Page 2 of The Bad Weather Friend

Handy’s office lacked a desk. In addition to the armchairs and attendant side tables, two straight-backed chairs could be pulled into the circle as needed. Classic surfboards hung on one wall, museum lighted, as if they were the equivalent of David Hockney canvases. The centerpiece of the room was an intricately detailed, exquisitely painted, half-life-size model of a McLaren Speedtail standing on a glossy white plinth as large as a double bed. Among other vehicles, Handy owned a Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG, a Porsche 911 Turbo S Cabriolet, a Bentley Mulsanne, a 1967 Shelby GT500CR, and a Corvette Grand Sport. His dream was to own a Speedtail, which went for about two and a half million dollars, but as yet he could afford only the model he’d commissioned from an artist. He was a car guy.

Benny would have been embarrassed to display a half-life-size model of what he coveted the most—whether a McLaren Speedtail or the actress Riley Keough. Such a bold objectification of desire seemed pitiable, pretentious yet childishly needy at the same time. Handy, of course, saw the model McLaren as a proudstatement of his ambition, commitment, and confidence in his business acumen.

As they settled into armchairs, Handy sitting immediately to Benny’s left, the broker said, “Son, I believe you have a bright future, a truly astonishing future, in real estate. I think you’ve got everything it takes. I’m not blowing smoke, not bullshitting you. Hey, you know me, a straight shooter. If I’m not a straight shooter, I’m nothing. And we all know I’m not nothing.”

Benny’s sense that he was in trouble matured into a conviction that his life was about to be turned upside down. He said, “Uh, well.”

Handy made a sweeping gesture toward the wall opposite the array of surfboards, where he had hung a collection of framed photographs of himself with baseball stars, basketball greats, football icons, famous actors, rappers, rock and rollers, gods of golf, and grinning politicians who had gotten away with historic levels of graft, all of whom had used the services of Surfside Realty in multimillion-dollar transactions. “I have so many great friends. I’m connected, wired into the power structure, up with it and down with it, inside where everyone outside wants to be.” He began that speech with a smile and spoke with a lilt. But then he scowled, and a darkness came into his voice. “I don’t like to be pressured. I don’t like to be told what to do.”

Benny tried never to rock the proverbial boat because, in his experience, the boat rocked often enough of its own accord. “I would never tell you what to do,” he assured the broker.

“Here’s the thing, Benny,” Handy said. Then he stared at the sun-splashed day beyond a second-floor window and fell silent.

After maybe half a minute, Benny said, “What thing?”

Brow furrowed with anger, Handy leaned sideways in his chair and said, “I’m a big fish. Maybe I’m not a whale, but I’m a great white shark. Am I not a great white shark?”

“At least. At least a great white.”

Handy screwed up his face as if he would spit, but he didn’t.

He pounded the arm of his chair three times with one fist. “The trouble is, I’ll never be Moby Dick.”

Benny heard himself saying, “Well, maybe that’s not a bad thing, people coming after you with harpoons and all.”

Returning his attention to the blue sky beyond the window, Handy Duroc grew silent again. His face settled into a philosophical grimace, or maybe that was how he had looked on his lifeguard tower when he’d searched the ocean for a drowner. Then he shook himself. “Not being Moby Dick—that isn’t a reference to my schlong.”

“I know.”

“I’m plenty big in that department.”

“Of course,” Benny said and nodded in agreement.

“The thing is, I could one day own a dozen McLaren Speedtails, and I’d for surefeellike a whale. But, damn it, I still wouldn’t be one. There are already people in this world who could buy like a hundred McLarens and a hundred houses to go with them, and still have a lot more money in the bank than I ever will. They’re like the ocean, see, and I’ll never be more than a swimmer with nobody who can save me if I start drowning. And you know why, Catspaw?”

Benny thought for a moment, not because he believed he might be able to answer the question—he didn’t even fully understand it—but because he had noticed that he’d gone from “son” to “Benny” and now to “Catspaw,” which seemed to be a dangeroustrajectory. He was in some kind of trouble, knew not why, and needed to guard his words. He said, “No. Why?”

“Because money is power, and a lot of sick people love power even more—a lot more—than they love money.”

“I see,” Benny said, though he didn’t.

Leaning forward in his chair and to his right, reaching out with one hand and clasping Benny’s knee as if laying claim to it, Handy said, “There’s not much in this world you can trust, Catspaw. But one damn thing you can bet the bank on.”

“What’s that?” Benny asked.

“I don’t give a shit about power over others. I’m just all about money. Give me a mountain of money, and that’s all I want, money and all the cool stuff it can buy. I’ve got my head on straight.”

Deciding it was safe to say “you do,” Benny said it. Then he added, “I’ve always said that about you,” though he’d never said it until now. He wasn’t being obsequious. He was merely confused and worried, saying what he thought might result in getting the hand removed from his knee.

Instead, Handy squeezed his knee and said, “I’m glad that we understand each other.”

Benny looked into those bluer-than-blue eyes and considered saying that the point of this conversation eluded him.

Just then Handy let go of the knee and smiled broadly and breathed a sigh of relief and said, “You’re aces, Catspaw. I’m glad you understand that all this is beyond my control. That makes it so much easier. No need to attend the monthly dirt review, of course. Just clear out your desk, turn in your door key, and you’re free to go. Tina Finestra will take whatever showings you havescheduled, and of course you’ll still receive your commissions on any listings you brought in, when they sell and the escrow closes.”

Handy Duroc sprang to his feet as if concluding this business had relieved him of a great weight and energized him for the day ahead.

Benny didn’t consciously get up from his chair, but seemed rather to be drawn out of it by an updraft created by the taller, bigger, far richer Duroc. “You mean I’m fired?”

---