CHAPTER ONE

THE BIG HOUSE, BABY FACE, MARY BETH, and LIFE IN THE HARD LANE

Down on Lawton St. just where it goes under I-20, there's a large, two-story residence known as the "Big House." I doubt many have discovered all the nooks and crannies hidden there, and I'm positive no one knows all the secrets the old house could tell. The expanded metal bolted over the windows as burglar bars serves to thwart unauthorized entry, and gives the Big House the appearance of a huge yellow insect, black faceted eyes mounted on its body everywhere. Unblinking eyes, tireless and alert, set to sound the alarm should any threat appear.

The interior is a labyrinthine maze worthy of a Minotaur, an arrangement that's deliberate and useful for the purposes of those who lurk within.

Fact is, the imposing structure's been carefully designed, over decades of particular trial and error, to serve the needs of those bizarre atypicals disposed to wander its environs. The mechanism by which their requirements are accommodated is directed and maintained by a small, wiry black man with catarac'd blue eyes, unsullied white hair brushed back from the sharp planes of his face, skin the color of asphalt dampened by the twilight fog of a passing day.

Those few privy to his Christian name address him, respectfully, as "Baby Face." And all fortunates enjoying his acquaintance are anxiously numbered among those very privileged to be acknowledged by the Baby … and perhaps grudgingly held in his high regard by virtue of some talent potentially profitable to him .

Included in the offerings of The Baby and the Big House are room and board, cheap liquor posturing in pricey bottles, sex, games of chance, two vegetables and a meat with bread and butter for lunch or dinner - $3.95 – no tax, a pay phone, idle conversation, and the promise of harsh violence should anybody dare gettin’ out’a line.

The Baby holds court, arbitrates disputes, and metes out justice. He entertains with stories of hustles and scams; manufactures, markets, and uses marked cards and loaded dice; tirelessly practices the shell game and three card Monte; and somehow manages to keep a tight grip on a situational mass that threatens going critical mass at any moment. The Baby is given to always having a hat on his head. That way it stays available to slap in the face of the unwary, blinding them just long enough to get their belly sliced for offering offense to his fiefdom ... the Baby always breaks away clean!!!

Individuals who work in any trade you can name hang in the bowels of the Big House. As long as you're careful and know what you're doin’, there's a pretty good chance you'll find someone willing to do you an acceptable job in return for a reasonable day's wage.

In searching for concrete masons and sheetrock finishers one summer day, I happened on the expansive front porch of the Big House. With understandable reluctance I challenged a painfully designed jamb of heavy black bars protecting a half-open screened door, my knuckles the worse for the experience, all the while acutely conscious I bore the scrutiny of several black men, each of them obviously at a loss as to why an overall'd white boy would come trespassing their way.

Considerable movement and hushed mutterings transpired before a man, who turned out to be The Baby, presented himself and cordially asked my business. Satisfied I intended no harm, he unlocked the barred entry and admitted me to a maze of dimly lit, impeccably clean rooms, leading me back to a combination kitchen/conference room where we could sit and further discuss the purpose of my visit.

No eyes but The Baby's made contact with mine until, on the way to the kitchen, a young white girl propositioned me ... sky high on a barb'd flight the equal of any ever eagle knew.

Ignoring The Baby's displeasure, she, in a dialect best described as ghetto-black baby talk, countered my rejection of her sexual offerings with the suggestion I give her a job. Her challenge provoked exactly the response she was after! Before I knew what foolishness I was about, I'd agreed to put her to work. Offering her hand, she gave me to understand I should call her, "Mary Beth," then promptly left The Baby and me to whatever business we might undertake.

The next morning, shortly after daybreak, I stopped by the job where Mary Beth was to meet me, more out of curiosity than any idea she might show. Dog’gone if she wasn't sitting on the steps waiting patiently and, while I attempted some measure of recovery from the shock occasioned by the fact she'd actually shown up, resourceful Mary Beth graciously took up the slack, smiled sweetly, and asked what she should start doing first.

Since the job hadn't been mobilized there really wasn't much of anything to do, and I was at a complete loss as to how this unexpected turn of the worm might best be handled when, as happens more often than we deserve, providence intervened. The thought occurred that the first order of job site mobilization is a thorough cleaning and let me assure you this sucker was a long way from being tidy enough to justify starting any reasonable rehabilitative effort. On the contrary, this soon to be raised-from-the-ashes derelict of a house included the filthiest, most vermin infested crawl space of any I could recall, and a tight squeeze at that.

My suggestions and instructions were eagerly acknowledged and I took my leave, confident that Mary Beth`s employment would be short lived and that, with any luck, it was possible that before giving up, she'd manage to start a clearing around the crawl space scuttle hole from which someone could operate while getting the rest of the area cleaned that she doubtless wasn’t up to.

Folks, I wandered back by the job something close to three hours later. Mary Beth was standing in front of the house next to a trash pile of impressive dimensions carefully stacked as close to the sidewalk as possible, but not so as to interfere with passing pedestrians. She was covered with dirt, cobwebs, bits of debris and scratches, and a grin that spanned ear to ear. Any fool could see I'd happened on an unlikely employee worthy of serious reckoning.

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Chapter Two

BEA nee' MARY BETH MANAGES JEROME and ASSOCIATES

Bea's maiden voyage in depressed housing rehabilitation offered more than the usual array of problems and she handled them all with easy grace. Early on she displayed a willingness to assume the burden of supervision by making herself de facto foreman of those laborers whose task it was to keep the job clean, organize materials, assist the various trade specialists, and generally make themselves useful.

Numbered among her charges was Jerome, a thoroughly likeable, marginally useful master at the art of finding defensible reasons for there being absolutely no way to do what had to be done. The extension of this logic resulted in it being impossible for him ever to get finished however bland the challenge. And Jerome's attitude wasn't at all unusual among others of his genre. Under Bea's direction, however, Jerome and his cohorts developed a can-do profile that defied belief.

The job stayed spotless, a gratifying number of comments were made regarding the labor crew's willingness to seek out opportunities to be helpful, punctuality was their standard, they were observed to sweat on occasion, in short, a transformation of spiritual dimension was accomplished among men of the lowest repute. No one, including me, could fathom the change.

Baby Face surrendered the explanation for this miracle one evening after working hours as he and I rested on the porch of the Big House, surveying the passing parade while discussing the true meaning of life. The Baby always summed that topic by proclaiming, "You got to be a dawg!"

As was our habit, we conducted a half hearted debate as to which of us was the more deserving of being regarded a "dawg." Per usual the Baby bested me. With that tradition dispatched to a fare thee well I inquired as to the anlage of Bea's magic supervision style whereupon Baby Face proceeded to chuckle himself into a fit of thigh-slapping glee while gasping something about "That chile, Bea."

When he was able to recover himself, he explained that Bea would buy a pint of liquor every evening on the way home from the job. The next day, the pint would be rationed out to the most deserving of those laboring under her supervision. The trick lay in judging how often any one could be rewarded without seriously compromising his ability to work. Bea had it down to a science.

I never came on the job to be met with obvious inebriation, though, as a given day wore on, my arrival was sometimes met with a level of jocularity on the part of some misinspired soul sure to earn him the unfiltered blast of Bea's practiced censorious gaze.

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Chapter Three

ENTREPRENEURIAL BEA

Over the next year or so, Bea proved a valuable asset on countless occasions. But the kind of money she could make with me never approached that to which she'd been accustomed while plying her charms as an agreeable physical diversion to those who could meet her price. Bea gave me notice and departed amicably with as much severance pay as I could afford. The next thing I heard of her was that she had found employment as a maid at a first cabin hotel in the exclusive business district of downtown Atlanta. I was a little hurt that she'd leave me to do something that didn't appear to be a step up, but rationalized she wanted to work indoors and was tired of dealing with the likes of Jerome.

Foolish me. No one knows better than I that Bea's a master at spotting and seizing on an opportunity to turn a profit. This career move proved yet another testimonial in support of her talent.

The next news of Bea was that she'd been fired ... not at all what those who knew and appreciated her expected to hear until elaboration made causes clear. It seems Bea had demonstrated sufficient initiative and ability to merit promotion from housekeeper to supervisor which put her in charge of an entire floor - a development posing no surprise given the recognized capacity of Bea to capitalize on the slightest opportunity. But unlike your standard manager, for Bea those empty rooms represented a personal resource.

