CAREER TRANSITIONS, by Marian McMahon Stanley

Jimmy aggravated the wrong people by saying too much to certain parties he shouldn’t have even been talking to. You can’t let those things pass. Even somebody with bricks for brains like Jimmy Scanlan knows that.

So Jimmy decides to go into his own witness protection program and disappear for a while. Now our Jimmy is a magna cum laude graduate of the School of Stupid, so it doesn’t take long for him to screw up.

Jimmy’s favorite uncle dies in Queens. We wait. A gorgeous flower arrangement arrives—Asiatic lilies, long-stemmed white roses, purple irises—the whole nine yards. No name, but it’s not hard to track the florist down to a little town outside of Binghamton.

d d d d

Ruggiero Blandini here—Richie the Iceman for short. Not too many people know my real name. I use lots of names. I’m what you might call a problem solver. Anyway, next day, I’m in Vestal, New York, driving past a little ranch with a black Caddy SUV sitting in the carport. Like I said, School of Stupid. He couldn’t bring himself to lie low and drive a dark-colored Honda Civic or a Corolla. No, it had to be a black Caddy SUV. Oh yeah, with tinted windows.

I watch Jimmy for a couple of days. I can tell he’s getting comfortable. He comes out to do his errands, mow the lawn, take the damned car to the carwash, whatever. So after a while I’m getting restless and decide to get the job done.

Late afternoon of the second day, Jimmy drives into Binghamton, eats an early dinner at the Lost Dog Café on Water Street and stops at the CVS on Main afterwards. I watch for him from the car I’m using for this job—an old black Subaru emancipated a few days before from a student parking area in Syracuse. It’s dinner time for most people in Binghamton and the CVS parking lot is all but empty, a satisfying lull in customer traffic.

Jimmy does his shopping and comes out the door. He’s so relaxed now in his own little witness protection program that he’s not even looking around to check the lot. Some people make my job easy.

One clean shot and he drops like a bag of turnips. I put the Glock back in its special black gym bag and take my leave out the back exit of the parking lot. Last time I see Jimmy Scanlan, he’s lying on the blacktop, still holding a white plastic CVS bag with his hemorrhoid medicine in one hand and his black Caddy SUV car keys in the other.

I drop the Subaru on a small side street, pick up my own gray Acura on the same street, and head west out of Binghamton on Route 17. Somewhere between Olean and Jamestown, I pull off and find the bed and breakfast I’d looked up on the New York State Visitors Bureau website. I told the lady at the bed and breakfast that I’d be late. She said not to worry, that she’d leave the key under the mat and that she might be up working, anyway. That’s what I like about these places. Homey.

I like to stay at bed and breakfasts when I’m on the road. Old farmhouses or Victorians with wraparound porches. Blueberry pancakes, homemade muffins, and strong coffee served at a heavy round table in an old-fashioned dining room. If I ever retire—and God knows, I have enough stashed away in the Caymans I could do that any time now—I’d open a place myself somewhere upstate. I make a nice breakfast frittata and I use a touch of cardamom in my yogurt fruit salad. I like to make things a little different.

When I stay at these places, I pay in cash and give some random name. If they ask, I tell them I’m in logistics for a metal fastener company in Sandusky, Michigan, or something like that. Nobody ever asks you inconvenient questions about logistics or metal fasteners. You can see their eyes glaze over as soon as the words are out of your mouth. And that’s good.

I’m the only guest and that’s good, too. Quiet. Lately I need to rest a little between jobs. The house is a fine old Victorian. Nice location—on the main street across from the library in a little town near a state reservation, not too far off the highway.

The minute I pull into the driveway, even in the dark I can see this is a class job. When I turn the key and open the front door, I’m blown away. Original woodwork, beading on the wooden railings curving up the stairway, stained glass to die for—you should pardon the expression. The smell of strawberry-rhubarb muffins just cooked and coffee perking. My dreams fulfilled.

Rita, the innkeeper, comes out of the kitchen. Behind her, I can see an open laptop surrounded by stacks of paper on a green granite counter. Rita’s an older woman wearing a light blue sweat suit, no wedding ring, and a spiked hairstyle that looks kind of funny on her. She pours me a cup of decaf coffee and hands me a hot muffin. “I thought you might need something after your drive. Where’re you coming from again—Cleveland?”

“Yeah, Cleveland. Thanks. This is terrific. And this place—gorgeous.”

I can see Rita is pleased and she offers to give me a tour even though it’s late. I love the fact that she invites me to take my coffee and muffin with me as we walk and talk. Rita’s spent the past five years painstakingly renovating the house. And, boy, could you see the quality of the work. My soul is nourished just by walking room to room. I feel like I’m in a cathedral—like Chartres or something. I’d like to wake up in a place like this every day.

I’m not surprised to find that Rita is a great cook. It’s a disappointment that she talks so much—nonstop. But still, I like to hear about the renovations of old houses. You know, it might come in handy if I ever I open a place of my own.

d d d d

The next morning over breakfast, our conversation gets a little more complicated when I ask her again just when she’d bought the place.

