Nick's lucky break

Chapter 1a: Do We Have a Deal?

A bead of sweat formed at the tip of the nose of the man as he bent low over his things. The sun was long past going down and the shadows loomed long and large over the job site as Nick Price packed away his tools for the day.

“Wanna grab a cold one after we’re finished, bud?” said his companion, Travis. He too, was gathering his belongings. Bright patches of sweat shone through his once-white t-shirt. It was now caked in dirt and dust and resembled the color of creosote.

“Nah, I got a thing I need to do. Rain check?” said Nick who, finally noticing the droplet of perspiration, reached up with a muscled hand, wiped his nose, and flicked it into the evening Autumn air.

Travis’s grunt was non-committal. He’d be grabbing that drink whether Nick wanted to or not. The pair of men were subcontractors on a renovation job for a wealthy family in the ‘Hills of Beverly’, as Travis liked to call it. They had worked under the main contracting company as subcontractors before and got along very well. Both Travis and Nick were of similar age, but Travis had a few years more experience and thus, was the senior man of the pair.

“You sure pal? After the way that homeowner talked our ears off today, bossing us around, threatening this and that, I kinda wish I’d packed a few cold ones in my cooler — if you catch my drift.” Travis said, closing up his toolbox and making to pick it up.

Nick was bent low, unlatching his knee pads. Pools of sweat formed where the pads had been, a relic from the hours he’d spent so far that day installing a floor. One of his knees barked in protest and he rubbed around it in small circles, soothing the aching muscle. The pain finally ebbed away, and Nick made to retie one of his boots, the laces of which were hanging loosely. He had to look away from Travis as the smirk played wide across his handsome face.

The homeowner. Travis did NOT get along with this woman.

“I hear ya buddy. Just remember, we’re only subcontractors on this job. We’ve got a little flooring left to do, and some small bathroom tile and grout work. That’s it. All that other guff she was going off about today is not on our punch list. But we should give a heads-up to the main contractors so that at least they know what’s going to be coming their way when they show up tomorrow.”

Travis snorted and exhaled, letting the air forcibly escape his nostrils. “Yeah. Yeah…” He gave his toolbox a shake to settle his tools and waited until Nick had done the same. The pair then covered the short distance to where they had parked their work vehicles.

Travis had a brand-new Ford F-150 Sport, with all the trimmings. It was the kind of truck someone who was not in construction might own for it wasn’t exactly cheap, but how a man chose to spend his money was no business of Nick’s. He, Nick, on the other hand, had always thought that owning a new truck was a curse, as you’d always be distracted by scratching or dinging it on something. Especially in their line of work. By contrast, he owned a perfectly respectable 2005 Toyota Tundra with a proud 250,000 miles attached to its reliable, rusted frame.

Almost to prove his point, Travis had gone over to the back door of his truck and delicately opened the rear door and laid his toolbox on the matted floor bed without touching any of the surrounding interior, presumably for fear of dirtying it. He then made to remove the stained t-shirt he’d worn all day up and over his body and began dabbing at the pools of sweat that formed around the base of his neck, chest and torso and then, finally around his armpits.

“God, you’re ripe.” Nick joked, fanning the air away from his face. He was about 10 feet away from Travis, but felt like he was living inside the man’s armpits.

“***, pretty boy.” retorted Travis as he put his worn shirt in a plastic bag and grabbed a fresh one that sat folded on his back seat.

“Going to put a towel down on your seat so your swamp ass doesn’t perma-stain the material, too?” said Nick, as he already saw Travis reaching for the towel, which was folded underneath the t-shirt, to place down on the front seat.

Travis made a fist and shook it in Nick’s direction. “It’s a good thing we’re friends and you’re the best damn sidekick I’ve ever worked with, or else—” He mimed the punch, and it made Nick laugh. Nick knew they’d never really take it to blows. It was just how it was on a job site and sometimes a little laughter was needed to cut the tension of an otherwise stressful job.

“Be here extra early tomorrow, bud. I don’t want to have to deal with the Wicked Witch of the West any more than I have to. 7:00am, got it?”

Nick turned to his companion, who was already inside his truck and gave a mock military salute.

“Fuckin’ smart ass.” He breathed with a laugh. Travis rolled up the window, threw his truck into drive and gently trundled away down the long road that was the driveway.

Nick watched him go until he could no longer see the taillights of his truck through the thin forest of trees that lined the gravel roadway of the homeowners’ property.

He then gathered the remainder of his things and began putting them into the truck bed. Then he unclipped his toolbelt and placed it into the back seat of his ancient, but reliable truck. A gentle wind kicked up and Nick shielded his eyes from the dust and turned his body so that he was now facing the property they were working on.

