Now, at nine o’clock, the kitchen table was covered in the paperwork Harold had pulled from his desk.
The yellow copy of the contract was thin as onionskin.
I adjusted my seat and read the lines under the bare light bulb.
At the top, the header read Vance Construction Services, with a post office box in Toledo.
The price for three rolls of asphalt shingles and ten feet of flashing was listed as fifteen thousand dollars.
I searched the bottom of the page where the contractor registration number should have been.
The space was blank.
A state registration required ten digits starting with an regional prefix.
My fingers traced the carbon ink where Harold had signed his name.
I pulled my county directory from the drawer under the phone.
The state licensing board number was listed on page twelve.
I wrote the number down on a scrap of cardboard from a cereal box.
Tomorrow, I would have to use the shop phone during my break.
But looking closer at the yellow page, I noticed a tiny line of print at the very bottom.
It said that all disputes must be settled by cash payment within seven days of completion.
No legitimate contractor in Ohio used a clause like that.
I checked the date of the signature.
It was signed on the fourteenth of October, just three days before Harold lost his wallet.
The timeline fit.
Vance had pressured him right before the money was withdrawn.
I turned the page over to see if there was any warranty information.
The back of the sheet was completely blank, gray and rough.
A breeze from the hallway made the paper flutter against the table.
I set a heavy glass of water on the corner to keep it still.
My eyes ached from the small print, but I could not stop reading.
There were three other documents in the folder.
One was a handwritten receipt for a five hundred dollar deposit.
The signature on the receipt did not match the name Vance.
It was just a scribble of initials.
I wrote that detail down on my cardboard scrap.
The clock in the hall struck ten, and the children did not stir.
I needed to be at the shop by seven.
I looked at the window, where my reflection stood against the dark yard.
There was a small grease stain on my cuff from the afternoon.
I rubbed my left wrist where my watch used to be.
We had eighteen days left before the utility company would shut off our power.
But right now, Harold was facing a thief with a clipboard.
I folded the yellow paper and put it back in the brown folder.
The cardboard scrap with the phone number went into my shirt pocket.
I turned off the kitchen light and walked down the short hall to the bedroom.
The triplets were sleeping in their bunk beds, their breathing steady and deep.
Emma had her thumb in her mouth, her hair messy across the pillow.
Noah was curled up with his blanket pulled to his chin.
Liam had his green dinosaur tucked under his arm.
I adjusted their sheets and stood in the doorway for a minute.
They did not know about Vance or the fifteen thousand dollars.
The radiator on the Buick was still hot when the whistle blew at noon.
Art, the shop owner, was scraping grease off the workbench with an old putty knife.
“Can I use the desk phone for a long distance call?” I asked.
Art did not look up from the bench. “The one in the office?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is for Harold Lawson.”
He wiped his hands on a blue rag and pointed with his thumb toward the small wooden room. “Keep it under five minutes.”
Inside the office, the air smelled of gear oil and old paper.
I dialed the number from the cereal box and waited through four rings.
A woman with a flat voice answered. “Ohio Department of Commerce, Division of Industrial Compliance.”
“I need to check a contractor license,” I said. “For Vance Construction Services.”
“Spell that, please.”
I spelled it out, waiting while she typed.
The keyboard clicked on the other end of the line for twenty seconds.
“There is no active license under that name,” she said.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“We have a registration from four years ago that was suspended for non-payment of fees,” she said. “He is not authorized to pull permits or sign contracts in this state.”
“Does he have any active complaints against him?” I asked.
“I cannot release detailed complaint histories over the phone,” she said. “But the system shows three active investigations in Lucas County.”
“Can you send me a copy of the suspension notice?” I asked.
“I can fax it to you if you have a number,” she said.
I gave her the shop fax number, which was printed on the corner of the desk calendar.
“It will take about ten minutes,” she said.
I thanked her and hung up the receiver.
The plastic was cold against my palm.
I wrote the words Suspended Four Years Ago on the margin of my notepad.
Now I had the name and the status.
Art came into the office to grab a box of cotter pins from the shelf.
“You find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“I did,” I said. “The man who worked on Harold’s roof is not registered.”
Art spat into the wastebasket. “A lot of those guys come through after the first frost.”
“He wants fifteen thousand dollars,” I said.
“That is more than the house is worth,” Art said.
“I know,” I said.
“Do not get yourself mixed up in court business, Evan,” he said. “You have three kids to feed.”
“I am just helping a neighbor,” I said.
He shook his head and went back to the garage.
The fax machine on the filing cabinet began to hum and click.
A white sheet of paper slid out, the black ink smelling of hot toner.
I picked it up and read the official seal at the top.
It was a formal order to cease and desist all construction activity.
I tore the page off the roll and folded it in half.
I slid it into my front pocket alongside my tire pressure gauge.
At three, Officer Roger Cole’s cruiser pulled into the bay.
He needed his front brake pads checked before his evening shift.
I used the floor jack to lift the bumper and took off the passenger wheel.
Roger stood by the fender, his utility belt squeaking as he shifted his weight.
“How is Harold?” he asked.
“He is still shaken up,” I said, setting the lug nuts in a hubcap. “But I found something.”
I handed him the notepad page and the faxed sheet.
Roger adjusted his collar and squinted at my handwriting, then at the official seal. “What is this?”
“The state says Vance has no license,” I said. “He has been suspended for four years.”
“That means he cannot legally enforce that contract,” Roger said.
“It means he is committing fraud,” I said. “He is threatening an old man to get fifteen thousand dollars.”