After an occupant checked out, a room wasn't eligible for another guest until it was certified as being cleaned and ready. Bea was the certifier. She would simply delay submitting the necessary paperwork until one of her several ladies of pleasure had used the room to entertain a customer. Being refined business people, Bea's friends would prevail on their guests to pay some modest token for the use of such elaborate facilities, subject tokens going straight to Bea.

I can't help but think Bea's departure was a loss from which that hotel will never recover. All they had to do was find a way to redirect her energies and creativity to more acceptable ends. Or maybe take advantage of the end Bea had hit on! Initiative's a terrible thing to waste.

I never found out how much money Bea realized from her hotel venture. But the later news had it that she was doing well as a painting contractor, while supplementing her income with "gifts" from select, well heeled friends who know how to appreciate good company.

Sad update. Bea was found dead in her room at a boarding house where crack cocaine’s traffik’d on a serious scale. Over dose or disgruntled suitor, I never pursued the details. Her departure, be assured, is a decided loss -------- to all of us, you included.

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Chapter Four

PAY ME NOW OR PAY ME LATER

"Fast Eddie," or "Fast," as he was commonly known, was distantly related to Baby Face, a pride-imbued fact apparently deserving of frequent mention in his view as he commented on the relationship given the slightest opportunity. Fast was, and doubtless still is, a skilled concrete mason, an acceptable shade tree mechanic and a formidable adversary if aroused. His nickname is a tribute to the speed with which he gets things done for you or to you.

I've known only two other men in construction whose eye-hand coordination equals Fast's. But I've never known anyone as difficult to pin down when negotiating the terms of a contract. The following typifies our dealings:

"How much you want to pour that slab, Fast?"

Fast undertakes any negotiation with care and deliberate deligence. He begins rubbing his jaw and squinting his eyes ... a parody of deep contemplation. Then he conducts a close inspection of his fingers, biting off an imagined hangnail that gets spit to one side with emphatic authority. This performance is invariably accompanied by weary head shaking and a Broadway long-run impression of Atlas' shoulders shrugging under the onerous weight of dealing with the vagaries of a misguided world. After leaving no doubt that he's a little saddened by my consigning him such an intolerable burden of decision, he finally responds, "I don't know, Bro. What you think?"

In this game, whoever comes with the number first loses, financially and in stature. We're both keenly aware of this fact, as are any lookers on.

"Damned if I know, Fast. Dudn't look like it'll take that long to me."

More agonizing on his part in an effort to arrive at an amount that will be mutually agreeable and arguably fair. An effort that invariably falls short as evidenced by his body collapsing to a despairing lump. It's a sad thing to witness. Finally he proposes, "Tell you what, Bob, let's just work it out as we go. That O.K. with you?"

I've had him maneuver me into this stacked deck more times than I can count. With nothing definitely agreed on, there’s simply no way I was going to come out whole and unscarred, but foolish pride compelled me to accept Fast's tacit invitation to a battle of wits. The dilemma lay in the fact that Fast was always convinced he was owed more than could possibly be justified by reason, production, or effort, however prodigious and, convicted of this misperception, he would take on the mantle of uncompromising righteousness and go to any length to establish what he perceived an equitable result ... that end excusing any means, none of which were ever in my favor. I don't recall the circumstances which resulted in his most creative effort, but I harbor to this day a deep admiration for his creativity and style.

During the course of what proved to be the last of our struggles to agree on who owed what to whom, I sensed Fast feeling aggrieved yet again. Accordingly, I prepared to thwart whatever tactic he adopted in his tireless pursuit of additional monies. At C.J.'s pragmatic behest, I had long since instituted inventory control and accountability systems that made it well nigh impossible for tools and equipment to walk off in the interest of lining Fast's pockets; and I felt sure someone would tell me if he attempted to use the crew to do outside work on my time. There was no way I could see Fast besting me save if I broke weak and folded under the pressure of his persistence. I knew that wasn't going to happen this time out of the blocks, no matter what.

My resolve was bolstered by my conscience being completely clear with respect to what I had paid Fast for the work he'd done. And, much to my relief, it seemed he'd finally achieved contact with reason and resigned himself to being satisfied with that generous amount to which I'd agreed.

The error in my comforting logic lay in my failure to appreciate the lessons of history and the unvarying consistency that typifies the behavior of men like Fast Eddie. Fast Eddie's notions of fairness had never coincided with mine and, in spite of my insistence on failing to heed the implacable inevitability prescribed by this historical fact, there was no way Fast was going to allow this instance to be the first exception to a time-worn rule.

I began to realize the extent of my mistake when I got the invoice for my company gas credit card. It was well over $400 more than it should have been.

Investigation led to the fact that Fast had taken the credit card to fuel the dump truck as was our custom. While at the station, he sold gas to all comers for 50 cents on the dollar until, in his estimation, he had pocketed enough to clear our account.

When I confronted him about it, Fast instantly acknowledged what he'd done, but in that admission, he made it clear no guilt should obtain. He went on to encourage me to accept the importance of our being even, a result he had engineered on this and countless other occasions in the interest of preserving our relationship, and only at the expense of considerable time and effort on his part. By that standard, there was never any question of my possibly seeking some legal remedy and, in fact, that option never crossed my mind since I knew Fast's wife, mother and children. However, my final accommodation didn't mean I was prepared to continue plowing this particular furrow!

It wasn't long after this final set-to before Fast developed problems with "high sugar" which sometimes made it problematical in terms of how much effort he could bring to bear on a tough job. That proved our mutually adopted unspoken excuse for gradually parting ways. We could have worked it out so Fast would've stayed around if I could ever have accepted the fact that he was simply more skilled than me at coming out on the best end of a deal. There's no doubt my wretched pride was mostly the reason that enviable companionship ended … I was just unable to muster sufficient reserves of character to do whatever would've made things right, end of story ....

I heard recently that Fast is still turning wrenches on cars and trucks, and doing a little concrete work. The guy who told me said Fast occasionally asks after "...his ol' buddy, Bob."

One last comment about Fast. Typically, if one of the construction crew anticipates my displeasure, he or she will address me as "Mr. Bob" or "Boss" or "Daddy" by way of acknowledging my dominance and requesting pardon. Fast Eddie never did.

Ol' Fast is what we call a stand up son-of-a-gun.

There ain't many around.

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Chapter Five

BENNIE and THE BATHTUB

It's not true that every lawyer is a contemptible leech feeding at the spiritual jugulars of us all. I personally know four who are stand-up guys, admirable in every way. Be that as it may, one of the leech variety, Lawyer Gary by name, owned a piece of property in an area of Atlanta that was in the process of "coming back."

Coincidentally, a lot of the bad things I had done to that point in my life manifested themselves in the balance of my Karma causing Natural Order to kick in and dictate an adjustment. The result? Lawyer Gary decided to finish the renovation of his property and, against all odds and reason, I got the job.

My faithful helpmate C.J.'s forecast wasn't a happy one. I should have listened.

The dynamic of the job, Lawyer Gary, and me comes later. This is about Bennie.

Bennie went well beyond worthless. Worthless, in my view, involves a standard, however capricious, against which a person or thing or situation fails to measure up. In the case of Bennie, any suggestion of a standard was deserving of unbridled hilarity, a state of affairs recognized by all save one. Me.

The mission I took to my bosom was not to direct the labor of Sweet Bobby Trimble and his lifelong sidekick, Lucius. That would have been a productive course that might have reversed even this misfortune, a job born in hell. My mission was not to anticipate and defuse the drunken surliness of that nameless painter who had designs on shooting me for some unforgivable oversight known only to him, an act that would, in all likelihood, have come to closure absent the intervention of unpredictable Curtis Trice, God bless him wherever he is. It was not to recognize Lawyer Gary's ceaseless effort to get more for less, a practice which resulted in cash flow problem after cash flow problem. It was none of those things that need attending to if a project is to be accomplished with any hope of profit being realized.

No, good friends! My mission was none of these.

