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I brush a stray hair from her eyes and lower my lips to her forehead. Then I catch myself.
The questions I have her morph into questions I have for myself. Like,what the fuck are you doing?
Yeah. It’s one I’ve been asking myself on repeat since the day I gunned down the Van der Boors.
I need a distraction from the bad decision lying in my bed. So I gently slip out from underneath her and roll her onto her side. She mutters and groans sleepily, then falls back into a pattern of soft snores.
My day starts how it always does when I’m in the Garden. One hundred push-ups, black coffee, then a loop around the grounds with my tool belt in tow.
The Garden is a big place and I’m a busy man. If I’m on a job overseas, I can be gone for weeks at a time, which is why I have a groundskeeper, Carla. She’s a retired Botanist, had a tenure at London’s Kew Gardens for over fifty years, and she knows the Garden better than I do. She comes a few nights a week, assessing the pH and mineral content in soil, recording blooming cycles and growth spurts.
She’s also a mean cook and an avid cleaner, which is why my fridge is always stocked and my living quarters always sparkling.
I do my rounds then check the report Carla left on my desk. She makes one after every visit letting me know what she’s watered and pruned, and anything else worth noting.
As the coffee machine spurts out another Americano, I switch on my burner phone.
Two messages.
One from a withheld number:
I’ve watered the flowers.
That’ll be Sheik Almari telling me my fee for wiping out Bakewell is in my account.
Another from a number I don’t recognize:
Do you have any Chrysanthemums in stock?
Over the rim of my coffee cup, I stare at the number and frown. It’s a Philadelphia area code. Doesn’t ring a bell. But then I don’t bother racking my brain too much, after all, my services are word of mouth. If you don’t know how to contact me, or what to say when you do, it means you have no business doing so.
Leaning against the kitchen counter, I bring the cell to my ear, listening to the number ring.
“Hello?” Comes a gruff voice.
I wait.
There’s a cough, followed by footsteps, then the sound of a door slamming.
“Yes, right. I, uh, would like to know if you have any Chrysanthemums for sale?”
The crack of my knuckles fills the silence.
“What color?”
The answer comes quick and assured. “Red.”
Still, something sounds off.
“Out of stock.”
There’s a hiss down the line. I can practically see the caller pacing, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “Listen, man. I have my own garden, alright? It’s a big fucking garden and I’ve…growna lot of Chrysanthemums here. But for the…newseason, I’m going to need…” he lets out a hiss of air. “A different gardener.”
His weak-ass metaphor rolls around in my head. I guess he’s saying what all my clients say—they want to hire me because they don’t want to get their own hands dirty.
“I’m going to need the name of your garden.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Abruzzo.”
