Page 3 of The Bad Weather Friend

Seeming to find that question amusing, Handy issued a brief, husky laugh. “No, no, no. How could you be? You’re an independent, licensed agent. The agreement between you and Surfside is an at-will contract. Either of us is free to terminate at any time, as we both just did.”

Bewildered, Benny said, “I wasn’t aware I terminated.”

Handy responded to bewilderment with puzzlement. “Huh? But we just ... our little chat ... We understood each other.”

“I didn’t understand any of it,” Benny said.

“I’m not a whale, just a shark,” Handy reminded him. “Remember how I said some people love power more than money? How I don’t give a shit about power? How all I want is money?”

“Yeah, well, but what does that have to do with me?”

Handy stood there with his mouth hanging open. He looked as if he might dispense a can of cola if Benny put enough quarters in his ear. He blinked, blinked, found words, and said, “You’re angry. I was hoping this wouldn’t get ugly.”

“I’m not angry,” Benny assured him.

That was true. Benny never got angry. Not with other people. Not with computers that crashed or pop-up toasters that didn’t pop. If people were mean or stupid, he simply avoided them. If a toaster betrayed his trust, he never again bought anything by thecompany that manufactured it. He believed that life was too short to waste time being enraged or even just peeved; he was aware that this made him an outlier in an age when it seemed a majority of the population was incensed about so many things that enumerating them would result in a list longer than what a greedy child might send to Santa Claus. In fact, even the idea of Santa Claus infuriated some people to the extent that department-store St. Nicks were rarer than they used to be and vulnerable to attack.

“You’re angry,” Handy insisted.

“No. I just want to understand. What did I do? What happened? What’s wrong? Can we straighten this out?”

Handy Duroc’s face was taut with anxiety, as Benny had never seen it before. The broker glanced at the phone that stood on the table beside one of the armchairs, at the closed door, at a window, at the other window, as if he might call for security or escape by throwing himself through a pane of glass into the street below. At last he said, “You didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. Nothing’s wrong. There’s nothing to straighten out.” He shuddered and wiped one hand over his suddenly damp face. “Now you’re going to sue me, aren’t you?”

Perplexed, Benny said, “I’m not going to sue you. It’s an at-will contract, like you said. I don’t have any reason to sue you.”

“People sue people all the time for no good reason.”

“Well, I don’t. I just want to understand. Haven’t we done good work together?”

Handy went to a window and stared across the street for a few seconds, and then moved to the other window for a longer period. When he turned to face Benny, he stepped to one side of the glass, as if he’d seen a sniper with a rifle on a rooftop. “I think you’re a good guy.”

“Well, gee, I think I am, too. I try to be.”

“You’re a hardworking agent.”

“It’s my way up, to have something, be something.”

Handy wasn’t just a broker, he was also a first-rate salesman. He could have sold life insurance to the dead. Benny expected to buy whatever explanation Handy gave for terminating their contract, but he needed to hear it.

Holding his arms out, hands turned up, as though to indicate that he had nothing to offer, Handy said, “I just can’t help you understand. How can I when I don’t understand it myself?”

“You must understand more than I do,” Benny pressed.

“Iknowmore than you do, but I don’t understand a damn thing.”

“So tell me what you know. Maybe it’ll make sense to me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Handy went to the big scale model of the McLaren Speedtail. He slid one hand over its sleek contours. Lovingly.

Benny waited.

“Son ...”

They were back to “son,” but Benny didn’t find that reassuring. After all, his real father had not been either a good husband or a champion of thoughtful parenting.

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