Rather, my purpose was destined to become an ever-accelerating process of expending limitless energies where all before me had tried and failed; my mission was to inspire lowly Bennie, thereby causing him to rise from his wretchedness and, from that nobler perspective, assume the posture of a contributing factor in the social equation.

Recalling the details of my effort to salvage and restore the wreck of Bennie is not an exercise I'm inclined to endure. The process was too frustrating and pointless. Having said that, there was one episode that sums the experience and illustrates a lesson from which most of us can benefit.

I decided what Bennie needed was the assurance that someone truly cared despite the lowest of the low stations in which he had entrenched himself through resort to betrayal, treachery and generally contemptible behavior beyond the descriptive mastery of a Dickens.

By a course of logic I can not now divine, I determined that if I brought him lunch every day, he would be sensitized to my concern that he do well in the context of what I perceived well to be. The extension of that sensitization would be a new Bennie. A Bennie ready to face the challenges of life. A Bennie ready to assume a position of value in the cosmos.

With a sense of duty approaching the gravity of holy vows, I brought Bennie lunch no matter what the inconvenience to myself and others. And not wanting him to suffer possible abuse from his fellow workers as a result of my attentions, I brought lunch for everyone else.

Never have I felt more righteous. The perplexed, if not suspicious, regard of those I fed, compounded by Bennie's failure to come around as readily as I had hoped, did nothing to dampen my ardor in any way.

C.J. labeling me a toad and an idiot hurt, but I forgave her with the same depth of spirit that sustained me in my quest for Bennie's redemption. The disdain directed at me from all sides was nothing more than one would expect from those who would not, or could not, see.

This state of affairs continued nearly a week before the gods ceased to be amused and they, in their collective wisdom, caused reality to raise its ugly head. It was messy and went something like this, to coin a phrase from the country music stage.

I was running late getting lunch to Bennie, so I stopped by the job to assure him that all was well, there was no need to doubt me or my concern, and that I would be back soonest with a bounty of fried chicken, biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy, soft drinks, and whatever else the closest purveyor of fast food had to offer that I thought might tempt his, that is Bennie's, delicate palate.

He was nowhere to be found!

I realized everyone was taking note of my increasingly anxious forays to all quadrants of the job. They had to know I was searching for Bennie. And I knew in their hearts they thought I was acting the clown. A laughable caricature of innocence naive.

Ominous portent lay in the fact that everyone was attending to whatever task they could find at hand with particular care which was, for the most part, atypical, feigning unawareness of me and my foolishness, thereby avoiding association with my search or the object of it.

I spent an embarrassingly long time looking for the little so&so, feeling very much the silent screen cuckold dashing about at the cocktail party querying everyone as to the whereabouts of his wife upstairs with the villainous host who knew she wouldn't reject his effort to ravish her, thereby allowing him the wicked satisfaction of humiliating her hapless spouse … it's no fun being that hapless spouse, folks. No fun at all. 'Specially when you're doin' it to yo'self!

I finally tired of acting the fool bracing myself to face the fact that Bennie had abandoned the job. The weight of my resignation was too heavy for Sweet Bobby to ignore. He briefly met my eye as I approached and mumbled, "Bennie upstairs layin' in the tub, Boss."

MY FAITH WAS RESTORED!!!!

Bennie hadn't abandoned the job.

Bennie hadn't rejected me.

Bennie hadn't turned his back on goodness and decency.

Bennie had simply worked himself into such a state of unaccustomed fatigue that he had been obliged to lie down, rest, and compose himself for another heroic effort.

I bounded up the stairs at a clip exceeding the limits of propriety, but I didn't care. This was an occasion for rejoicing. I didn't give a doggone who thought I was acting more like a twit than a general contractor. Bennie hadn't let me or my noble intentions down! I was, therefore, somehow indebted.

I don't know exactly why I felt so obligated, but I did.

I was convinced this experience marked a watershed in Bennie's life as well as mine.

I felt, but ignored, the escalating incredulity of everyone on the job as I mounted the landing, pivoted on the newel post at the top of the handrail, and launched myself through the doorless bathroom entry to stand breathless by the bathtub in which Benny reclined, his body splayed in an awkward posture of dream time nether worldliness.

The clamor of my entry, compounded by the intensity of my relief and joy, were sufficient to rouse Bennie from his slumber.

He arched and strained a moment, affording egress to a barely audible rush of noxious gas. With that chore accomplished to his manifest satisfaction, he pushed himself up, blinked away the pseudo-paralysis of deep sleep, noted the absence of any groceries on or about my person, and, his face set in an expression of petulant irritation demanded, "Where's my lunch!"

Bennie departed for one reason or other and from that moment, I've recognized the wisdom of contributing to charities that, unlike me, know how not to indulge in the unproductive practice of "free lunch." Americares, St. Paul's Presbyterian Church in Orlando and the Shriner's Hospital nee' Children's Hospital in Atlanta are good choices should your quotient of judging how best to tend the needy be as lacking as mine.

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Chapter Six

"YA'LL DON'T FIGHT!"

Lawyer Gary's property in Atlanta's Midtown was cursed. I believe the curse a result of the suspect context in which all Lawyer Gary's business was, and doubtless still is conducted, be it professional or personal.

As I've stated on a number of occasions to any who would listen, I will not be swayed from the conviction that my Karma nexused with his and seized on Lawyer Gary in his depraved, unclean toxicity by way of redressing all the bad things the two of us had done to that point in our lives, the number of which was likely well above the mean. That is to say, I got awarded the work Lawyer Gary was peddling as my pay-back from the gods for the dirty doings I'd managed to undertake. He got his right along with me … the two of us bound in a waltz on the justice scales as it were!!!

I look back on that fateful moment with distate ... a pivotal happenstance in that it resulted in my having to deal with impossible situations and impossible people, work on a job that refused to get done, live a life negatively impacted to a point approaching fatal on one bizarre occasion, and on and on and on, not to mention what it did to C.J.

Please be assured, however, that my lot was nothing in comparison to that visited on Lawyer Gary. The man was demonstrably a world class creep. No human's ever gotten savaged in the course of a renovation job like he did. No human has ever more deserved that lot.

Don't get me wrong, there's no such thing as a smoothly conducted rehab job that goes as planned, stays on budget, and gets finished on time. But there are limits to the madness.

Lawyer Gary's job exceeded those limits by a remarkable margin.

When C.J. and I mobilized the project, it appeared most of the electrical, heating and air, and plumbing work had been done by those preceding us. Coming on a job with these phases of the work completed is unusual, and I was mildly pleased since these tasks are typically done by sub-contractors who get in each others way, they involve several inspections which usually delay progress and the general contractor doesn't make that much money on them. My misapprehension was in anticipating lots of gravy with very few beans. It seldom happens that way in life, sports fans, as evidenced by the woeful error my expectations proved to be.

Lawyer Gary asserted the appropriate inspections had been conducted, and that he had paid for all work other than whatever was involved installing plate covers, plumbing fixtures, HVAC vents, and the attendant stuff included in finishing a job.

He couldn't have been more mistaken.

A brief get-acquainted inspection of the building we were to convert into an "interesting" 4-unit apartment complex revealed wiring circuits that never made it back to the panel, heating and air vent cut-outs with no duct work, and short pieces of scrap copper pipe attached to nothing under the floor in the crawl space; they had just been rigged to look like the "risers" that supply water to the plumbing system. This state of affairs could only be interpreted to mean Lawyer Gary was hated by the subs who had done the work, as well as the inspectors who had signed off on the rough inspections. No way to exaggerate how ill an omen this was for future developments .

Sub-contractors dislike general contractors and owners as a matter of principle; however, survival dictates licensed workmen maintain governmentally specified levels of performance or risk revocation of the licenses on which they depend to make a living and in the acquisition of which they've expended much time and effort.

The blatant "screw-you" condition in which the sub-contractors had left Lawyer Gary's job indicated they'd abandoned all hope of preserving the status quo, electing instead to gamble on the sympathies of officialdom and go for the money, to hell with the consequences.

As it turned out, no inspector had ever been on the job. The subs, realizing what they were dealing with, had decided to be the screwers as opposed to the screwees, but didn't want to jeopardize any inspector's job by involving them knowingly or otherwise. They'd rigged things well enough to pass Lawyer Gary's cursory walk through, signed off the inspection card themselves with no effort made at passable forgery thereby insuring any investigation at all would clear the area's inspectors of the slightest involvement in such a job-threatening enterprise, collected their draws and headed South until the dust had a chance to settle.