“Well,” she says, after a short pause. “Actually, I couldn’t afford the down payment at the time, so I did a lease to buy.” Then her wrinkly face starts to get red and I know that Rita has some sad story, that I’m going to hear the sad story and that she’s probably going to cry on me. Shit. I hate it when they cry.

“The house was just a wreck. It was on the market for years. No one wanted to tackle it until I came along.” Rita takes a deep, shaky breath to try to calm herself. “Sorry.” She starts to cry, anyway.

“That’s okay,” I say. But it’s really not okay. I hate it when they cry. I can feel the beginnings of a headache just above my left eye.

“So now the lease is up. The owner wants to sell this place for three times what it was worth when I found it. I could never afford that.” It’s hard to understand what Rita is saying now, because she is starting to blubber. I hate blubbering. “And the only reason it’s worth that much is because of all the work I put into it.”

“Did he pay for any of the work, Rita?” She shakes her head.

“Did he know you were doing the work?”

She nods. “He did, but now,” here Rita wails, “now he says that he never really gave me permission to do any of this work and he’s going to evict me if I can’t make an offer for the house at the new price by the end of the month. It’s like he just played me, used me, working so hard to fix the house up. I’m such a fool.”

Oh, Christ. My spirit doesn’t feel so nourished now.

“No lawyer when you did the original agreement?”

“I guess I didn’t have a very good one.” She’s getting quieter, sniffling and reaching into her sweat suit sleeve for a hidden tissue. “My divorce just went through, and I was trying to make a new start.”

I brace myself for more tears, but Rita holds it together. “He wouldn’t have given me permission to do all this work or spend any money. Some old aunt left the house to him. He didn’t care about it. Never comes out. Lives somewhere around Boston. Calls it the sticks here.”

She pauses, and her lower lip trembles. I think we might hit the waterworks again. “And now, he wants to make money off of all my work and evict me.” Rita raises a shaking hand and covers her eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry to be telling you all my personal troubles.” She makes an effort, straightens her shoulders and stands to clear the table. “I’ll just get some of this out of the way.” She gives me a watery smile. “You want a second cup of coffee?”

After breakfast I go to my room—the Jade Room. Rita had named all the rooms—kind of corny, but I like it. The Jade Room is all in greens—mostly soft tones. There’s a bay window with one of those wide window seats—very comfortable. I’ll have to remember that for when I open my own place.

I sit on the window seat and look around before I place my hands on my knees, breathe deeply and close my eyes to meditate. You need to keep yourself centered in a job like mine. I like to stay centered.

d d d d

Half an hour later, I check my Cayman accounts again. Plenty of cushion. Too much. I always told myself that when I got to a certain amount, I’d check out of this business. It can be stressful, and how long can a guy stay lucky? I blew past that certain amount in the bank account years ago.

I think about it and decide it’s my ego. I’m in high demand because I have what you’d call a unique skill set and a sure hand. I solve problems nice and clean, in and out, no trace, no fuss. Hardly anybody knows my real name. Hell, I don’t even remember it half the time. The jobs seem too easy right now. Every once in a while, I think I’d like to take a few really risky assignments—just to show myself how good I am. That’s the ego. Me and Jimmy Scanlan, graduates of the School of Stupid.

My next work commitment is a tragic accident that I need to schedule for an investment banker who spends summer weekends at a big house in the Hamptons. The guy was supposed just to be doing the laundry for my clients, but he got in the habit of skimming off the top—see aforementioned big house in the Hamptons. Easy job to pull off—road accident on a winding road late at night.

I have a short break before that one. I can fit in a little business of my own before I take my ride to the Hamptons. And then after the Hamptons I might close shop. It’s a little scary for me to think about that. They say it’s good to phase into retirement so that you don’t go off a cliff. That might be a challenge in my line of work. But I’m thinking that if I plan it right—go toward something, you know, instead of just leaving something behind, I’ll be okay. I’m a good planner.

d d d d

I head to Boston right after I leave Rita’s place. It’s not too hard to find the hotshot who owns Rita’s house and wants to take advantage of a hard-working, if naïve, woman of a certain age who’s on her own. Hot Shot’s name is Betts. He works at some kind of venture capital firm and has a nice spread in a desirable suburb. There’s a basketball hoop set on the house’s three car garage that never gets used—the hoop, that is, not the garage. Cute blond wife in yoga pants hopping in and out of a BMW SUV. Tight stressed face. What gives? Isn’t she living the life in Perfectville? Don’t see any sign of kids. Maybe they go to boarding school.

Betts works out at a toney gym in the financial district. He’s buff. Everyone in there is buff. There might as well be a sign on the door, “No body fat allowed.” Betts goes to the early morning spinning class. There are some fine-looking young women in that early morning spinning class. Betts likes one in particular. He leans against the wall with one arm and watches while she does her stretches. They’ve got something going. That’s helpful.

Ms. Hot Spinner lives in a brownstone apartment in the South End. That’s convenient, not too far from the Southeast Expressway, the route Betts uses to drive home after a late-night business meeting in the brownstone apartment with spinner lady.

