Page 132 of Something Like Hail

“I see,” Marcello said.There was a pause, in which they heard the distinct sound ofburbling water. “I’m much too busy at the moment. My desk iscovered in invoices and unanswered correspondences.”

Noah dropped his hands, relieved that thefamily had gotten up to leave. “It sounds like you’re boilingpasta.”

“That would be mynoisemaker,” Marcello replied. “Helps keep me calm in thesetroubled times.”

Could he get any weirder? “Why are youworking on the weekend?”

“Why aren’t you?” Marcelloretorted. “I really must go.”

“Wait,” Harold said,picking the phone up to hold it near. “Isn’t it time for our yearlyevaluations?”

“Noah already hadhis.”

“But I haven’t.”

“You’re doing great,”Marcello said hurriedly. “Five stars. Areas of improvement? In thefuture, try not to harass your employer so much, particularly inregard to telephone calls. Goodbye!”

They heard the sloshing of water, then mutedswearing and something that sounded like “Damned prunes!” beforethe call finally ended.

Noah looked at Harold. “I’m lost. You?”

“Nope, I’ve got himpegged.” Harold’s eyes darted up from his phone. “Not like that.”He poked at the screen a few more times, grinned, and held it upfor Noah to see. “Busted!”

The screen showed a map, a little icon withMarcello’s image pointing to a location, but it wasn’t the studiohe owned and worked at. Instead it was a house in West Lake Hills,one that Noah had visited recently for a charity fundraiser.

“He’s at home?”

Harold nodded in confirmation. “Yup! I knowa hot tub when I hear one. A couple more years at this job and youwill too!” His grin faltered. “Or would have. You’re reallysure?”

“Yeah,” Noahsaid.

“Okay then.” Harold stood.“Let’s go see the man who makes wishes come true!”

Chapter Eighteen

“Pull overhere.”

Noah turned the wheel, bringing the truck tothe side of the road where Harold had indicated he should park.After doing so, he turned his attention to the property outside thewindow. An iron gate blocked the drive to the mansion. Attached tothis and stretching as far as he could see was a brick wall atleast seven feet high.

“How good are you atclimbing?” Harold asked from the passenger seat.

Noah laughed. Then he saw the seriousexpression. “Can’t we just ring the buzzer?”

Harold shook his head. “Marcello is in oneof his moods. He won’t make this easy for us.”

“Then maybe it’s not theright time to bother him.”

“Or,” Harold said, fingersalready gripping the door handle, “maybe he’ll be impressed by ourinitiative.”

“We could at least try thebuzzer first,” Noah said, but it was too late.

Harold got out of the truck, shut the door,and started sizing up the wall. Noah joined him. Up close, the wallappeared even taller. Eight feet? Or nine?

“Give me a boost,” Haroldsaid, rubbing his hands together and rolling his shoulders. “I’llgo first.”

“Then who’s going to giveme a boost?”

“I’ll pull you up afterme.”