Chapter 3

That morning when I arrived at my parts supplier it was to find only one of my ordered parts had arrived, but it was one I had waited almost six-weeks for. After calling and updating waiting customers, I happily completed what small jobs I could and drove to the Brewster home to finally complete their job. The little five dollar part in my hand would allow me to finally bill them for over twenty-five hundred dollars in work I'd done.

Ringing the doorbell brought no response. Carrying my toolbox around to the fenced back yard I pulled a small notebook from my pocket and turned to the inside cover. Listed there were fifteen nine-digit numbers. Each was a combination written in my own code. Only numbers were listed, without names or other markings. Though unable to remember all of the combinations, I did know who each belonged to when I looked at it.

Correct numbers in mind I unlocked the gate and entered their back yard. Two steps in I came to a sudden stop for there were Mr. and Mrs. Brewster on the back deck in their large hot tub... or mostly in it.

Bill Brewster was in his early seventies and had cared well for himself over the years. Fit, active and agile he was yet a very good looking man. Jennifer, his wife - his second wife actually - was another story and I often wondered how he'd ended up with her. In her mid thirties, lazy and vain, she and I had little use for one another. I had known the first Mrs. Brewster, before she had passed on, and had liked her very much. After her death it had taken Bill almost four years to begin living his life again and soon thereafter he had taken Jennifer as his second wife.

Jennifer was now partly in and partly out of the large redwood tub. Her chest against the edge with her large rather pendulous breasts hanging over the top, hands grasping the lip to either side. Bill was standing behind her supporting her right leg in the crook of his arm as his left hand grasped her long dishwater blonde hair, pulling her head back. Though I couldn't see below chest level, he was making hard rapid thrusting motions and, with each, her body lurched forward, swinging her breasts away from the edge where they would hang momentarily before slapping wetly back against the already soaked outside of the tub wall. Every third or fourth such lunge a small wave of water would slosh over the edge further wetting the sidewall and the deck below.

Standing to the side and just slightly behind I was unnoticed by either and I simply stood and watched for long moments before deciding that discretion was my best option. Letting myself back out the gate I gently closed it and rehung the lock. Setting my toolbox on the ground and sitting on it I lit a cigarette and waited. Now that I knew what was happening beyond the fence, I was able to hear the goings on despite the normal sounds of the surrounding neighborhood. Soft grunts, deepening breathing and choked off moans. The light sloshing of water and I even thought I sometimes heard the wet slapping of flesh on wood as I waited.

About the time I finished my cigarette, things quieted beyond the fence. I waited another long minute or two, until I could hear muted conversation noises, before 'making a noisy approach', picking up and dropping my toolbox loudly, rattling the lock 'clumsily' and calling out to any yard occupants that I was there.

"Is that you Doug?"

"Mr. Brewster? Yes, it's Doug. That part we've been waiting so long for has finally shown up. Thought I'd get it installed today. I tried the doorbell, but received no answer. Is now a good time? I could come back later or tomorrow if you'd prefer."

"No. Now is fine. Why don't you go around to the garage. I'll raise the door for you." I gently relocked the padlock.

When the door had raised a little over half way, I ducked under and entered the garage. Bill, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, approached and extended his hand for a firm shake. We chatted amiably as I moved to the old heater at the rear and began work on the repair. He was telling me that Jennifer now wanted an enclosed party deck, one she could use year round and Bill was asking for my opinions and suggestions. We discussed a few options and he asked if I could do the work. I could, but it would be July before I could do it with my present workload.

I am a bonafide 'Jack-of-All-Trades' and have made my living as an all-around handyman and general contractor for the past twenty years. Bill had been one of my first customers when I'd started the business. My current customer 'core' numbered over five-hundred people, meaning any and every problem they had around their home, or any project they considered doing, I received a call. If I didn't or couldn't do what they asked, I always knew who they should call for good work. My 'occasional' customer list was close to another six hundred people strong. Though usually working alone, I could easily put together a crew of up to fifteen, if needed, at any time and sometimes worked for other contractors when aksed. Bill was a dyed in the wool loyal customer and I'd done a lot of work on his place, including building the thirty foot by fifty foot garage we were now in.

Finished with the repair, I made my final notations to his bill and a note to myself for scheduling and doing the designs for the proposed project. Bill disappeared into the house with the invoice and I, as always, approached two tarp covered cars at the rear of the garage, uncovering the convertible.

The two cars were practically identical. A 1976 Ford Mustang II coupe, and a 1977 Ford Mustang II convertible. When he'd bought them, a little before his first wife died, they'd both been in very rough shape. They and a sudden desire to do wood working had been the reason for the large garage. Bill had lovingly restored the bodies of both cars until they were practically new car perfect. The engines, suspensions and drive trains of both were completely restored. Both had been painted in a brilliant banana yellow finish that was so deep and clear you could almost shave using their depths. Yet, although so much had been done, neither was finished.

Both were yet to have their interiors completed. Both needed complete reupholstery restoration and new tops. The convertible's top was torn in many places, and the coupe had a vinyl top that was cracking and splitting in many places. Every time I looked at those cars I was saddened that Bill had never completed them.

He hadn't touched either car, nor a wood working tool since Jennifer had moved in. She didn't approve of such things.

Bill returned as I was recovering the car and, with sadness in his voice, said he was finally planning to sell them as they sat. "I'll never get back to them and they simply take up space, so they might as well go." Bill gave me twelve-hundred dollars in cash and I marked that amount paid on his bill before returning it to him. His accountant would cut a check for the remainder and mail it to me.

We were walking to the truck when I had a thought and asked what he would be asking for the cars when he sold them. He named a price close to their original new car sale price and I said it was more than I'd be willing to consider. We talked further and I told him about Debbie, the children and my new living situation. The twins would be taking driver's training courses this summer and I'd thought how apropos it would seem to give the twins two practically twin cars. We laughed at the joke implied by the thought and I said my good-byes and left.

With extra cash in my pocket, I stopped by one of the big chain appliance stores and bought a mid-sized television and video cassette player on the way home. I also stopped at the cable company and picked up a second decoder box. That took care of the twins birthday and would give them a television for their party - without moving mine. A stop at a small jewelry store, one I trusted, and I came away with a simple pearl necklace and a receipt for a pair of white-gold earrings I was having specially made for Debbie. Her birthday was mostly covered.