The Three Little Pigs

Peter stood on the patio near the beer cooler, surveying the small clusters his neighbors had broken into as they waited for the burgers to grill. Sometimes the composition of the little groups surprised him; more often, they did not.

He watched his next-door neighbor, Steve Woodward, shift and fidget on the outskirts of a group of women, anchored to it by his wife’s presence and afraid to simply walk away. Peter might have rescued him, but he decided to let Steve suffer a few more minutes. He owed Steve a little payback for fudging his golf score last weekend, a transgression Steve assumed he had gotten away with.

On the other side of the picnic tables, Peter’s other next-door neighbor, Timothy Hayes, engaged in his favorite pastime: being the hip, young, earth-friendly, out-of-the-closet gay man. A walking conversation piece with long, blonde hair and a hemp wardrobe, Timothy was the darling of the neighborhood’s younger generation, and even of the more progressive older women. The older men wanted nothing to do with him, except to mutter off-color jokes about him when their wives were out of earshot.

All right, Steve’s penance was up. Peter pretended to have just noticed him tilting his beer bottle up to drain it, and called his name. When Steve looked at him, he held up a fresh bottle and waggled it, beckoning with this other hand.

Steve darted toward him like a trained dog. “Thank you,” he breathed, accepting the fresh drink. “I couldn’t have taken another second with those nattering hens and their neverending gossip.”

“My pleasure.” Peter let a smile flicker across his lips. “I need to chat with you and Timothy.”

Popping the top on his bottle, Steve grinned. “I can get him over here in thirty seconds,” he said. “Watch.” With deliberate grandiosity, he held his old bottle over the trash bin for a moment, then let it fall in.

Even from a distance, Peter could see Timothy’s eyes widen. Sure enough, he made his excuses and left his admirers to come toward them.

“Dude,” Timothy said, sending a look of mock sternness Steve’s way. “We have a recycling--”

He broke off as Steve laughed and shoved his watch in Peter’s face. “Twenty-two seconds,” Steve bragged. “You’re getting faster, Tim.”

“Ah, you guys...” Making a face, Timothy fished the bottle out of the trash and dropped it into the recycling barrel. “What do you want, man?” he asked, his casual tone only thinly covering his bruised ego.

Peter jerked his head to one side as invitation to follow him. “Come inside for a moment.”

As long as Steve had lived next door to Peter – going on twelve years now – Steve had been inside Peter’s house only a handful of times. He still entered it with the tension of a kid being allowed a rare glimpse of his grandmother’s formal parlor. Peter had caught him, more than once, walking around with his hands clasped behind his back as if reminding himself not to touch anything.

“Nice place, man,” Timothy commented, his voice hollow with admiration.

“Thank you.” Peter led them to his study and gestured toward a seating area, a sofa and two chairs in rich leather, inviting them to sit down.

“Is this real?” Timothy asked, eying the furniture with concern.

“Of course not,” Peter replied, his voice smooth. “Very high quality artificial.” He watched Steve smirk, but kept his own face carefully clear.

Timothy sprawled in one corner of the couch; Steve tried to be a bit more civilized as he claimed one of the armchairs. Peter sat down in the other one, sinking into it and crossing his legs in one, elegant motion. For a moment, he contemplated his drink, then reached for a coaster and set it on the coffee table. “Have either of you heard from a Mr. Connor Wolfe?”

Steve made a grunting sound as Timothy tossed his head back and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yes,” Timothy said. “Mr. Wolfe paid me a visit yesterday afternoon. Why, is he hassling you, too?”

Peter regarded Timothy, who stared back for a moment before lowering his eyes. Interesting. “He has been rather insistent,” Peter finally said.

“What do you think?” Steve asked. “I mean, I have no intentions of selling, but he seems pretty determined.”

Peter nodded agreement. “He is quite determined. And he has every reason to be; our land is prime real estate, now that more people are starting to move out this far.”

Timothy straightened, surprise widening his blue eyes. “You’re not thinking of selling, are you? Not this great old place.”

Peter’s mouth quirked upward. “Not this place, indeed. The mere fact that he would consider tearing it down for a strip mall tells me everything I need to know about him. No, I won’t be doing business with Mr. Wolfe.”

“Then it’s settled, I guess,” Steve said, looking at each man in turn. “If none of us sell, the property is worthless. He needs the street side and the corner, and that’s us.”

Peter nodded again, but his dark eyes seemed distant. “He’ll keep at it, I think. We haven’t seen the last of him.”

Timothy snorted. “He has to give up, eventually. What’s he going to do, huff and puff and blow our houses down?”

Steve laughed at that. Peter didn’t.