Worthy of His Hire

Mr. Hargreaves nodded thoughtfully and gazed at the ground. He was deep in conversation with Elwood, of Elwood and Sons, LLC, the contractor in charge of a new job. Anyone observing Hargreaves would think he was listening carefully to instructions, but wasn’t sure whether he liked them or not.

Elwood didn’t have any sons, unless you counted his two cats, neither of which by all accounts, had any construction skills, regardless of their dainty personal habits and use of indoor sandboxes. He liked the sound of the “and Sons”, though, thinking correctly that it gave his business a multi generational respectability and stability, although the cats didn’t expect to inherit very much from Papa, who, albeit generous with them, was parsimonious to a fault.

Elwood had the names and numbers of every subcontractor in town, and some from out of town, jotted carefully in a little black book, and Hargreaves’ name was in it accompanied by five stars. Some names were crossed out, but new names added in their place. His current project was nearing completion and a few residents had already bought homes and moved in. There just remained a few touches, such as several fireplaces not having been installed by a previous subcontractor. That fellow had walked out on Elwood with nary a word of warning to Elwood, or a meow of warning to his sons.

In the weeks that followed, Hargreaves and his crew worked prodigiously building the remaining fireplaces in Elwood’s development. A month after they had finished the job, Hargreaves received an urgent call at home. The weather had turned chilly and he was enjoying a day off keeping warm with beer and football. He intuited the urgency of the phone call because the phone said it was Elwood and Elwood had not returned any of his calls in the preceding weeks. It must be important.

It was. Elwood was beside himself, which made him almost incoherent. Hargreaves understood the basics of his complaint, though: the fireplaces constructed by Hargreaves and his crew in Elwood’s new houses were defective. A person could build a fire in them like an Eagle Scout, but keeping warm by that fire was harder than figuring out a Rubik’s cube while ice skating. The houses invariably filled with smoke and the residents forced to hurriedly open windows to release rolling clouds of thick black vapor.

Hargreaves was cheerily sympathetic as he listened to Elwood, and interjected a sound now and then to show he was listening. He didn’t understand, he told Elwood. The fireplaces had been built to his usual high standards by a crew he knew and trusted.

Indeed, each fireplace was everything a fireplace should be; a speedy entrance for Santa to slide down and perform his yearly duties in the living room; an organic heating appliance with a mantle (not too many things in houses have mantles), which is a dandy spot for perching family pictures in silver frames and ormolu clocks that chimed every hour, on the hour; a place to stand and warm your backside while you pontificated on current events—one foot resting nattily on the hearth—allowing you to smile warmly upon your audience, who, quite likely, was gazing dreamily into the fire and listening not a whit. Elwood’s sons certainly enjoyed stretching out on the floor in front of one when it was being used for the purpose it was intended.

Yes, these were wonderful fireplaces. Elwood’s crew could see the sky when they poked their heads into the brick-lined caves and craned their necks to look up and see what was blocking the chimney stack. They had done that with every Hargreaves fireplace, and had seen nothing but sky. Elwood was livid with anger. He had hired the best subcontractors he could find for this job, the same ones he’d heard about from other contractors and memorialized in his little black book. Ergo, he had phoned Hargreaves to read him the riot act.

“Hargreaves, those fireplaces you built in Il Bel Fuoco are not right! No one can figure out what’s wrong with them. Firewood can be laid, wood can be lit, fires burn up, but the houses fill with smoke! I’m getting sued right and left!”

“Elwood, now take it easy. There must be some mistake here. Are you sure the flues were open?”

“Of course I’m sure! I had the project boss test each one! Are you going to get over here to fix these?”

“Of course. I don’t mind meeting you right now at the first house. Be sure to bring cash. I need to pay my workers. They did some fine work on those chimneys. Fine work.”

“Bring cash? You didn’t build them right in the first place! You’ll get nothing. Now get over here and start fixing them!”

“Not on your tintype, Elwood. Cash, or no deal. You haven’t paid me yet anyway, remember?”

What Elwood continued to say for the next few minutes will go undocumented. Hargreaves had put the phone down and gone to the kitchen for a fresh beer. He missed the rest of whatever memorable thing Elwood said next. Finally, he picked up the phone.

“Well?” he asked.

“Alright, alright. Get over here and I’ll have your cash in hand.”

“That’s the ticket. I’ll be there shortly.”

Hargreaves showed up at Il Bel Fuoco an hour later—at 2317 Smokey Road, to be exact—pulling up in front of a beautiful, new, ranch home that had the added attraction of a fireplace. Not surprisingly, there was no curl of smoke coming from the chimney. He parked his truck, shut it off, tugged his hat brim down, and got out.

Lest anyone think Hargreaves is a bum with a bad work ethic, it should be noted that he had a little black book, too. In it he kept many items of note: projects he’d worked on, contractors’ names and numbers, laborers he trusted and hired, all kinds of work related items. Those notes included the amounts owed to all his subcontractor friends who had done work for Elwood in the past and had never been paid for their labors. Hargreaves had no intention of being one of them.

“Good morning, Elwood,” he said to the red-faced man standing there on the sidewalk, arms crossed. “Got my cash?”

“Here,” was the ungracious response from Elwood. “I have $20,000 in cash for you, above and beyond what you’re owed. More than you deserve, certainly, but those chimneys need fixing, ASAP.”

“Great,” Hargreaves replied, counting the roll of bills in a casual manner. “I can pay my people and myself and have some left over for beer. Got change for this thousand?”

“Never mind your beer!” thundered Elwood. “What’s the matter with the fireplaces and what are you going to do to fix them?”

Hargreaves walked to his truck and picked up a brick from the back of it.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Elwood. “Give a brick to one of your crew and have them climb on the roofs and drop it down the chimney. You can keep that one. I have more at home.”

Elwood gazed at the brick in disbelief. “Are you crazy? What’s that supposed to do?”

Hargreaves hopped in his truck and turned the engine over. He leaned out the driver’s window and grinned at Elwood. “I had my crew cement a pane of glass in the middle of each chimney. Once they break the panes with the bricks, the smoke will draw and the fireplaces will work fine. I knew your reputation, Elwood. You don’t like to pay people who work for you. I’m the opposite. I like to pay my crews. Have a nice day, Elwood.”

With a chirp of tires, Hargreaves turned his truck around and drove through Il Bel Fuoco’s imposing gates. It’d be good to get back home. He hadn’t even missed much of the game.