Conflict Of Interest

His dark, wavy hair and six foot frame said it all.  Soft words, a muscular body, Michelangelo' s David. Giovanni made a first impression.  He was just too nice.

An oversize round table, two musty camper chairs and a 1970 tv were soon in Beth's new apartment.  There wasn't anything else but a blow up mattress her children had lent her in there.   It would be a long time until the furniture arrived.

Knowing no one else had a key, Beth spoke with Giovanni.

"Did you drop these off?"

"Yes, you didn't have anything."

"Well, thank you," she said in shock.

That moment would change how she saw him.  He was more than cool.  Always available to the female residents.  Cordial to the male ones. They didn't much like him.  Beth wondered.

He'd disappear for hours.  The property manager often had to reach him by phone.  She knew.  He was rarely home. rarely with his second wife.  Often doing private jobs, often servicing the older clients at the apartment complex where he held a full time handyman job. He'd provide service at $25 an hour.  Beth didn't understand the full meaning of 'servicing.'  Until.

"C'mon, he's the pool boy," Robbie said.

"Everyone knows about him.  Erstwhile mechanic.  Major conflict of interest.  There is no $25 fee schedule.  He charges what he wants.  Depends how you pay up."

Beth became more uneasy.

Pool boy?  No wonder!

The Italian mafia. Owners, management, workers.  All smokers.  Working hard.  Against one another.  Skimming in ways no one would believe.  The Property Manager knew.  She was in on it, too. The owner would be in time. The Property Manager was fired once before the new owners came on.  The new management hired her back.  She stayed in her office.

"Yea, he gives you a cheap price for starters.  Does a few freebies.  If you are cute, you can work it off in trade" said Robbie.

More drama than she cared to be involved. She closed her ears.

He was doing the second floor a neighbor said.  Just then, no tools, on the clock she saw him. Again  Walking out of the apartment of a wealthy seventy-five year old widowed woman.  Eating an apple. More than relaxed.

"Everyone gives him a Christmas present.  A lot of money," the Bostonian octogenarian said with a wink.

Beth remembered the last time he was in her apartment.  He sat down on the sofa.  Leg crossed.  Waiting.  Then she got an exhorbitant bill for a small job.  She figured him out.  the pool boy.

There wouldn't be another time.