Эд Макбейн - Strangers When We Meet

“My brother changed his name,” Di Labbia said. “From honest Mike Di Labbia to meaningless Mike Libby. My name is still Di Labbia, and it’ll always be Di Labbia, and I’m proud of the fact that I’m a Wop.”

Then why do you derogatively call yourself a Wop, Altar wondered.

“When I first came into this area,” Di Labbia went on, “the people here had a stereotype of what Italians should be. A Wop was the man who came to clean out the overflowing septic tank. He had dirt under his fingernails, and all he did was eat starchy foods, propagate, and add a gratuitous vowel to the end of every word. I taught the people here a new kind of Wop. I gave them quality. Do you see what I’m driving at?”

“No, I don’t,” Larry said frankly.

He had been strangely quiet, and Altar watched him now, disturbed by his lack of enthusiasm. He had met with the same indifferent acceptance when he’d told Larry how much he liked the new sketches. He could not quite understand it. For if Di Labbia were laughing secretly at a vast comedy, Larry Cole seemed to be brooding secretly about a universal truth. Or was the preoccupation only feigned? Was the withdrawal phony, or did Larry really have something important and profound on his mind, something more pertinent than a silly house for a silly writer?

Altar didn’t know. He knew only that Larry, who had never shown very much of himself, was now presenting only a thin surface veneer, a falsely interested eye, a falsely attentive ear.

He should not have expected more from Larry. His ten per cent was buying an architect, not a friend, and he honestly didn’t know if he even wanted Larry for a friend. But the building of this house was an important thing to Altar, an achievement he could not have accurately described if he’d tried, and he hated his own enthusiasm to be dampened by an uninterested architect.

“I beg your pardon,” Di Labbia said.

“I said I don’t know what you’re driving at,” Larry answered.

There was not harshness in his voice; Altar could not claim that. But there was a cold indifference, a feeling that Di Labbia didn’t count at all to this young man who sat opposite him at the table. Sitting in the rustic inn, Larry Cole had become a hardheaded businessman intent on closing a deal and closing it fast. And Altar wondered which school of architecture had taught him to appraise a deal so ruthlessly.

“I’m only saying this,” Di Labbia said, quirking his eyebrows, smiling secretly. “Every house I build up here is my house. Mine.” He squinted his eyes heroically.

Larry didn’t seem frightened or even mildly impressed. Like a savage listening to the hellfire threats of a visiting missionary, Larry sat with calm calculation in his eyes.

“I give quality,” Di Labbia said. “When I build a house, it’s mine, and you get a dollar and two cents of value for every dollar you spend. That’s what makes it a Di Labbia house.”

“I should imagine you’d lose money that way,” Larry said dryly.

“I’m doing fine, thanks,” Di Labbia answered, suddenly defensive. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not,” Larry assured him. “What did you mean when you said your house?”

“ My house,” Di Labbia repeated. “How much simpler can I state it? I build it, it’s my house. Mr. Altar is moving into our community. A year from now, you’ve vanished into the woodwork. If the house is no good, does he come screaming to you? No, sir. It’s me he calls. So it’s my house. I stand behind it.”

The guarantee did not seem to impress Larry. “Your bid is very low, Mr. Di Labbia,” he said. “I think you’ll lose money on this house if you stick to your bid.”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Unfortunately, I have to worry about it, too. Understand me, Mr. Di Labbia. If you want to lose money, that’s your business. But I don’t want my client slapped with an ‘extra’ every time he blows his nose. If you plan on killing us with extras, I can take a higher bid from a competitive contractor and wind up cheaper in the long run.”

“I don’t plan on killing anybody with extras,” Di Labbia said. “My bid stands.”

“And I tell you honestly that it’s too low.”

“And I tell you that I’ll build it for what I bid.”

“You’ve seen the heating layout? And the electrical scheme? And the amount of Thermopane? And the special-order glass doors?”

“I’ve seen them.”

“Your bid still stands?”

“It does.”

“You know, of course, that I’ll be up here once a week to inspect the job. If I see something being done contrary to my plans or specs, you’ll have to rip it out and do it over again.”

“I’ve worked with architects before,” Di Labbia said.

“Then you must know,” Larry said flatly, “that an architect considers the house his , and not the builder’s.”

“You’ll be satisfied,” Di Labbia said.

“Not if you suddenly decide something in the plans doesn’t agree with your aesthetic taste. Not if you decide this house is yours .”

“I had the impression this was my house,” Altar said.

“That’s just my point,” Di Labbia said. “This is the man who’ll live in it. He’ll be satisfied.”

“Mr. Di Labbia,” Larry said, “an architect’s job is to protect his client against being satisfied too easily. It’s also to see that the house he designed is built as he designed it. I have every respect for your reputation and your honesty. But I consider you a bugler playing Taps, and that’s all. The materials you work with are your bugle, but I wrote Taps, and I want it played the way I wrote it. I don’t want you to ad lib your way through it.”

“I don’t need parables, Mr. Cole.”

“I’m stating a simple fact. In this act of creation we are about to commit, there’s room for only one creator. Me.”

“I understand. But there are bad buglers and good buglers.”

“Sure. And in this act of commerce we’re about to commit, I’m telling you now, flatly and honestly, that if you stick to your bid and build this house under my supervision according to my plans and specs, you’ll lose money.”

“I’ll take that chance.”

“Why?” Larry asked.

“I’m a Wop,” Di Labbia said. “I started by digging ditches. I don’t dig them any more. I build houses. I build damn fine houses, and I’m proud of each and every one of them. I’m not a successful writer or a creative architect, but I think I’m accomplishing something. I like this community and I’m helping to build it. I build houses and I build roads and I build stores, and that’s something to me. I’m a builder . Frank Di Labbia, Builder. That’s what it says on my stationery. Builder, not contractor. And maybe you think I’m only a bugler, Mr. Cole, but without the bugler you don’t get your goddamn song played, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“Okay,” Larry said.

“Okay. I’ll build this house the way you designed it, but it’ll still be my house because my hands are putting it up. And if you’ve got any kicks about how it’s being built, you just let me know. Maybe a contractor wouldn’t worry about it, but a builder does. And I’m a builder .”

“When you find out how much money you’re losing, don’t weep,” Larry said, grinning.

“I never weep except in church,” Di Labbia answered.

“I think you can build the house.”

“I know I can.”

“Then we’ve got a deal.”

“Good.”

“Provided Mr. Altar agrees.”

“I agree,” Altar said, somewhat bewildered.

“Good,” Di Labbia repeated. “Let’s drink to it, shall we?”