Chapter Nine

When he returned home that evening, he related the story of his Maple Falls encounter to Nick and Evangeline. The three of them sat at the massive dining room table. An assortment of knives and gouging devices was spread before them as well as an assortment of doomed gourds. The setup for their assembly line was simple, having been honed over the years. Peter made the first cuts, removing the stem and top intact. Then, because he lacked artistic skills, it was his job to scoop the stringy, slimy, seed-laden netting from the inside of the pumpkins before sending them down the line to somebody who could do more than carve a couple of triangle eyes and a square-toothed smile.

When Nick had first started participating in Peter and Evangeline’s Halloween ritual, there had been a slight tension. An edge of competition between them emerged as lover and best friend figured out their relative positions to each other. That first year, the pumpkins had been masterpieces of gourd flesh. As the two of them grew more comfortable, the need to impress each other faded, but the pumpkins kept evolving so that now carving them and preparing for the party was a two-day affair. They’d carve jack-o-lanterns tonight, then take the Hamster truck over to Fountain Rental in the morning to pick up tables and chairs and a punch fountain. Nick had splashed out and reserved two kerosene heaters for their patio, so that their guests could smoke without freezing to death.

This year Gigi joined them in their preparations, doing her part by walking on the table and knocking expensive and delicate carving tools down to be chipped and dented against the slate floor.

Peter was shoulder-deep in his ottoman-sized gourd when the front bell rang.

“That’s probably Tommy,” Evangeline said. “He said he might come by after work.”

Neither she nor Nick looked up from their work or made any move toward the door. Peter knew from experience that while both of them had the best intentions of actually getting the door once they came to a stopping point in their creative process, that stopping point could take up to fifteen minutes to reach, and by then the person on the doorstep would have given up and gone away.

He toweled off his arm and went to answer the door.

It was not Tommy.

Bradley De Kamp stood on the stair, resplendent in his Burberry overcoat and generalized sense of haughty disapproval. Peter didn’t wait for him to introduce himself, seizing the upper hand. He didn’t generally feel the need to instantly dominate another man, but Bradley had insulted Nick, and Peter’s defense came intuitively.

“You’re Bradley, right? I’m Peter Fontaine.” He held out his hand, which Bradley reluctantly shook. “Just to let you know, you almost ran over me the other night.”

“I—”

Peter gave him a hard, bright smile. “No hard feelings, man. It’s hard to see in the fog sometimes. Just letting you know, there’s a lot of cyclists on this road.”

“Thank you for that information.” Bradley stood stiffly, without leaving the foyer, without removing his coat. “I’d like to speak with Nick Olson if he’s here.”

Nick saved him the trouble of yelling his name by sidling up beside him. He held a squirming Gigi in one palm.

“What’s up, Bradley?” Nick’s attempt at casual language was undone by his flat tone. Bradley didn’t seem to notice, though.

“I want to know what’s going on with the insurance payment.” He stood eye to eye with Nick, though with a slightly thinner frame. He had silver hair and a lot of it.

“You could have called,” Nick said. “I have company right now.”

“I did call. You didn’t answer,” Bradley said. “If you had, I could have been spared a drive.”

“Look, there isn’t a payment yet. The investigators haven’t even come up here.” Nick lost his hold on Gigi, and she bounded away to freedom.

“Whereabouts did you drive from? Do you live in Seattle?” Peter inquired.

“I fly in every couple of weeks on business,” Bradley said.

“Bradley works in the software industry. Borealis Microsystems.” Nick explained. Then to Bradley, “I told you that I would forward all communications that I had with them. There just hasn’t been any.”

“You should be keeping in better contact than you do. It’s a lot of money we’re talking about.” Bradley straightened imperiously and took on the air of a parent admonishing a child.

“I don’t know what I can do. I can’t make the insurance investigators work faster,” Nick said.

“Maybe it would save us all time and aggravation if you just cut a check for the amount owed to Troy and me now.”

Nick’s eyes narrowed in frustration. “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Oh come on. Surely you get that much on print royalties alone.” Bradley brushed a raindrop off his sleeve.

Peter’s patience for this pompous jackass came to an abrupt end. “So I guess you must be hurting pretty badly for cash, huh, Bradley?”

At this comment, both Nick and Bradley turned to stare at him, but for different reasons. Nick seemed genuinely surprised, with just the beginning of amusement lighting his face. Bradley looked like he’d been given a cold jelly enema.

“I beg your pardon?” Bradley actually spluttered, an action that Peter had previously never seen anyone reduced to.

“Anybody who knows anything about insurance companies would know that Nick wouldn’t have the money yet. You don’t look like a guy who knows nothing of insurance, so you clearly knew when you were driving up here that Nick wouldn’t have the payment yet. You would have known it starting out. So why come up here?”

“To make sure—” Bradley began, but Peter cut him off.

“That was a rhetorical question. I already know why you came up here. To squeeze some money out of a guy who’s young enough to be your son.”

“I’m well aware of Mr. Olson’s age,” Bradley replied frostily.

“So why are you so strapped for cash? Software business in the toilet again, or did you just spend all your savings on hookers and blow?” Peter didn’t really think that Bradley was a hookers-and-blow sort of guy, but he’d learned through countless hostile and semihostile interviews that throwing out a fatuous accusation often reaped rewards.

“I don’t need cash. But as long as we’re all being offensively honest, I am looking out for my and my brother’s financial interests because I don’t trust Mr. Olson at all.” Bradley stated this coldly, as if Nick had forced Walter into homosexuality by trickery.

Peter regarded him narrowly. “I don’t buy it. You came here to pressure Nick into cutting you a check. You hate him, so you must need money bad.”

“It doesn’t matter why or if Bradley needs money. The fact is I don’t have it,” Nick said, finally relaxed enough to lean against the wall, hands in pockets, scruffy as a model in a cologne ad. “Bradley, I don’t know why you think that your father’s art is earning millions in print rights, but you are truly mistaken. I promise that I will send you what is due you just as soon as I have it. In the meantime, I’d like to get back to my guest.”

Nick gestured toward the door.

Bradley went without another word, too mortified or too angered by Peter’s provocations to speak. At first, Peter thought Nick angry with him as well, but as the door closed, he pulled Peter to him and pressed a whiskery kiss into Peter’s cheek.

“You’re really something,” he whispered. “You just go for the jugular right away, every time.”

“I can’t help it,” Peter said. “Mom says I was born without tact. Are you mad?”

Nick laughed softly. “Not at all. Just amazed, that’s all.”

From the kitchen came Evangeline’s voice calling, “If you guys are done with your big family scene out there, I was wondering if you could come back and tell me all the details. I couldn’t hear anything from here.”