Page 96 of Big Britches
“You use people. You take advantage of those less fortunate for your own personal gain.” Titus gestured to Silas. “Or those too stupid to know it.”
“Now, hold on–” Silas said, but Mason silenced him with a hand.
“Those are mighty strong accusations, Titus. On what grounds do you base them?”
“I’m not here to answer you, Mason.”
“Then I’ll answer for you. Silas fired your friend–Pedro, is it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “–because he violated worker-client relations. Seems reasonable to me. Can’t have the workforce out there balling the clientele. Bad for business, you know?”
“If that were true, we would have accepted it and moved on. But no–” Titus said, confused as to why he was suddenly justifying himself to Mason. He pointed at Silas. “Dickhead here decided he was going to frame P and get him deported. Something he’s apparently been doing to others for quite some time.”
“I see. You’re upset because you feel Silas used your friend. That’s funny. Ironic too, when word around town is you’re the one who’s using him.”
Titus’s train of thought derailed. “Wait. What?”
“Yes, sir. Of course, you wouldn’t have heard that, being holed-up out there on Sun Hill Road. I’ve thought it myself a few times, too–that maybe you’ve been taking advantage of that poor boy for your own gratification, promising him the moon if he does your bidding.”
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe.” Mason's lips curled into a grin with enough malevolence to rival a Disney villain. “But perception is reality… isn’t that what they say?”
Titus glared. It was the first time he’d seen Mason since they’d graduated five years earlier. Physically, he was the same, maybe a little heavier. However, looking into his eyes now, Titus recalled how adept Mason was at manipulation. Violet had only gone out with him twice. Her burgeoning romance with Titus had overlapped, eclipsing Mason entirely. She’d felt horribly guilty about it. When she confessed her love for Titus to Mason, he took it well and they’d agreed to remain friends. Soon after, though, he began stirring notions of doubt, weaving casual insinuations of Titus’s loyalty into their conversations. After two futile confrontations, Titus and she deduced the actual truth–that Mason was sewing seeds of uncertainty in Violet like an evil botanist. They immediately dropped him from their lives, never looking back.
“And isn’t it worse to be using someone personally that way?” Mason continued. “I mean, Silas is simply employing Pedro, paying him an honest wage to do a job. But you’re fucking him, aren’t you? Big, rich, white man, screwing his poor little Mexican gardener.”
Titus’s fists clenched. His face was on fire. Voices filled his head–Pedro, Tuttle, Barb, Roz, but mostly it was Violet–warning him not to give in to the taunts. The urge was there, though, superseding all else–a beast relentlessly thrashing at his back, breathing moist heat down his neck, roaring for release.
“Or maybe it’s the other way around,” Mason said, eyes growing wide with mock-speculation. “Maybe Pedro’s using you. Ever thought about that? Maybe he’s tired of working so hard. Securing a sugar daddy would be an easy fix to all his problems. Of course, a woman–someone he could marry–would’ve made that a helluva lot easier but details.”
Titus was shaking now. He bent over, hugging himself tight, his large frame trembling. Mason watched him intently, both curious and apprehensive—uncertain whether violence or unconsciousness would follow.
“Jesus Christ,” Silas said, standing. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”
But then they heard the chuckles, light at first, melodic, followed soon by deeper, bellowing chortles. Titus’s wide frame was not trembling so much as bouncing rhythmically, quaking with growing guffaws.
“Bitch is laughing at you.”
“Shut up. Silas.”
Titus rose, bright eyes lasering Mason. His grin was equally brilliant. “You’re slick. You almost had me there.”
Mason’s brow furrowed with inquiry. “It was that last part, wasn’t it? Sometimes I don’t know when to stop. Mama says it’s a weakness of mine, that I talk too much.”
“You’re good at it, regardless. I’ve questioned, even doubted myself, a lot since Violet’s passing. But if there’s one thing I do know, it’s Pedro. And the man you’re describing is not him.”
“Doesn’t mean you’re not guilty, Titus.”
“Nope. Not working anymore. Like Elvis, plausibility has left the building. Besides, I’m not here for your mind games, Mason. I’m here for one–” Titus hesitated. “No. Make that two reasons.”
He faced Silas. Silas’s eyes were enormous, frightened. “I knew I should have locked that door,” he said.
“Don’t sweat it, Silas. As tempting as it is, I’m not here to beat you.”
Silas collapsed back into his chair behind the desk. It squeaked and made a farting sound. “Thank Christ.”
“Yeah. You probably should rest, though. You’re gonna be mowing yards yourself soon. When I get done with you, the only client you’ll have left is your bankruptcy attorney.”
Silas stood again. “Now, hold on a minute, Big Britches. You can’t do that. You can’t take a man’s livelihood away. That’s illegal.” He looked at Mason. “That is illegal, isn’t it?”