Page 67 of Thug

“Owner, operator.” I smiled innocently. “Is there anything I can do to help expedite this process? Sorry, I’m just excited to have food as an option.”

Clutching his clipboard like he was protecting the Nation’s nuclear launch codes, he peered at a section of shiny new ductwork. “You want my advice?”

My morning’s elation had turned to frustration. The men had put countless hours of hard work into the kitchen, and it showed. It looked like brand new and I was beyond excited to put it to use. Whatever advice he could give to speed up the process would be greatly appreciated.

I nodded eagerly. “Absolutely.”

“Hire a real contractor next time.”

My face flashed hot. How dare he take a holier than thou position and degrade the men who worked so hard to complete the project. The men were licensed, bonded, and insured. Many of them worked for large contracting companies during the day and moonlighted at night.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me?’

He waved his hand in every direction. “They don’t know shit about construction.”

“Aren’t the rules and regulations pretty straightforward?” I asked.

He scoffed. “They sure are. It’s no surprise these thugs you hired can’t follow them.”

I cocked my head and gave him a look of bewilderment. “Thugs?”

“Bikers. Thugs. Criminals. One in the same.”

My blood began to boil. His reluctance to sign off on the work became clear. If the buck stopped with him, I needed to figure out a way to beat him at his own game. “Yeah,” I said, looking around the room aimlessly. “You never know with contractors what you’re going to get.”

He laughed. “I’ll give you a hint for next time. Pretty good clue when they’ve got a tattoo on their neck that they’re a half-wit.”

I pulled my phone from my back pocket. “Mind if I take a few pictures?”

“Suit yourself,” he said.

I acted like I was taking pictures. Instead, I activated the voice recorder. I slipped my phone into my pocket upside down, leaving the microphone exposed.

“You’re telling me if a guy is covered in tattoos that I shouldn’t hire him?” I asked.

Scouring the room for deficiencies, he gave a nod. “That’s right.”

“No way a guy like that can actually know what he’s doing?”

“That’s right.”

“Guys without tattoos are fine?”

He nodded toward the front of the building. “Unless he’s riding one of those ratty choppers like what’s been in parked in your parking lot for the past few weeks. The plumber was riding one, HVAC guy was riding one, the electrician was riding one. Looked like a gang hangout when I pulled in here last week for the underground inspection.”

Although I was ready to kick him in his nuts, I acted oblivious to his remarks. “Bikers don’t make good contractors, either?”

“Not in my book.” He lowered his clipboard and looked at me. “What’d they do, give you a bargain on the work? Trade it for free beer?”

“No,” I said. “They were nice enough to donate their time.”

He choked on a laugh. “You get what you pay for.”

Panzer had explained the kitchen’s deficiencies to me at great length. He also took the time to describe what was being done to resolve them. The knowledge didn’t make me a contractor, but I wasn’t a complete idiot about what had been done, either.

“My understanding is that the ductwork was undersized, the sink’s drainpipes were too short, and the exhaust hood wasn’t big enough to serve the cooktop. Then, there were a few outlets that weren’t the safety type suitable for a kitchen.” I glanced around the room. “We’ve got a new cooktop, new oven, properly sized hood, new exhaust fan, all new sinks and plumbing, and all new outlets. The work either complies with code, or it doesn’t.” I looked at him. “Right?”

He glared for a lingering moment. “Listen, Missy. I’m in charge, understand? Not you. Not those bikers you hired. Me. If I don’t trust the man doing the work, getting my signature doesn’t come easily, and I don’t trust gangbangers.”