The Corolla\u2019s AC had expired the previous summer, so Billy was sticking uncomfortably to the driver\u2019s seat vinyl. The manor\u2019s no doubt functional air-conditioning beckoned, but he kept the car in PARK because the sculpture\u2019s face, with its strong cheekbones and broad, dignified nose, was simply marvelous to look at. It had been carved with obvious talent, someone\u2019s skilled hands imbuing it with a persona of one who gives orders but doesn\u2019t take them. Its robes were finely-hewn, floating on an imaginary wind\u2014an observation reminding Billy of how hot the day was becoming.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
Though the lifelike samurai king was carved to look intimidating\u2014and in Billy\u2019s mind, the sculptor deserved kudos there\u2014pigeons had really done a number on it. No matter how formidable looking, something covered in bird crap could only be taken but so seriously. This glaring indignity broke Billy\u2019s trance, allowing him to register an untended lawn tall enough to hide the ankles of all three statues. No minions, of course, meant no one to cut the yard.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
The young man and the royal regarded each other for another moment, long enough for Billy to once again hear the droning grasshoppers and the companionable tick-tick-tick of his aging Corolla. But the insects\u2019 churring couldn\u2019t mask the anger he felt at Mental Richard\u2019s unwanted return, an auditory appearance brought on by the sight of these high-end statues standing like pickets. Though the obscene expense pissed the shit out of him, he knew contemplating Richard\u2019s in-your-face yard bling would prove exhausting. Yes, king, you\u2019re an impressive son-of-a-bitch<\/em>, he thought, but my head\u2019s still killin\u2019 me<\/em>. He engaged DRIVE, shouting, \u201cSayonara, coalminers!\u201d then drove the rest of the way.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The pavers crunched as he pulled the car around the manor\u2019s circular drive. Bates had told him the detached garage would be locked, so he parked by the front doors. There were no other vehicles or signs of activity\u2014he was alone. BK emerged to take in the building. It looked as ugly as it had three years ago during his first visit, dad\u2019s infamous fiftieth birthday party, save for one striking difference\u2014a new blue-tiled slate roof. That must a\u2019 been pricey.<\/em> Or maybe not. What had Bates said?<\/em><\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Bates had told him Richard had had the original grey slate, guaranteed for one hundred years, replaced earlier that summer, telling him it hailed hard in Rock Hill, \u201cwink-wink.\u201d (Bates, a literal man, made great pains to indicate that Dick Buchanan had said wink-wink, <\/em>and that he, Deacon Bates, hadn\u2019t.) BK tried to imagine ice pellets damaging slate which elsewhere protected cathedrals for centuries\u2014it just didn\u2019t seem possible\u2014but there had been turbulent weather over the winter and according to the insurance adjustor, a May inspection did reveal dings and missing tiles. However, the suspicious adjustor also<\/em> noted that the other neighborhood houses, with their 30-year asphalt shingles, were undamaged. According to Bates, the guy had asked sarcastically, \u201cDid you have a party on the roof, Mr. Buchanan?\u201d Richard had replied, \u201cOh yes, a real slammer.\u201d Dick got a new roof, dying before paying his deductible.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n But those statues, they\u2019re a crap-load of money<\/em>, Billy thought, free roof or not. Lear jet money. Biggie Smalls money<\/em>. Where did Richard get that <\/em>kind of money?<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Before she married, Billy\u2019s mom, Sarah, joked that Richard, a New Yorker, had<\/em> to be mobbed up to throw cash around the way he did. He never said where it came from and she never asked; she\u2019d fallen deeply in love with a flamboyant, successful man\u2014things would take care of themselves. But being connected<\/em> was a joke which soured after the first few years and by the time Billy was born, simply chaffed. Richard was neither mobbed up nor on a nodding basis with the traditional concept of work. Work was for minions, and Dick Buchanan was no minion. Richard earned<\/em>, by which he meant using his brain to separate money from those who already had it\u2014Mensa for profit.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n A half-in-the-bag tax attorney attending his father\u2019s fiftieth party had put it best: \u201cBuchanan worms his way into the financial heart\u2014a real middleman\u2019s middleman.\u201d BK, serving at the time as a 19-year-old backyard bartender, nodded, smiling pleasantly, realizing the man, who tipped well, didn\u2019t know he was talking to Buchanan\u2019s son. The man\u2019s statement didn\u2019t upset him; he assumed everyone knew about his father\u2019s finagling, and in some weird sense, this was okay; scheming was how dad provided for the family, at least in the early years, keeping money coming in the door. What did <\/em>make him and his mother mad was how fast the money also went back out, and for the last few years of the marriage, didn\u2019t come in at all.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u00a0Richard spent cash\u2014no question there\u2014he just couldn\u2019t (or wouldn\u2019t) save it. In their household, Sarah\u2019s hard-earned waitressing money, needed at month\u2019s end, found itself instead briefly riding in the first-class section of Richard\u2019s wallet before passing to parts unknown, at least unknown to her. When these parts did <\/em>become known\u2014Richard took his affections beyond his wife\u2014the Buchanan\u2019s seven-year marriage foundered, then sank out of sight, leaving a few photograph albums and a 6-year-old Billy to bob in the waves.<\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n