Barney Janson was in his warehouse office. He came out and shook Rainey’s hand and thumped him on the shoulder and led him back into the office and shut the door.
Rainey didn’t sit down. He planted his feet and said, “Barney, look. I’ve got to get one thing straight. I appreciate what you’re doing. The job offer helped get the parole. But if you think I did what they convicted me of, I can’t stay here. I can’t work here.”
Janson looked at him with disgust. “Sit down, for heaven’s sake. Your nerves are showing. Would I have testified as a character witness? Would I have gone to bat for you in every ineffectual way I could think of? I soldiered three years with you. You’re not a punk with a gun. Sit down and shut up before I get sore.”
Rainey sat down and let his breath out. He grinned at Barney. “Okay. I had to know. It looks like you’ve done pretty well while I’ve been out of circulation.”
“We’ve got twenty trailers, fifteen tractors, most of them free and clear. Eight of the trailers are refrigerated. We’ve got some fat contracts, good drivers, good maintenance, and a lot of work ahead. The dispatcher is named Schubert. I’ll put you with him for a while. That’s the nerve center.”
Schubert was a dry, cynical man. They got along well immediately. By the time Rainey went home that night, his head was spinning with new terms, new concepts. He had carefully planned how it was to be done. And close attention to the job was the first step. There had to be every outward appearance of adjustment. He knew he could deceive all the rest of them.
But not Mary. She knew. And it was something they did not talk about. It was a wall between them.
It was early June before he got to look over the terrain. He had found the name in the phone book and memorized the address. Arthur C. Canelli. Twelve Princeton Road. And he had found Princeton Road on a city map. It was one of the streets in a new development in the flats west of the city.
On a Saturday afternoon, Schubert asked him to drive into town and pick up some new forms from the printer. He took the pickup. He drove out and found Princeton Road, drove slowly by Number Twelve. It was a small cinder-block house, gray with blue trim, with a small, neat yard, a television aerial, a carport, a picture window. The neighboring houses were identical except for the color and the way they were placed on the lots.
He drove quickly into town and picked up the forms and went back to the terminal. Now that he had seen where the man lived, it all began to seem more clear in his mind. It was more possible to visualize what would happen and how it would happen.
During the following weeks, he placed a few phone calls from the terminal and a few from the apartment. In that way, he was able to determine Canelli’s duty hours. He learned it was now Sergeant Canelli. He wondered how much the citation had had to do with the advancement.
From then on, it was a case of waiting. He had learned how to wait. He and Mary no longer had much to say to each other. He waited in a grayness of the spirit, in a grim need for satisfaction that excluded everything but the job and the waiting.
On a Sunday afternoon in late July, when he knew Canelli would not be on duty, he made another one of the calls to the Canelli home. And this time he had a strong hunch about the phone call. Canelli answered. He asked for Mrs. Canelli. “She’s out right now. Can I have her call you? Who is this?”
“That’s all right. I’ll call back later. Thanks.” He hung up.
Mary came out of the bathroom. “Who were you talking to?”
“I’m going out,” he said.
She looked at him. “Mal, please.”
“I’m just going out. Don’t get in an uproar.”
“Don’t yell at me, Mal. Where are you going?”
He banged the door behind him, closing out the sight of her standing there, hugging herself as though she were cold. He did not want to think about her. He wanted to do a lot of thinking about Canelli. He parked the old Chewy on a parallel street. Houses were being built there. He got out of the car. It was a hot day. He walked beside the piles of lumber and cinder blocks and approached the Canelli house from the rear. Knock on the back door. Move in on him the moment the door opened. Give the neighbors no chance to see anything.
There were some small trees growing along the property line. He had to stoop to go between two of them. The back end of the carport projected beyond the rear line of the house. In the corner it formed, a man squatted with flat stones and mortar, building a small terrace. He was a thickset man. Somebody Canelli had hired, Rainey guessed.
Another man sat on a low wall, smoking a cigarette. Both men wore grimy slacks, sweaty T-shirts. The man on the wall saw Rainey and said something to the man laying stone. The man laying stone turned around and looked at Rainey. Rainey’s mouth went dry as he saw it was Canelli, a much heavier Canelli, rapidly balding.
Rainey stood, his heart thumping, waiting for the words he knew would come, waiting for trouble, cursing his own luck. But Canelli was looking at him without any recognition, looking at him with a mild curiosity as he said, “Hi, there.”
Rainey walked slowly toward the two men, made himself smile stiffly, and said, “Hi!” His voice sounded rusty.
“You going to be a neighbor?” the man on the wall said.
“I was thinking about it.”
The man got off the wall. “My name is Hodge. Will Hodge. This is Art Canelli. He lives in this one. I live right across the street. I spend Sundays watching the neighbors work.”
“My name is Jones,” Rainey said. “Uh, Bob Jones.”
Canelli wiped his hand on the side of his pants and shook hands. “These places are built pretty good, but they ask too much money for them. But it’s quiet out here. Good for kids. You got kids?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Haven’t I seen you someplace?” Canelli asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rainey said, trying to smile casually. “I look like a lot of people.”
Two kids came racing around the corner of the carport and a dark-haired boy of about five yelled to Canelli, “Can I give Georgie a Coke? Can I, Dad?”
“Go help yourself. But just one apiece. And don’t bust anything getting them out, hear?”
The two children raced into the house. Canelli said, “I got to keep working before this stuff sets on me. You two guys can watch. Will, why don’t you go in and get us some cold beer.”
“I was waiting for that,” Hodge said. He went into the house and came out in a few minutes with three cans of beer. He gave one to Rainey and one to Canelli. Hodge looked at the small terrace and said, “If I wasn’t so lazy, I’d build one myself. Where do you work, Jones?”
“Janson Trucking,” Rainey said. It was the first thing that had popped into his mind.
Rainey wanted to leave and did not know how. His thought processes were dulled. Canelli was putting in the last few stones, working efficiently with the trowel. Hodge set his empty can on the wall and said, “I got to be getting home. Hope you move in the neighborhood, friend. You’ll like it.”
Rainey thanked him. A car drove in. Canelli was setting the last stone in place. “Judy!” he yelled. “Judy, come around and look.” A pretty woman with dark-red hair came around the corner of the carport. A girl about three years old came with her and stood and stared solemnly at the stranger and then at the new terrace.
“It’s lovely, dear,” Mrs. Canelli said.
“This is Mr. Jones, honey. He’s thinking of buying.”
“You’ll like it out here, Mr. Jones,” she said. “Art, I think you’ve done a wonderful job. Is it all done?”