Fortunately for them, Lawyer Gary was too embarrassed to report the incident and the state trade licensing authorities never got involved.

Right now you're thinking something to the effect that no one short of a mouthbreathing idiot would proceed to do business in a deal this tainted on the front end. Your logic's unimpeachable. But you fail to consider the twin issues of the Karmic-laden Curse of Lawyer Gary and the Woeful Karmic Condition of Me.

With Lawyer Gary's earnest assurance that all was well and that he would make good any costs involved in completing the work left undone, only he couldn't come up with any money right at the moment, even for materials, which I should well understand having been in business as long as I had and having seen trusting souls like himself be taken advantage of by unscrupulous contractors, among whom I obviously could not be numbered, and wasn't it terrific that I would be willing to do what I could to help him out: and with a conspiratorial wink that I returned with one of my own, though I did feel a little discomforted, I put my shoulder to the wheel which meant C.J. got harnessed also.

C.J. was irritatingly vocal in expressing her displeasure, but only because she didn't understand the rarefied plane on which operate true sophisticates like Lawyer Gary and me.

I did become increasingly uneasy as circumstances prescribed a result requiring me to start and continue financing the job. A few dollars for materials here, a small payroll there, it began to reach a sum of disquieting magnitude. But my apprehensions were always quieted by Lawyer Gary's smooth assurances that all would be well: he'd have some money any day, at which time we'd absolutely get right with each other. I mean, these matters are an accepted part of tutored business practice for knowledgeable souls such as we. After all, he and I were professionals who, as peers and fellow sophisticates, didn't allow themselves to be bothered by petty concerns like: where's the money; and why is every one I know telling me I'm a slack-jawed biped with a prehensile tail to do business with this guy; and what the hell am I going to do if all this doesn't work out like it's supposed to.. .in short, who ain't goin' to have a chair when the music stops?

Enter Willi the Weasel.

Willi is indisputably the best electrical, and heating and air contractor - HVAC contractor in trade jargon - I've ever known. He's a passable plumbing contractor, but electrical and HVAC are his meat.

Willi is devious, treacherous, slightly paranoid, hedonistic, sociopathic, selfish, and compellingly likable.

A product of the Tennessee mountains, he's absolutely loyal to his "Mom and Pap."

Anyone else is pretty much fair game, though some more so than others.

He's capable of awesome generosity if the act poses no inconvenience to him in terms of time or cash flow. And when he calls in the marker for a favor done, he does so with exceeding tact.

He makes it his business to "get something" serious on anyone he thinks might be able to help him down the line, and is perfectly willing to list the names of those in his "little book of transgressions" after knocking down a couple of beers, `specially if your name happens to be there.

Willi's carefully practiced affectations include a pot belly that causes his shirts to gap between the buttons; mismatched socks bagged at his ankles exposing distasteful expanses of hairless, off-white skin; conservatively cut curly blond hair that's always disheveled; words he deliberately mispronounces, "Tie-oh-tuh" vs. "Toyota" and "kuh see bow" vs. "gazebo"; and a loose way of carrying himself carefully contrived so that he offers no threat to even the most timid of those potential victims he happens on.

Make no mistake!!! The Willies of the world are switched to 24-hour search mode and they fire unerringly at the white heart heat of the defenseless, naive, and vulnerable. Willies never miss.

The point being, their innocent, seemingly stumbling affectations belie individuals as vicious as any you'll ever know. Ol' Willi's as good as Willies come. An accomplished street fighter and exceedingly proud of it thank you very much. He'll have your average punk for a tasty appetizer, then mop up the rest of the gang. I've seen it.

Willi's favorite move is grabbing his adversary by the larynx in a grip made powerful through years of work and, after choking him into submission, indulging himself in what is manifestly the thoroughly enjoyable administration of a serious beating.

He also carries a gun.

Believe me when I say, Willi won't hesitate one moment to shoot you in some non-fatal, guaranteed painful spot if all else fails.

I'd contracted with Willi to do the plumbing, HVAC, and electrical work on Lawyer Gary's property. Since we'd worked together a long time and money'd never been a problem, Willi went ahead on the come, sweet talked inspectors he'd know forever, and ended up finishing his part of the project on my say so alone. But with the job completed, Willi wasn't interested in discussing the slight delay occasioned by any gentleman's understanding between Lawyer Gary and me. Willi's sole interest revolved around why he wasn't getting his money right this minute.

Willie and I had long since reached a tacit understanding with respect to our ever locking horns physically. We'd tested each other in the yard on a job around Hog Mountain without too much injury to either party, so us fighting wasn't a collections option in this case. Rather, Willi reasoned that I owed him, and Lawyer Gary owed me; therefore Lawyer Gary owed him.....by proxy you might say.

Once Willi gets a mindset in hand, his course isn't readily diverted. I personly've never known it to happen, nor have I heard rumor of such a thing.

Over a command appearance breakfast called by him for which I paid, Willi explained his position to me, and wouldn't be satisfied `til I'd arranged a meeting with Lawyer Gary that same afternoon, ostensibly to develop a mutually agreeable mechanism by which the job could be brought to an end, i.e., payment could be obtained.

I had no idea what Willi really had in mind. But I was pretty doggone sure things weren't going to go as proposed and agreed on over the breakfast we'd shared. And I knew they weren't going to go as smoothly as they had in my past meetings with Lawyer Gary, where he and I were one on one brothers of like mind and sophisticated cosmos.

Ever faithful C.J. insisted on accompanying us to keep the record straight on exactly what was owed. I agreed, since she'd caught Lawyer Gary massaging the numbers in his favor more than once.

Willi, C.J., and I passed the time before our appointment conjecturing as to what slimy device Lawyer Gary would pursue in his effort not to pay. But, as I look back, I did most of the conjecturing. C.J. and Willi had assumed an attitude of "the money's going to come, no matter what."

They just sat quietly and listened to my hypothesizing, which I suspect carried an air of anxious anticipation, if not outright dread, at the prospect of their determined unpleasantness sullying my urbane relationship with Lawyer Gary.

We arrived at precisely the appointed hour. Lawyer Gary's receptionist instructed us to have a seat until he was ready to receive such as we. None of the several others already seated and waiting could have helped overhearing Willi say, in his most affected Tennessee drawl, "M'am, we didn't come here to wait on nobody." He flashed the trademark grimace that's his inadequate rendition of a smile.

"Please go tell that 'so and so having to do with the offspring of a she dog' you work for that we're here right when he told us to be and he'll by golly see us or I'm gon'na do somethin' for him that's not likely to wash off in what we know as the foreseeable 'a blasphemous reference to the Almighty' future." All that without taking breath.

The '"so and so" in question must have had a sharp ear peeled for our arrival. Before I knew it, he'd interceded with his secretary and we were all seated at a nice conference table in a well-appointed room on chairs C.J. later told me appeared to be genuine antique Louis the XIV's.

Lawyer Gary was at the head of the table, there postured as the person "in command." If I didn't know better, I'd swear he had somehow created an optical illusion in which his end of the table was slightly elevated.

I was seated to Lawyer Gary's right between C.J. and him. Willi was to his left opposite me. Lawyer Gary's body English made manifest he was on his guard. No surprise...he was far too intuitive to miss the significance of my having others in tow, especially someone with Willi's knack for less-than-subtle address.

You could see him processing my uncharacteristic turn of the worm, underlined by my acceptance of Willi's statement to the receptionist graphically couched in terms not designed to promote social harmony among our assembly, and you could readily read his conclusion that all was not well in River City.

I have absolutely no doubt Lawyer Gary realized we were gathered to get the money he owed. I also have no doubt that he quickly decided he wasn't going to pay without a fight.

Figuring me for the weak link, he rested his elbows on the table, steepled his forefingers under his chin, fixed me with a quizzical look of arch disdain, and asked, "Is there some kind of problem here, Bob?"

At this point Lawyer Gary's script called for me to again fall victim to his cosmopolitan charm and suave obfuscation of the issues troubling me. Big mistake.

