The Racketeer Page 0,107

my room and call Vanessa.

She's in the attic, where it's 120 degrees, picking through old cardboard boxes and broken furniture. "It's not there," I announce. "It's outside, in the storage shed."

"Hang on," she says as she climbs down the retractable ladder. "Has he told you?" she asks between breaths.

"Yes."

"Someone's here," she says, and through the phone I hear a loud doorbell chime. Vanessa ducks low in the hallway and reaches for the Glock. "I'll call you right back," she whispers into the phone and turns it off.

It's late Sunday morning. Nathan's truck is in his driveway. Assuming his friends would know he was away for the weekend, the presence of his truck would raise questions. The doorbell chimes again, and someone starts pounding on the front door. Then he yells, "Nathan, you in there? Open up."

Vanessa crouches but doesn't move. The banging continues, then someone else is knocking on the back door and yelling for Nathan. There are at least two of them, with voices of young men, no doubt friends of Nathan's who stopped by for some reason. They show no signs of leaving. One of them taps on his bedroom window, but he cannot see inside. Vanessa eases into the bathroom and wipes her face. Her breathing is heavy and she's shaking with fear.

They're pounding and yelling and will soon come to the conclusion that something is wrong with Nathan. They'll kick in a door. Instinctively, Vanessa strips down to her bikini panties, dries the sweat off her body, leaves the Glock near the bathroom sink, and steps to the front door. She opens it widely and the young man gets a most unexpected treat. Her brown breasts are large and firm; her body athletic and toned. His eyes drop from her chest to the panties, pinched together to reveal as much flesh as possible, then he catches himself. She's smiling and saying, "Maybe Nathan is busy right now."

"Wow," he says. "Sorry."

They're facing each other through a screen door, neither in a hurry to leave. Over his shoulder he says, "Hey, Tommy, over here." Tommy arrives at the front door in a rush and can't believe his eyes.

Vanessa says, "Come on, guys, give us some privacy here, okay? Nathan's in the shower and we're not finished with our business. Who shall I tell him stopped by?" She then realizes that in her haste she forgot to remove the latex gloves. Red panties, aquamarine gloves.

Neither can take his eyes off her breasts. One says, "Uh, Greg and Tommy, we, uh, were just sorta passing by." Both are entranced by her nakedness and baffled by the gloves. What on earth has this gal been doing with our buddy?

"I'll be happy to tell him," she says with a cute smile as she slowly closes the door. Through the window she watches as they back away, still slack-jawed and confused. They finally get to their truck, climb in, and start laughing as they leave the driveway.

After they're gone, Vanessa fixes a glass of ice water and sits at the kitchen table for a few moments. She's rattled and ready for a meltdown but cannot afford one. She's sick of the house and has serious doubts about the entire project. But she has to go on.

I'm in the back of a cab headed for the airport when I see the call. I've spent the last fifteen minutes imagining various scenes and conflicts inside Nathan's house, none of them with good endings. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes, just a couple of rednecks looking for Nathan. I got rid of them."

"How?"

"I'll tell you later."

"Did they see you?"

"Oh yes. It's cool. We're fine. Where's the stuff?"

"Out back, in the storage shed. I'll stay on the phone."

"Okay." Vanessa checks the driveway once more to make sure there are no more visitors, then hurries out the back door and to the storage shed. The dog is growling and barking frantically, and I can hear him clearly in Jamaica.

I cannot make myself warn her about the snakes, so I silently pray that she does not encounter them. Digging through a grungy outbuilding is bad enough; throw in the snakes and she might freak out and disappear. When she steps into the shed, she describes the interior. She says it's like an oven. I relay Nathan's instructions, and we sign off. She'll need both hands.

She moves two empty paint thinner cans, kicks aside a burlap bag, pushes the Sears mower as far away as possible, lifts a sheet of plywood,