose, is a dark-skinned, amber-eyed, overweight woman in her mid-thirties who will suffer fools but always makes sure they know she disapproves of them. Rose, who has never married, and much to the alarm of her Mexican mother, whom she lives with and cares for, has no children, can be sarcastic in both Spanish and English, is effortlessly organized and coldly efficient, and Michael, who is neither, would be lost without her. Beyond that, she has forgone paychecks without telling him on more than one occasion.

“Morning, Rose.”

Rose doesn't so much as glance up from her computer screen. “It's after ten, Michael, it's no longer morning. I'm already on chapter four.” When not working on her computer, Rose reads. Thick, serious-looking books are almost always on the desk alongside her time sheets and she averages one every two days. Michael lightly waves the check in front of her. She looks at it, then takes it. She studies it a moment and, deciding not to be unimpressed, raises a heavy, unplucked eyebrow. “And this is?”

“Back payment plus an advance.”

“Do I want to know how you pried it loose?”

“No, you don't.”

“I'll take it down to the bank and deposit it before that
poca cagada
changes his mind.”

“Poca cagada?”
asks Michael.

“Little turd.”

Michael smiles. “I learn something from you every day, Rose.” It's a statement of fact as well as a compliment and Rose nods, accepting it as both. Michael turns toward his adjacent office. The door is open. His desk is not nearly so well ordered as Rose's.

“Oh, Michael, a doctor—” Rose checks the message pad up on her desk. She hesitates, wanting to get the pronunciation right. “Akrepede's office called. She reminds you to stop in around noon today for your…” Rose looks up at him, her tawny eyes curious. “Annual
?
”

Michael tries to hide his surprise.

“Nothing wrong, is there?” asks Rose. Just a bit too casual.

“No, not at all,” says Michael. “Just a checkup.”

“Good. You need one,” says Rose, her curiosity and her computer with its resources and search engine ever present. “She's
una
loquera
.”