He might have cowed me one on one. Probably would have.

In fact, the ease with which he had manipulated me on previous occasions must have given him cause to think this circumstance would prove nothing more than business as usual.

But as they say in the Corps, "It's better to die than look bad."

Lawyer Gary was making me look bad.

I couldn't let'im do it.

In the first place, C.J.'s regard meant, and means, as much to me as that of my beloved wife, child, mother, and the rest of my family. Of lesser import was the fact that if Willi saw me break weak, all who knew us would eventually be apprised of the fact that I could be easily bested _______ not a good thing in the construction business. To pirate a Macawberism, Lawyer Gary had maneuvered me into a corner from which there was no recourse but to fight; in short, Lawyer Gary had screwed the pooch.

A healthy charge of thoroughly T'd off crawled all over me. My face reddened hot. I felt absolutely terrific lunging across the table in a full-blown charge.

Lawyer Gary was about as unprepared for my assault as I was and he jumped back, staring with a pale cheeked, tight lipped, satisfying expression of wide-eyed shock.

Chairs hit the wall, antique components taking flight to rendezvous with flocked wallpaper supporting ostentatious chair rail with scaring effect.

C.J. scrambled up and grabbed me by the nap of the collar. Between her and the corner of the table I got brought up short...huffin', spittin', and visibly prepared to vent intentions as bad as any seen on that particular block of ol' terra firma.

In the meantime, Willi'd jumped up, him not being the kind of person willing to let theirself get left out in case their reputation sustain injury by virtue of another party's recollection of events ... subject recollection undertaken, in all likelihood, under duress of several Buds which could be expected to exaggerate a combatant's shortcomings under fire at least as easily as any recollection of heroic, manly daring-do.

Lawyer Gary perceived Willi to be the lesser threat, his second grave error in judgment, and turned from me to Willi shouting, "What in the heck do you think you're going to do in my office, you redneck 'illegitimate fruit of your mother's loins!", or words to that effect.

"I'm here to get my 'yet another blasphemous expletive' money, you pencil-necked, sleazy, little (you know what he said)!", and with that, Willi made his move.

I was surprised when Lawyer Gary stood his ground, settling into a boxer's stance with the sort of practiced ease that comes only with hours in the gym. He voiced some other string of nasties in decibels designed to distract the unwary and made a pretty good attempt at kneeing Willi in the groin.

But Lawyer Gary was a long way from the first to try that trick, and he wasn't in the ring with someone who knew, acknowledged, or cared a whit for any rules of combat. Wasn't the first time ol' Willi had rodeo'd you might say.

Willi dipped his left hip, swiveling into his adversary, evading Lawyer Gary's knee with an economy of motion beautiful to behold. Willi's tricky little move caught Lawyer Gary's thrust in such a way the latter's balance was fatally compromised. In a lot less time than it takes telling it, Willi had rendered Lawyer Gary completely breathless with a text book left hook to the body, had him by the throat in his trademark vise grip that denied any comfort at all to lungs screaming for air and was pushing the hapless advocate up against some Levelor blinds hung over a large picture window.

Lawyer Gary's face purpled.

Lawyer Gary's eyes bulged.

Lawyer Gary's expression left no doubt Lawyer Gary knew he'd gotten himself into a situation over which he was absent the slightest control. Ringsiders you could rely on were labeling the boy's predicament bad and deteriorating.

Somebody was getting hurt bad.

Somebody was going to jail.

But then, with His ill-understood capacity for limitless Love and Understanding, God intervened on behalf of us all.

One of Lawyer Gary's associates, attracted by the fracas, rushed and stood stand by the door from whence he pled in tones subdued, "Y'all don't fight! Y'all don't fight!", making absolutely no move, you understand, to intervene in any other way. After all, as their self-anointed protector and benefactor, he had potential, if not actual, clients in earshot to which he had a composural obligation, however unexpected and volatile developments might be! We surmise he couldn't help the fleeting conjecture that a possible result of this unpleasantness might be these client witnesses would prefer his services to those of his hapless senior, the very unfortunate Lawyer Gary. And should, heaven forbid, Lawyer Gary not survive, who better than he, heir apparent, to oversee the transition of the firm's leadership with all the desirable consequences attendant to discharging that duty in the decisive manner he most certainly would bring to bear.

In any case, due to reasons for which the pleading associate could claim little credit, Willi eased his grip just short of shattering Lawyer Gary's larynx - not a difficult thing to do one might add, an absolutely unacceptable way for a man to die one might further observe and a disturbing spectacle to view as he does go on to glory one might conclude. But `Ol Willi didn't quit entirely … 'cause it was starting to get sort of good to'im. Yes suh, ol' Willi was right on the verge of gettin' into this enterprise and enjoying himself, and you can bet the farm the Willies of the world turn from such opportunities with the greatest reluctance. That's part of what makes'em so dangerous and difficult to deal with. They like it!

C.J.'s discretion saved the day.

She punched me in the back with hard-fisted intent and directed I stop Willi before "he kills the little 'put in something that appeals to your literary tastes". I took a moment to catch my breath, then hastened to act as C.J. had indicated I should.

Order was quickly restored, though it took a while for everyone to get back their wind, 'specially Lawyer Gary, and then everyone had to gave their adrenaline rush some time to bleed down near normal before risking speech that'ud come out fractured or otherwise weird.

When he'd finally regained a modicum of composure, all Lawyer Gary wanted was to get us out of there ... face saving at this point low on his list of priorities. Simple survival an outcome much to be admired.

He ascertained how much he owed us by inquiring in the most cordial terms imaginable, instructed his associate, still standing outside the door, to go get a check cut and, unbelievable though it may be, that bad boy actually managed to make small talk while we waited. "Better to die than look bad.", must apply to practitioners of the law as much as it does Marine Corps fighter pilots!

We waited, during which time Lawyer Gary was unable to subdue an occasional baleful glare in the process of his glib monologue, but not one that resulted in him looking Willi or me in the eye, thereby risking the resumption of hostilities as any yard dog can tell you.

Lawyer Gary finally ran down and after a short, silent, strangely uncomfortable interlude, at least for me and Lawyer Gary but decidedly not C.J. or the Weasel, the check was handed to me in an envelope.

I made a show, mostly for Willi's benefit, of disdaining verification of the amount, and we turned to leave, not a word having been spoken. I thought our business was concluded, but Willi wasn't going to be upstaged by me, Lawyer Gary, or anyone else having the last word in an affair involving him, no matter how tangential his involvement, and in this case, for goodness sake, he'd been a major participant.

True to form, he turned and cautioned Lawyer Gary, "I realize we won't be able to hammer this before the bank closes tonight, so I just want you to know something, you little, 'by now you know about what Willi said." There was naked challenge in every word. For those of you who don't know, you "hammer" a check by cashing it at the bank on which it's drawn.

"If this check dudn't clear in the mornin', the first thing you're going to see will be the bumper of my truck comin' through that 'blankity blank' window." He nodded at the blinds against which Lawyer Gary had so recently been suspended. He was careful to speak in tones just above a whisper so as not to offend any ladies in the waiting room. C.J. he wasn't worried over, knowing she'd be supportively sympathetic to what he was about, i.e., gettin' the money. The two of them favor each other in this regard.

With that we went on parade. Heads high. Flush with victory.

Those in the waiting room, and assorted minions of the firm, witnessed our exit with something approaching awe resulting from what I'm sure was their appreciation of our righteous cause and a job well done. In fairness, I'd be willing to defend the proposition that our general deportment merited well every bit of their obvious esteem.

Four final observations should dispatch this narrative to any reasonable reader's satisfaction:

-The check was $10.00 short.

-I never saw or spoke to Lawyer Gary again.

-This was the only time I did business with Willi and came out of the deal unscarred.

-I can recall no other occasion on which C.J. regarded Willi with anything but contempt and suspicion. In this notable case, there was a generous dose of conspiratorial admiration---both ways!

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Chapter Seven

BOB MATTHEWS, "NOW EXACTLY HOW DO YOU WANT THIS, BOSS."

I have never understood why really talented carpenters will sometimes do a job wrong while all the time knowing exactly how it's supposed to go and being perfectly aware of what they're doing. I'm not taking the position that all talented carpenters are given to this practice. But after 20+ years in the construction business, I'm prepared to defend the assertion that a significant proportion of those carpenters who are very knowledgeable and skilled will screw a job up just for the hell of it.

