Vincent Quarrals watched Monique Modine exit Marin’s store from deep in the shadows of Campbell’s barn. Al and Blanche left years ago, Al to shack up with some woman in norhtern Maine and Blanche to some California nuts-and-berries, back-to-the-earth ashram. They left their property in different directions and neither looked back. The place was for sale at state auction but the only way it’d be sold would be sight-unseen. It didn’t need work, it needed to be razed and nobody seemed interested.
Funny thing, that. The Kristoffersen’s place wasn’t much better. Quarrals thought Modine took her life in her hands every month she went in to make sure the electricity, plumbing, well, and heat still worked. Then one night well into dark a truck pulls up, a team gets out, goes to work, and by the time they leave you could eat off the floor. Fresh paint, fresh flooring, brand new wiring, brand new fixtures, good, solid furniture in the kitchen, bedrooms, dining room, and living room, and the rest of the house with enough furniture to be comfortable without getting in the way.
Who brings a crew in, probably more than one delivery truck, probably with lifting tailgates, does a makeover worthy of Discovery Channel and This Old House simultaneously, and gets in and out between some time near midnight and sunrise?
Quarrals didn’t like that. The work they did was obviouis but the only evidence of their passing were tire tracks and footprints.
He decided there and then he’d learn more about the new owner, except there wasn’t a change in ownership. Modine’s spouting her mouth off, as always, about what a fat commission she got and no title exchange to show for it.
He didn’t tell her. It just added to his need to know more about Stacey Knox. He chatted up Modine but she just kept up her throaty chuckle and repeatedly told him to get his eyes off her tits.
Quarrals liked the dark of the barn. The frame and flooring were good. He could back in to the point his patrol car disappeared from view and still watch the townsfolk come and go. It reminded him of being a spider hiding in the back of its web.
Stacey Knox came and went from Martin’s store not more than five minutes ago. He planned to come out of the shadows and “accidently” parked her in, keep her in Martin’s place and talk her up, get her real story from her, but no, Modine had to show up first and if he said hello to Knox Modine’d be telling people he and Knox were engaged.
God damn nosy bitch flirt.
She thought he didn’t know about her mechanic friend who came by twice a year? She didn’t know he’d bought one of those ultra-sensitive directional mikes and listened in to their wet-humpy. Ha.
And then there was Lawrence Martin who’d jump a mile if you said Boo! Has a crew from the city put in those three big satellite dishes so he can watch overseas soccer games and never got them to work right. Anybody asks if they can come watch and either the signal’s down or the dishes were blown out of alignment or raccoons ate through his cable and he’s waiting for a replacement.
Bullshit.
Vince knew Martin was sitting alone, naked, pumping himself watching Hindi porn or something like that. His mike never picked up anything other than old jazz music and snoring but he knew, oh, he knew, and one day he’d catch Martin and make him watch while Vince pumped himself to some sand-nigger porn.
Vince smiled and nodded in the dark of the barn, in the cool of the shade, in the quiet of his little hidey space. He knew it all. He kept tabs on everyone in Acra just to make sure it was safe.
To make sure he was safe.
