He gives me a look. “You’re not asking why I was inside because you’re being polite. But you gotta wonder, too, being up here alone with me. Knowing why I went to prison would be helpful.”
“Were you in for anything that would make me hightail it back down those stairs?”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m good.”
He nods, leans over and takes out another Coke. He passes me a second orange soda without asking, and we crack them open together.
He takes a slug of his Coke. “The answer to ‘where I learned a trade’ is ‘in prison,’ which is why I hesitated to answer. I wasn’t going to keep it a secret, but I hoped to bring it up myself.”
“Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” he says, swinging his bottle my way. “Yes, I learned aviation mechanics inside. Prison can give you job skills, but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to hire you later. I ended up apprenticing for an auto mechanic in Tampa, and then my folks helped me buy this place where I don’t have a boss to give me side-eye for having a record.”
“Good plan.”
“Not the original plan, though. That was a college degree in accounting.”
He goes quiet. I glance over with a smile and say, “Ah, so you’re the guy who does the taxes as advertised on the shop door.”
“I am,” he says, carefully, and he’s watching me, as if expecting something.
I arch my brows. “What?”
“This is the point where you laugh, certain I’m joking about the accounting, and then it gets really awkward when you realize I’m serious.”
“Well, I’m glad we skipped that part.” I nibble the salt off a pretzel. “Awkward is so awkward.”
A snorted laugh. “So you’re not going to tell me I don’t look like an accountant?”
“Pretty sure if I did, it’d be a compliment.” I glance over. “You going to tell me I don’t look like a construction worker?”
“Construction, no. Carpentry? I can see that.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A carpenter has a more refined look. More creative.”
I roll my eyes, and I almost make a comment about remembering how much he liked math before I shove the pretzel in my mouth to stifle it. Then I say instead, “What happened to the accounting?”
“Turns out I have a creative side myself. At least when I need money. Second year of college, a few guys I knew from high school asked me for advice on how to clean up proceeds from a criminal enterprise.”
“Money laundering.”
“Yep, and the stupid thing is I didn’t understand that what I was doing was illegal. I didn’t steal the money. I didn’t touch the money. I just investigated options and advised a course of action in return for a fee.”
He rolls his head my way. “I insisted that the fee be paid from legit money. I actually thought that kept my hands clean.”
“Doesn’t work that way, huh?”
“Apparently not. I made enough to pay off my college debt, and I was in my final year when the cops came calling. Felony charge. I’d helped launder over a hundred grand, which is first degree, meaning I was looking at up to thirty years.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yep. I pled out. Got third degree and three years. Paroled as early as possible—I was a very good boy—but that was still two years in prison. No hope of an accounting job with that on my record.”
“So you didn’t finish your degree?”
He smiles my way. “Actually, I did. So I am a college-educated man, with a degree I can’t use. Still have it framed on my wall. First Lowe to go to college. Not the first to go to jail, though.”
I lift my hand for a high five, and he slaps it with a laugh. We chat a bit more; then, I realize the time, and we arrange to work on the window at the house tomorrow.