Then again my baby sister, who has graduate degrees and writes speeches for big-time executives in a major corporation, once told me she frequently misspells words on purpose when in a hurry while composing a rough draft. I'd like you to tell me how ya' figure that one!

Back to the subject at hand.

One of the most productive carpenters in the universe is Big Bob Matthews. The last time I saw Big Bob he was 275 pounds of deceptively muscled bulk mounted on a 6 foot 3 or 4 inch frame. He is thick boned, sharp as a razor, respected by his fellow workers, and skilled in the nuances of intimidation.

His smile has an appealing teddy-bear quality that can transition into a tooth-grinding sneer with disconcerting facility.

Big Bob carries a roar sharp, hook billed knife used by carpet installers that he can have ready to go in a heart beat should things take an unfortunate turn. The boy will cut you!

I have never known Bob to go anywhere without a hat. It covers a spot going bald on the crown of Big Bob's head, and woe be he who tries to remove it. I can't say whether Big Bob has more than one hat. But if he does, all of'em are imprinted over the bill with a large, two-headed snake, its two forked tongues flicked out. The caption reads, "Trust me."

Big Bob and I were working together on a large commercial job that involved the construction of a subway tunnel. I was laboring with a blasting crew as designated driller, nipper by necessity and inclination (nippers are tasked with getting whatever needs gettin' from pumps to steel shims to cranes if one's required to get the job done), and enthusiastic fabricator of daily production reports, and Big Bob was foreman over a carpentry crew.

At one point the job slowed because concrete forms were being installed much faster than they were being built. Since the installation and wrecking out of the forms was a continuing element of the job, it was critical to production that this logjam be relieved. No good prospects were on the horizon insofar as creative solutions were concerned, at least none from where most of us stood.

Word soon got around that Big Bob had offered to resolve the problem. But only on condition that he be assigned no duties other than those required to get this particular difficulty well in hand. And no duties at all so long as the form fabrication phase of the job lasted. We're talking the possibility of Big Bob gettin' paid to sit on his butt for a long time if he came up with the solution to this persistent barrier to production. The fact his proposal was considered and implemented is the nature of heavy construction, big money, and jobs fraught with liquidated damages.

Everyone prepared himself to bear witness to Big Bob getting put in his place. That included me. No one thought there was any way Bob could possibly come up with a method to get forms built any faster than was being done by hard working, talented, strong union guys willing to bust their butts to bring the job in on time.

Those of us who had worked with him should've known better.

It took Big Bob two long days, and a good chunk of another, to design and build templates for each size of concrete form required. That done, it took him another half day to show his two nail-driving laborers how to set and cut the components of the various forms on one set of templates, how to place and nail those components together on another set of templates, and where to stack the finished product. After that it was simply a matter of throwing the switch. The way Big Bob had it set up, protozoa with opposing thumbs could've managed to keep up.

With his assembly line in place, Big Bob set up a heavy duty lawn chair he'd brought from the house in the back of his truck, placed it in the shade where he could oversee operations, knocked together a little table on which to place his soft drinks and snacks and settled in to enjoy the fruits of his ingenuity.

Need I say everyone on the job was churlishly resentful with respect to Bob and his triumph? `Specially in the heat of the day.

To the credit of the project manager, his agreement with Bob was honored to the letter. He must have cursed himself to sleep at night, bedeviled by visions of Bob lounging in his lawn chair for everyone on the job to see. But he was an honorable man who absolutely kept his word. I found most project managers to be that way.

I can't remember exactly how long it took for Bob's operation to turn out more concrete forms than would ever be used. Suffice to say the boy had plenty of time to gloat in the glory sitting in the shade in the heat of the day.

When the party was over, Big Bob reassumed his regular duties with a willing spirit. But the incident did give notice that this was not one to be dealt with lightly.

Why is it there's always one brain dead son-of-a-gun who doesn't get the word? In this case, it was a young civil engineer, fresh out of school. This scrubbed, randomly pimpled discharge of Georgia's best know engineering school was our boy Nathan, willing worker and licker of any boot associated with what he identified as something that might eventually prove to be the project manager of a big-time construction project like the one we were on.

Nathan cultivated an ultra-serious demeanor. Everything he did work-related, and we're fairly certain that's mostly all he did, was accomplished with an air of gravity so inappropriate it was impossible not to mimic and caricature his every move. In that context, please have no doubts when I make the claim that nothing offers more entertainment to a construction hand than having an architect or engineer make himself an easy target for mimicry, ridicule and derision. Most architects and engineers are sufficiently sentient to know this, and conduct themselves accordingly. Not Nathan.

As soon as he'd served enough time in the project office to warrant being turned loose on the job at large, young Nate girded his loins and prepared to assert himself. And a big job like this one offered a rich variety of opportunities for him to undertake Assertiveness 101. The downside of the most typical of these opportunities would have been a little laughter and teasing at Nathan's expense. No real harm, no foul as they say.

But no.

Nathan couldn't be satisfied with one of those relatively harmless breaking-of-your-cherry entrees to the wonderful world of construction. Our boy Nathan needed more.

So he searched and he searched...with unflagging zeal...until he finally unearthed a Pandora's Box from which would spring the mechanism of his doom.

Nathan found Big Bob.

What follows isn't for the faint of heart and I urge you to proceed with extreme caution.

The details are unimportant.

Suffice to say, Big Bob was tasked with building a retaining wall, or some such something, that required a lot of attention to detail, and the application of unusual skill and expertise. He was perfect for the job by virtue of his experience, his willingness to go where others fear to tread, and his track record of proven performance. It was a foregone conclusion that if Big Bob were left to his own devices, the wall would get built exactly as specified in the complicated plans. The wall would get built on schedule or better. The construction of the wall would require the least number of man hours possible. And, most pertinent to this narrative, the wall's fabrication would go very well with no supervision beyond that which Big Bob would provide with practiced facility.

Nathan couldn't see it that way.

Big Bob was a challenge whose siren call this novice engineer couldn't resist. I'm sure he was warned by more than one that his best tack would be to stay out of the way. But the boy wouldn't listen.

He proceeded to delegate himself the project meddler.

I know Big Bob as well as most and can attest him to be a man tolerant of many things. His wife is a Rubenesque bottled blond who is best described as unusually demanding in those facets of life with which she is wont to function. His children are the predictable result of the parenting a wife like his provides. His chosen profession is fraught with uncertainty and frustration. His hobbies are building model boats in bottles and crafting fine furniture. All this is to say, Big Bob is no stranger to accommodating the whims and vagaries and general capriciousness of life.

There is, however, one thing he will not suffer. That thing be meddling. Particularly when the meddler's a shiny new engineer who was struggling to achieve puberty when Big Bob was establishing himself as a journeyman standing tall among his peers.

The more "Nate," as Bob referred to his nominal supervisor among coworkers, meddled, the more obvious it became that something was going to give. And in less than a week it did.

Nathan was down in the cut inspecting the status of Big Bob's job as had become his custom. In the course of his investigation he apparently commented that the way things were being done could stand some improvement. Big Bob stopped working. I can picture the carefully deliberate way he has of pausing to collect himself before turning to address whoever he feels has pissed on his leg.

And, as he turned that day, I know he had a snake-mean smile on his face that mirrored the two-headed snake leering over the bill of his cap announcing, "Trust me!" And I know Nathan had not the foggiest notion as to what he had birthed.

There weren't any witnesses, but what follows is how things happened as surely as if you and I had been there watching.

Big Bob did everything he could to appear as though nothing was amiss and that his sincerest wish was to be attentive, cooperative, and grateful. He encouraged unsuspecting Nathan to explore each and every detail of the job in question, along with any other aspects of the project that happened to come up in the course of the conversation. The questions he posed demanded Nathan exercise the limits of what little he knew about heavy construction, and any time the poor boy went astray, which was as often as not, Big Bob agreed with and reinforced those misperceptions. It wasn't long before Big Bob managed to get the inexperienced engineer so turned around, unbalanced, and confused, he didn't know up from down.

That's when Big Bob set the hook.

