Roger looked toward the open bay door where the autumn wind was kicking up dry leaves.
“He is supposed to come back to Harold’s house this Saturday to collect the cash,” I said.
“We can be there,” Roger said.
“If we confront him, he will just run,” I said. “We need him to demand the money first, on paper.”
“A formal invoice,” Roger said, nodding slowly. “Once he hands that over, it is extortion under Ohio law.”
“Can you wait in the kitchen?” I asked.
“I will be there at noon,” Roger said. “With the paperwork.”
He tapped his leather belt.
“Do not tell Harold yet,” he added. “We do not want him looking nervous when Vance arrives.”
I took the old brake pad off the caliper.
The metal was worn down to the rivets, leaving a deep groove in the rotor.
“He is going to try to bully his way in,” I said.
“Let him try,” Roger said. “We will have the state report right there.”
“He told Harold he would take his house,” I said.
“He cannot take a doghouse without a license,” Roger said.
I slid the new pads into the bracket and tightened the bolts.
“We need to make sure he signs a release,” I said. “Otherwise he will just come back when we are not looking.”
“I will bring a standard waiver form from the station,” Roger said.
He looked at his watch.
“I have to get back on patrol,” he said.
I lowered the jack and watched him drive away.
The cruiser’s tail lights disappeared down the gravel road.
I went back to the workbench and cleaned the grease off my fingers.
The faxed paper was still in my pocket, stiff against my side.
The green cottage was dark when I parked my truck by the hedge.
Inside, Harold sat in his armchair with the television off.
He had a blanket over his lap, though the room was warm.
I sat on the low footstool near his knees.
“I talked to the state today, Harold,” I said.
He looked at me, his eyes clouded. “About the roof?”
“Vance does not have a license,” I said. “He has no right to your money.”
Harold reached up and adjusted his shirt collar. “He has that paper I signed.”
“The paper is illegal,” I said. “He is trying to scare you.”
“He said he would take the house, Evan,” Harold whispered. “He said he would put a lien on it.”
“He cannot do that without a court order, and no judge will give him one without a license,” I said.
I pulled the printed report from my jacket pocket.
“We have a plan for Saturday,” I said. “Officer Cole is going to be in the kitchen.”
Harold looked down at his own thin hands. “I do not want trouble.”
“The trouble is already here,” I said. “We are going to finish this, Mr. Lawson, and you will not have to pay him a single dime.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I am sure,” I said. “You just need to let him hand you the bill.”
Harold stared at the floor for a long moment, then nodded.
The room was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
“What if he brings someone with him?” Harold asked.
“Roger will be there,” I said. “He has his uniform on.”
Harold reached over and touched my arm.
His hand felt light, like dry leaves.
“I do not know why you are doing this for me,” he said.
“You would do it for me,” I said.
I walked out to my truck and let the engine warm up.
The headlights caught the peeling green paint on the side of his garage.
Tomorrow was Friday, and the contractor was coming on Saturday.
I folded the licensing board report and slid it into my breast pocket, ready for the confrontation.
The gravel in Harold’s driveway crunched under heavy tires at exactly two o’clock.
Harold sat on the edge of his floral sofa, his fingers twisting the top button of his flannel shirt.
“He is early,” Harold said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
I stood near the hallway that led to the kitchen, my hands deep in my pockets.
Through the front window, I watched a white heavy-duty pickup truck idle in the yard, its chrome grill catching the autumn sun.
The driver’s door swung open, and Vance stepped out, wearing a clean brown canvas jacket and carrying a thick aluminum clipboard.
He did not knock before opening the front door, stepping directly into the small living room with his boots leaving dark, wet leaf stains on Harold’s clean rug.
“Afternoon, Harold,” Vance said, ignoring me entirely as he walked straight toward the sofa.
He unclipped a single sheet of paper and laid it on the wooden coffee table, pointing a blunt finger at the bottom line.
“I have the final invoice right here for the structural timber replacement and emergency weatherproofing,” Vance said.
Harold looked up at the paper, his breathing shallow as his eyes traced the typed numbers at the bottom of the page.
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” Harold said, his voice shaking.
“That is the agreed amount for the work, cash only, just like we discussed on Tuesday,” Vance said, leaning his hands on his knees to get closer to Harold’s face.
“We had a verbal agreement, old man, and my crew spent three days preparing the site for those shingles.”
Harold adjusted his shirt collar again, his eyes moving toward the small brass key sitting on the side table.
“I do not have that kind of cash in the house today, Mr. Vance,” Harold said, his chest rising and falling too fast.
Vance stood up straight, his face hardening as he took a step closer to the sofa.
“We do not want this to go to the county lawyers, Harold, because that fifteen grand will turn into thirty before the month is over,” Vance said.
“They will put a lien on this pretty green cottage, and you will be sitting on the curb before the first snow hits the ground.”
I stepped out from the hallway, my boots clicking against the hardwood edge of the rug.
“The roof was never repaired, Vance,” I said.
Vance spun around on his heel, his jaw tightening as he looked at my greasy work shirt.
“This is between me and my client, mechanic,” Vance said, pointing his pen at my chest.
“You need to walk back to your auto shop before you get yourself into a legal mess you cannot afford to fix.”
I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out the folded document from the state licensing board, holding it between my fingers.
“This contract is worth nothing, and if you come back, the deputy will be waiting,” I said.
Vance let out a dry laugh, his shoulders shaking under his canvas jacket.
“You think a printout from some government website changes a signed estimate?” Vance asked.
I unfolded the report and held it directly in front of his face, close enough that he had to lean back to read it.
“Your contractor license was suspended three years ago for tax fraud and failure to carry worker’s compensation insurance,” I said.
“You do not have an active registration to hammer a single nail in this county, let alone charge fifteen thousand dollars for a blue tarp.”
Vance stared at the official state seal printed at the top of the page, his eyes darting across the lines of text.
“This is an old filing,” Vance said, his voice losing its heavy, confident edge.
“My office handles the paperwork, and we are in the middle of a renewal appeal with the state board.”
“There is no appeal,” I said, pointing to the active status line on the second page of the report.
“It says delinquent, and your name is listed right there under the primary liability clause.”
Vance took a step back, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his aluminum clipboard.
“I will take Harold to small claims court anyway,” Vance said, looking back at Harold on the sofa.
“He signed the estimate, and he owes me for the six bundles of shingles currently sitting in his backyard.”
“Those shingles are rotten from the rain because you left them uncovered on the wet grass,” I said.
“You did not spend a dime on structural timber, and you know it.”
The kitchen door swung open, and Officer Roger Cole stepped into the living room, his boots heavy on the floorboards.
He wore his brown sheriff deputy uniform, and his right hand rested naturally near his leather utility belt.
Vance froze, his eyes moving from Cole’s gold badge to the small front window behind the sofa.
“Afternoon, Vance,” Officer Cole said, his voice slow and deliberate as he stood beside the coffee table.