So I wait for Betts in a little park across the street one night while he’s having his hot meeting with the lady in the brownstone. The well-tended, nice little park is one of those that are locked and reserved just for residents. As if. I learned all I needed to know about popping locks from my Uncle Sammy when I was twelve. Less than ten seconds for this one.

After a long while, Betts comes down the stairs and when he reaches the sidewalk, turns to wave and blow a kiss up to the second floor. Sweet. I meet him a half a block up. Neighborhood’s quiet. I’m leaning against his Mini Cooper.

A frown crosses Betts’s face. Wait, somebody’s leaning on his car. Somebody’s leaning on his car. “Get off my car,” he says.

I smile. I stand. Did I tell you that I’m a big man? You don’t have to be big to do what I do—the little guys are usually much meaner—but sometimes it helps. I don’t say anything. I just hit him twice quick—once in his well-toned abs and once on his handsome square jaw. He drops and sits on the sidewalk, gripping his gut and moaning.

He fumbles for his wallet and his car keys. “Take the car. Take the money,” he croaks.

“I don’t want your money or tweety little car. I spit on your tweety little car. Get up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpers, sounding like a little girl, drawing it out “I c-aaa-n-’t.”

Oh, please.

“Oh, Christ. Yes, you can.” He flinches and cries a little when I put my arm around him and half-drag him to the park. I shake my head and exchange smiles with a young guy who comes around the corner with a Northeastern backpack. “Never could hold his booze. Never learns.” My hand is squeezing Betts’s right shoulder enough so that he knows not to do anything stupid.

Betts tries to pull back when we get to the park, now darkened since I disabled the cute period lights by the pathway. “What are you going to do to me?” he gasps in that high, squeaky kind of voice.

“Nothing you can’t handle. If you do what I say.”

So Mr. Betts and I have a serious business discussion about the price point for the house his aunt left him. This discussion is punctuated by a couple of quick jabs to the side of the head when Mr. Betts has the erroneous impression that we are in a conference room on State Street and that he’s actually in a negotiation instead of being in a dark city park with a very dangerous man and in a conversation where there is only one right answer.

Betts limps back to his tweety little car after we have an understanding about what the sale contract is going to say and when he will get the sale completed. Week’s end is good or he’ll get another visit. We, of course, also discuss the standard fine print clause of our own agreement—the part that talks about what will happen to Mr. Betts if he should contact the authorities. I’m pretty sure he’s not that stupid.

d d d d

The next week I call Rita about my favorite navy-blue cardigan that I might have left at her bed and breakfast. I hate cardigans and I never wear navy blue, but whatever. Rita starts to talk so fast after she answers the call that she can hardly breathe—telling me all about Mr. Betts’s sudden change of heart.

“You know, he must have thought about things and decided it’s better to be fair. Do you think he went to church?”

“Well, there you are, Rita. I’ll bet he had a talk with his priest. Anyway, that’s good news. I’m happy for you.” I listen some more and some more again—I told you how much she talked, right?—before I get around to trying to close the call. “So you didn’t see the sweater? Well, I guess I must have left it somewhere else.”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I’d tell you to stop by when you’re in the area again, but I’m thinking that since Mr. Betts gave me such a good deal, I might sell out myself if I can get that higher price, too. I’m not getting any younger and this is a big place to manage. With that money I could get a nice condo down near my daughter in Jersey and still have a good retirement fund.”

I’m surprised, but not too much. “Oh, no kidding, Rita. Well, it is a big place and you deserve a reward for all your hard work.”

“You’re so sweet to say so. Hey, if you give me your address, I can send you your sweater if it shows up.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I suppose it’s in the back of the car or in the hall closet.” And I finally manage to say my goodbyes. Nice woman, but—Jesus—she can go on.

d d d d

The Hamptons job is quick and easy. It’s a real tragedy—a pillar of the community cut down in the prime of life when his car spins off the road late at night. It’s a shame, but it happens.

The next morning I call my contacts and tell them I’m out of the business for good. They complain and start talking about some lucrative jobs they have on the line for me. I hang up. I cancel all communication—the post office box, the phone number that my agent Joey at the variety store uses to call me about a job, everything. By the end of the morning, I’m totally disappeared. Just the way I like it.

I make the next call on my new cell phone under my new name—Harrison Judge. Like it? I thought it had some class—a certain gravitas. Anyway, my next call is to a realty office in western New York with the listing for a Victorian Bed and Breakfast somewhere between Olean and Jamestown.

While I’m waiting for the receptionist to get the listing agent on the line, I think about how I’ll extend the gardens out back of Rita’s place. Maybe put in a gazebo where guests can enjoy an iced tea in the summer. People like little touches like that, you know.

d

Marian McMahon Stanley is the author of two Rosaria O’Reilly mysteries from Barking Rain Press: The Immaculate (May 2016) and Buried Troubles (May 2018). She enjoyed a long international corporate career and, most recently, a senior position at a large urban university. Marian writes in a small town outside Boston.