He got real personal, adding a touch of the humble supplicant, and confided that he might be out of his depth building the retaining wall. He went on to suggest that, maybe, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, and not too great an imposition on his valuable time......well, maybe Mr. Napp ("Napp" was Nathan's last name.) wouldn't mind helping Big Bob a little bit by coaching him through the well-nigh unknowable complexities of this job he'd been assigned. I can hear him uttering his hesitant plea in a stumbling, breathless, dare-I-ask sort of way.

Big Bob's insistence on using Nathan's last name when addressing him directly is easily explained. He always gets uncharacteristically respectful when the time comes to set someone straight. Most everybody does who I know to have any breeding does like this. I think it's a tradition in Japan.

Nathan couldn't have been more overjoyed. Here he was being courted by the most irreverent, intimidating, arrogant, skilled, respected one somebody he had known to that point in his brief career. He was possessed of feelings that brought him to the point of being completely overwhelmed by inflation and joy. He was transported to the verge of dancing a jig-a-bout or jumping wildly or acting out some other adolescent posturing of victory.

But mindful of his position as a professional, Nathan contained himself and, with as much composure as he could muster, assured "Bob" that it would be no trouble at all for him to assist in straightening things out. Nathan's us of Big Bob's first name sans obligatory qualifier was the last nail in his coffin.

It probably took very little time for Big Bob to mislead Nathan through an explanation of how things "ought to be done," and even less time to persuade Nathan to let Big Bob record those faulty instructions on a handy scrap of lumber, or a discarded lunch sack, to be carefully held for future reference. If Nate expressed any reservations about writing things down as Big Bob suggested, be assured the engineer's objections were quickly overcome by resort to the great pool of devices a craftsman like Big Bob develops over decades of experience manipulating supervisors for their good or otherwise, depending on their assessment of the supervisor in question. The Big Bob's of heavy construction can make or break the man in charge, much like senior NCO's in the Marine Corps do with officers. .

Like Big Bob swearing Nate to some profane oath of secrecy before reluctantly admitting to a lack of self-confidence that could be overcome only if he had the security of a ready reference in case he forgot exactly how "Mr. Napp" thought the job ought to be done.

Needless to say, the plans Big Bob coached Nate into recording were flawed by design at Big Bob's hand, and Big Bob built the job precisely as he'd gotten Nathan to specify it. I mean exactly to the letter … not a single, ugly wart out of place.

It wasn't 'till the concrete trucks began pulling up that the Project Superintendent, the legendary Mr. Bird, realized the job was an abysmal mess.

All hell broke loose!

Concrete sits in the truck just so long before it goes bad and gets "green". A whole lot of concrete had been ordered, and it had to be paid for whether it was used as intended or taken out and dumped.

It became obvious very quickly that there was no way Big Bob's work could be corrected in time to proceed with the concrete pour. And no other use for the concrete could be found.

A lot of concrete, and a whole lot of money, got wasted that day. The only remotely positive note was that the problem had been discovered before concrete had been poured and allowed to set up which would have been a hugely expensive disaster.

During the investigation that followed, Big Bob offered into evidence the instructions he had maneuvered Nathan into giving him. He went on to seal Nathan's fate by explaining that he'd only acted as Nathan had instructed out of fear that if he disagreed, or refused to comply, or, God forbid, he'd gone over the engineer's head, he might have lost his job. He stated in the strongest terms that he had known the job wasn't being built as specified on the plans but, after all, as a humble carpenter it wasn't his place to question the decisions of a college graduate engineer, however perplexing and misguided those decisions might seem to one untutored such as he. Needless to say, a major dent was inflicted on young Nathan Napp's career despite the fact that everyone who was anyone knew very well what had really gone on. You can't be around construction long without seeing this play acted out in one form or other.

Several months later I contracted with Big Bob to form up and pour a driveway on a piece of rental property C.J. and I had at the time. He and a helper were hard at work when I got to the job and, since I had nowhere else to be, I stood around and watched them go about their preparations. Before long I idly offered a suggestion or two. Then one or two more.

Big Bob ignored me for a while but when it became apparent I was determined to help things along, he finally stopped working, paused, and slowly turned to me with that trademark grimace of a smile.

"Boss, if it wouldn't be too much trouble, I'd `preciate it if you'd let me jot down just exactly how you want this job done. That way I'll be sure to get it right like you want it."

A mule doesn't have to kick this ol' boy in the head more than a couple of times before I catch on, and I hadn't fallen off the cabbage truck that morning.

I shutup, went to the house and ate lunch with Sissy.

The driveway turned out beautifully without any input from me.

Far as I know, Big Bob never accepted a position higher than foreman of a crew despite many offers to make him a superintendent or general foreman. We worked on the same jobs off and on for several years. I never heard what happened to Nathan Napp after we finished our part of the North Avenue Station project. But I'm satisfied you can lay any difficulty he had in restarting his career at the feet of Big Bob Matthews.

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Chapter Eight

AN EPILOGUE

Which reminds me of a story Jess Bingham tells.

Jess is the owner of a hardware store in downtown Atlanta. He and his father-in- law, Mr. John Eller, from whom Jess bought the store when Mr. John retired, kept me in business during the recession that hit the construction industry in the mid-70's. They did this by allowing me a lot more credit than they had any reasonable hope of recovering if all didn't go well with me or if I got discouraged and decided to hang it up and seek greener pastures.

To this day neither of them can explain what possessed them to do it. And both can recall, in emphatic terms, their sense of relief when I walked in with the balance due in cash. I think they extended me so much credit because they knew C.J. would see to it I did the right thing.

Mr. Eller opened his hardware in close proximity to the location of what was then Sears Roebuck's largest facility. Sears recently sold the building to the City of Atlanta which is using it \as an administrative complex. AH … ain’t the growth of government a wonderful thing. In any event, Mr. Eller likes to admit it took him several years longer to run Sears out of that location than he thought it would.

But getting back to Jess.

I was in the store one day passing time commiserating with him about the weight problem we share in common. If memory serves, the subject shifted from obesity to business, which led to our lamenting how difficult it is to find good help, which brought up the paradox that you get so accustomed to dealing with marginal employees, when a good one comes along you tend to mismanage them, which carried over to the observation that it's easy to get in the habit of micro- managing anyone who works for you.

Jess said he had a well-recommended landscaper come out to his house to make some grading adjustments in order to keep his crawl space dry. The guy showed up on time, with his equipment and helpers, and went to work.

Jess’ the sort who likes to learn new things. He also likes to make sure a job is being done right. But he's not stupid, and it's unlikely he would ever critique or try to direct an operation unfamiliar to him.

In this case however, we're talking Jess' home, so all bets were off.

From the way he described it, Jess futzed around `till he couldn't stand it any more. Then he started making comments. Offering suggestions.

The landscaper took precious little of Ron's direction before tapping himself on the head while observing, "Mr. Bingham, don't concern yourself. We brought it with us."

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CHAPTER NINE

KELL

No kinder, gentler, more unassuming man ever lived than Kell Woods. As a child in the mountains of northwestern North Carolina, I used to trudge up the rough track to his cabin, sit with him on the front porch looking out over his apple orchard at Copperhead Mountain, and talk about whatever came to mind.

Kell was as close to a hermit as I've ever known. But he was always cordial and never let on whether he minded company or not … I’m pretty sure he did.

He had a fair sized barn beside the branch that ran through his property that he kept in good repair. Kell used the barn to cure tobacco and shelter a stall where his horse could hang out. The horse was equally welcome in Kell's cabin. I don't think it ventured there except to steal whatever apples happened to be lying about.

I used to wonder how Kell kept clean. I never saw a washtub or laundry soap. But even in winter, Kell's overalls and shirt were presentable.

He never wore socks.

It's still a mystery to me how Kell always smelled like an indescribable mixture of newly plowed earth, and hay just mowed, and clean mountain air, and other good things. There was never a hint of the acrid, slop-bucket odor that marks those who don't have ready access to soap and water, or are disinclined to wash even when facilities are available.

Exceedingly few mountain people are anxious to impose their views on others in the form of advice or counsel ... Kell more disinclined then most. That may be part of the reason why I can so clearly remember the cool midafternoon when he rocked back in his chair and reluctantly announced he had something he thought he’d best discuss with me.