The structure loomed large and cast a shadow over the property on which it sat. It was a literal mansion and was owned by a woman whose name he’d barely remembered. He thought he remembered being told by one of the main crew guys that she was a producer or director or producer/director or something, and was working on some new hit television show that was currently in production. Nick didn’t care. Television was not really his thing, other than gameshows; but manners were. And, in his opinion, you could have all the money in the world, but if you didn’t have civility, you weren’t going to become a friend of his.

He surveyed the mansion with its many dark windows, save for the few that were left alight by the homeowner. The mansion was large enough to allow her to come and go as she pleased without getting in the way of the jobs that were currently being done to her house. And yet, it felt like she was ever-present. Stepping into their workspace and slowing them down with a comment or critique. Didn’t she understand that by doing that, it slowed down their progress? And that, by micro-managing, things were going to take much longer and become more expensive? Nick supposed that if you’ve literally got money to burn, that the rules of life worked a little differently.

Nick turned from the house back to his truck and made to peel the shirt off his back. It wasn’t that long of a drive back to where he lived, but the thought of a fresh, clean shirt made Nick smile. The simple things.

He was midway pulling it off his torso when he heard something that wiped the smile from his face. He hastily shrugged the shirt back on.

“Hola. Sir? SIR!”

It was the woman, the homeowner.

He quarter-turned to look at where the sound had come from. Evidently, she’d needed something, because she was bounding down the driveway past her Audi Q7, a top of the line SUV and clacking down in heels that he was sure any normal woman would snap an ankle on. She bounced with hurried purpose on long legs, her tight denim pants swishing and her flouncy blouse flapping. She held up one indignant finger as she stopped a few feet from where Nick stood.

‘This should be good.’ Thought Nick.

“Como se dice—fuck. You can speak American, right?” She was mere feet from him, but she shouted as if he were a football field away. Nick wrinkled his nose, a reaction to the unexpected combination of an expensive floral perfume and wine fumes that floated off the woman. It was a bad combination in his opinion.

Nick inhaled and exhaled calmly, ridding himself of the smell before replying, “yes, ma’am. I may look Spanish, but its California and this is a suntan.”

She waived his response away with a flick of the wrist, “Good. Well at least we understand each other. Look, one of your men made a fuck up inside and I need you to fix it pronto. I have company coming over.”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but we’re just the subcontracting company. We were hired for flooring and the bathroom job. That’s it. Anything else and you’ve got to call Enrique, personally. You know that.” Nick’s tone was calm and measured. He thought her reason for bounding out of the house dressed like that might be for something like this. It happened often on jobs, where the owner of the home needed something fixed that was, technically, outside his job parameters. Nick didn’t like stepping on toes and having to explain to other contractors that he did or, in some cases, re-did a job. No sir.

The homeowner evidently did not think as Nick did.

“Ugh. You’re so full of shit. I know how this game works. Call Enrique. Call Juan. Call Antonio. You all fucking sound the same and spout the same bullshit excuses.” She rocked back on her heels and exaggerated, in a grunting Spanish accent, that was surprisingly accurate of the head contractor, “Oh, I sorry messus, I canno hel’pu with da today. We so very busy, you know?”

Her face fell and resumed its previous scowl and Nick had to conjure a cough to mask his laughter.

“Well?” Her arms were folded and showed off unnecessary cleavage. Nick held her gaze firmly and stared back into her dark, black and soulless eyes. He wasn’t going to let this brunette with a pair of fake tits sway him. He knew she was using her body to tip the odds into her favor but he wasn’t’ falling for that old trick and didn’t want to give the homeowner any reason to say he’d ogled her; even though he knew the entire working crew, Travis included, would always turn their heads whenever she walked around to catch a first, second or third glimpse of her athletic figure.

Nick shrugged and sighed. “Have you at least tried calling Enrique?”

She cocked her head to one side in a ‘what the fuck do you think?’ expression that meant ‘no’, and said, “duh, that’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?” She shook her head, yet her perfect hair remained in place.

In actuality, it was Enrique who was paying them. But it was her money that paid Enrique. Nick wasn’t about to split hairs this late at night. He sighed, “Okay. Here’s what I can do. You show me what you think is the problem, and I will let you know if it’s something I can do, or if you need one of Enrique’s boys, fair?”

“Fuck your fair. Come on.” She snapped, turning on her heel and clicked her fingers like a trainer curbing their dog. She clomped off with surprising force back up to the main house and Nick clinched his teeth, fighting back the urge to retort. ‘Fight it, Nicky. Don’t let her win.’ he told himself.