I got in my truck and drove into town, found a parking space, and walked up to the front entrance of The White Lily. I looked at my watch as I started up the stairs and saw that it was just about nineteen minutes after I had hung up, or, really, after Mr. Rich had hung up on me. That made me feel uneasy, I hate to admit. He knew just how long it would take me to get there, which meant he also knew where I lived. This guy just knew too much to make me feel comfortable–anyone who knows this much about anyone is either an IRS asshole or a crook. And Mr. Rich didn’t have that g-man look.
The White Lily is a big colonial clapboard building, painted white of course. It has all of the crap that the rich New Yorkers like to see when they get away to the wilderness of Connecticut. There’s an old-timey sign hanging out front with a picture of a white lily painted on–very original, right? The front has a big porch with several wooden rocking chairs big enough for the over-padded ass of the rich New Yorkers. When you go inside, it keeps screaming “money” until you feel like you’re going to go deaf. It’s all dark wood and thick carpets and heavy glass vases filled with more of those stupid white lilies. Just to the right is a wide doorway leading to a big living room, or what would be a living room in a house. Here I guess it’s a lounge or something like that. Anyway, the back side of the room is almost completely filled with a huge fieldstone fireplace with a bunch of overstuffed armchairs and dainty little tables arranged around in front of it. Hanging on the walls way up high near the ceiling are old rusty farm tools–saws, hoes, crap like that–and that always really pisses me off. Real people used those tools, guys who did real work with their nads, and now they’re hanging up so some asshole with a hundred dollar haircut can pretend he’s some gentleman farmer.
Mr. Rich was sitting in one of the big armchairs off to the side, where he could keep an eye on the doorway. He glanced at his watch and smiled, like he had known exactly what was going to happen. I didn’t like that look, but I was starting to get the sick feeling that I was trapped in that famous maze with the bull monster at the center. Mr. Rich was the bull monster, without a doubt.
I decided that I should take this bull monster by the horns, so I went up and sat down in the armchair opposite Mr. Rich without waiting for him to ask me. He smiled again, and I felt another twist in my gut that told me he knew exactly why I was doing what I was doing. I hate it when people think they have me figured out, especially when they think they are moving me just the way they want.
“So what’s all this about?” I demanded.
“Your employment, of course,” said Mr. Rich. “Just as I told you on the phone. You are not currently employed, am I right?”
I just looked at him for a minute, trying to make him feel uneasy, but it didn’t work. I hate to say this: I was the one who blinked, dammit. “I’m between jobs right now,” I finally said. Then, for some stupid reason, I had to go on. “My work is seasonal, so we’re in between summer jobs and winter jobs. Once the cold sets in, things’ll pick up.”
“Indeed,” he said, and I got the feeling he was not really listening. “How much did you earn last year, Calvin?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your earnings, Calvin. How much money did you make last year? Gross or net, it does not matter.”
“Enough.”
“Indeed,” he said again. I was beginning to hate his stupid little “indeeds.” He reached into the pocket of his gray blazer and pulled out a pair of those prissy little reading glasses and slipped them on. He looked at me over the tops of the glasses, which I thought made him look like an even bigger asshole. He produced a piece of paper from somewhere and looked down at it. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, but from what I could see, it looked like it had those blurry lines you see on photocopies.
“Eighteen thousand, two hundred and fifty-six dollars,” he said. I felt my back go up at the mocking tone in his voice. “Oh, yes. And twenty-three cents. That was what you earned last year. Gross.”
He let the paper droop a little and I could see it was a photocopy of my tax form, and that was going just too fucking far. I stood up and said, “Go to hell, you cheap fuck.” I got ready to make a dramatic exit.
Mr. Rich didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t do anything. He just said, in a real quiet voice, “Sit. Down. Now.”
I sat. What would you have done? You know you would have sat down, too.
“I am beginning a new business venture here in town. I am in need of someone local, someone I can trust, who can offer security to my guests. The job will not be overly strenuous, and it will pay you three thousand dollars per month.” He smiled, and, let me tell you, if anyone ever smiled at you like that, you’d piss your pants. “That’s gross, of course. We will make sure all federal, state, and local taxes are properly paid.”
“Security?” I asked. I must have had a stupid look on my face, because Mr. Rich looked impatient for the first time.
“Yes, security. You will provide the security at my new establishment. Or, if you prefer, you will be my bouncer.”
“Three thousand a month to be a bouncer?” I asked. “What’s the catch?”
Mr. Rich laughed, and it sounded like a genuine laugh to me. “No catch, Calvin. Unless you consider working for me to be a catch.”
“You said earlier that you already interviewed me. What if I don’t want to be interviewed or don’t want a job?” I really wanted this job–the money sounded too good–but my pride pushed me to fight this at least a little.
“Oh, Calvin,” he said, “don’t let your good sense take a back seat to your pride.” I must have jumped a little when he said that, a little shocked that he had seen through me so easily because he laughed again. “Shall we go inspect the premises and discuss your duties?” He stood up and started to walk towards the doorway.
“Don’t you want to know if I’m going to take the job?”
He stopped and half-turned to look back at me. “And why would I need to hear that?”
This is getting better and better !