I was off to college that fall and more than a little nervous at the prospect. Kell had concluded, and rightly so, that I would do well to take with me a cache of principles for guidance in dealing with the world outside the cloistered, nurturing, protective shelter of the mountains.

"Robert," he said, "there's something you ought keep in mind." I don't recall Kell looking me straight in the eye any time but then in all the years we knew each other.

"If you have one friend, you're lucky." He paused to gather himself. The effect was considerable.

" If you have two friends you are bless’ sed of God." Another pause. The intensity of the moment escalated.

"And Robert, if you have three friends you're an idiot."

I don't know where Kell came from and I don't know where he's buried.

But I do love him.

And I've recalled that afternoon with him each time I've ignored Kell’s piece of advice.

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CHAPTER TEN

PRODUCTION THEN THE MONEY, or, WHOEVER HAS THE MONEY WINS 

I can't speak for all the businesses out there maneuvering in the economic milieu labeled "free enterprise", but I do have a passing acquaintance with construction. I strongly suspect most, if not all, businesses fall prey to pretty much the same imperatives that dictate the operation of a successful construction enterprise.  And I know the most important rule I've learned and relearned in construction is you don't turn the money loose 'til something has been accomplished to justify that move. 

Simply stated, the exchange of money is always based on the accomplishment of agreed on results. Those results must be susceptible to measurement both in terms of quality and quantity.  No other way works. Period. 

The problem is, most of us are unable to consistently comply with this critically important rule of business. We give it lip service and swear we're never going to make the mistake again. But more often than not some slick somebody rolls in with a real good story and we find ourselves paying in advance, snagged once more in the same old briar patch that tore us up the last time we came charging through.           

The slick somebodies in question aren't necessarily bad people with unworthy intentions. That is in part what makes defending yourself so difficult. Here you are, presented with a likable, well-intentioned human being who has fallen on difficult times; or who has a great idea but needs a little help to get it going; or who has terrific potential to be of use in an enterprise that will eventually be profitable to all involved, but on the front end your primary responsibility will be to carry the weight in so far as financing is concerned; or who has knowledge / experience / skills that are of such immeasurable value as to justify any sacrifice on your part in the interest of obtaining those formidable talents; there are as many rationalizations as there are people out there with whom you would not be associated save for those rationales.

The process is some variation on the following.                     

Thomas Boyd is an articulate, highly skilled, experienced contractor with a following of ne'er-do-wells he is able to control by threat of physical force and judicious payment of moneys due, that is, no one ever quite catches up with Thomas on what he owes them and if they complain too much, he's subject to kick their butt. 

There are those who eventually tire of the game and move on to other pursuits, resigning themselves to wages that will never be paid. But a quixotically stubborn, relatively permanent group hangs on. They accept the necessity of the way Thomas operates and show up with reasonable regularity in order to do his biding. One assumes they hold out hope of eventually being paid in full.

Over the years these faithful have developed the capability of performing well enough to support Thomas in whatever lifestyle he requires while managing to make ends meet despite the pittance he pays. And in the process, a peculiar bond of loyalty has been established between the parties to this arrangement.    

C.J. and I first crossed paths with Brother Thomas after agreeing to complete a fire damage project that was far beyond the level of competence we had mustered thus far.

The two contractors who preceded us had left the job, the customers, and the City of Atlanta Building Department, in a state of disarray. We never really got the details, but to say there were misunderstandings would be tantamount to labeling Hussein's trick with the oil wells of Kuwait "a fire".

A slick, smooth talking insurance adjuster managed to keep us from getting acquainted with the job's unenviable status until after we had agreed to do the work. In fairness to him, we didn't investigate too much, and I'm not all that sure we wouldn't have decided to take the job on even if we had been fully apprised.  Things were slow in construction at the time, and the prospect of completing a thirty thousand plus dollar project promised riches about whose actualization we could only dream. 

The truth is, in my pursuit of a job I perceived as being the instrument of our salvation, I had embellished somewhat the experience C.J. and I were bringing to the table, not paying a lot of attention to what was being offered by the other side.

I don't think I lied. But I did express myself in terms that were enthusiastically charitable. In the trades we call this writing checks that might be difficult, if not impossible, to cash.   

When she realized what I'd done, C.J. wasn't pleased. 

I believe she voiced some inclination to let me wallow in the hole I'd dug. And I recall her saying other things that were easily as uncharitable. 

I laid low for a day or so realizing she needed some time to recoup a more reasonable perspective. Then I dropped by her house unannounced and groveled `till she agreed to at least go look at the job. 

She folded.

I insisted we proceed before she had time to reconsider.

When we got to the job it was C.J.'s presence alone that kept me from bolting. What we surveyed was a disaster. A disaster to which we were contractually committed by my hand … my hand alone.

What a mess!

I couldn't believe how differently things appeared when viewed absent the distortion of desperation.

The job I had negotiated had been difficult but doable. But that job had somehow metamorphosed and become a nasty blot of misery served up from the fiery lakes of hell.  A running sore bent on violating any reckless souls foolish enough to venture too close. A monstrous weight that would readily overwhelm the best my puny capacities might offer. 

We were screwed and I was the instrument. Woe was me! A thousand times woe.       

But suddenly I was struck by the fact that C.J. didn't seem to share my panicked concern.  On the contrary, she stood calmly at my side waiting for me to set a course and it was then that I understood I had no choice but to gird up my loins and get on about the business of figuring out what to do. As I undertook that effort, it quickly became obvious that the figuring was going to take more time than I had right then.

Fortunately, C.J.'s tendency to quiet patience allowed me sufficient time to regain some modicum of composure before she turned and asked how I thought we might best get started. Knocked down by a feather? I was primed and ready.  

The arrival of a dilapidated dump truck spared me giving utterance to what I was thinking that being, "How the hell should I know."

Well beyond a condition of worse for wear, the truck was shrouded in smoky exhaust and engine noise.  A film of something sticky on the body of the cab was embedded with dirt and grime.  If asked, I would have guessed the paint to be a darker shade of blue.

The big truck ground to a halt, air brakes hissing. 

The driver killed the engine and sat staring at us intently for what verged on an uncomfortable length of time. Then he smiled.

When Thomas Boyd smiles it's as though the sun's rays are bursting the gloom of a cloudy sky. A mouth full of tightly knit teeth gleam an invitation to be friends. Before you can catch yourself, you start feeling better. That's when Thomas hits his stride.   

He climbed down from behind the wheel, a big jungle cat stretching … extending and testing the limits of its predatory range. 

Then he yawned mightily.  

Finally, reassuring us with his massive hands and thickly muscled arms extended, he, in full voice intoned, "How are you lovely people doing today?"            

His gentleness was as appealing as his emergence from the truck had been intimidating. But you would think even individuals of our limited experience would have recognized this performance for the exercise in manipulation that it was. 

We didn't. 

And that's one of the few times C.J.'s instincts betrayed us.                 

I sensed C.J. was kindly disposed to this engaging creature. Which explains in part why it wasn't long before I convinced myself Brother Thomas was a guardian angel sent directly from heaven to guide C.J. and me through the storm tossed abyss into which we had been cast by my lack of judgment. 

He walked through the job making astute observations at appropriate intervals, his tone consistently respectful.        

In retrospect, I see Thomas took great pains in avoiding the slightest hint that he was a master dealing with two budding initiates as though they were his equals. The feeling was so glorious we could hardly be blamed for our willingness to continue the game so long as Thomas would allow. How easy it is to con the incompetent and unsure if one weaves the illusion they know what they're doing.   

The awesome clean up I had dispaired of ever being effected Thomas dismissed as nothing more than a trifling bother. 

The Stop Work Order imposed by the Chief Building Inspector of Atlanta he relegated to the status of a minor inconvenience that would be resolved the instant he got in touch with any one of his countless influential associates at City Hall. 

Involved code requirements specifying how to "kill" smoke damage, or how to differentiate between acceptable and unacceptable depths of charring on structural members, or how to rebrace load bearing beams supporting three stories of house, or any others of the countless questions that had to be answered if the job was to get done in such a way as to pass inspection .... these easily remedied matters were of no consequence to Thomas.