My father had been fixing pools for twenty-nine years.

At sixty-one, he could diagnose a failing pump by sound, read water chemistry almost instinctively, and notice problems other technicians missed. He wasn’t flashy. He drove an old Ford F-150, kept his tools organized, and wrote everything in the same spiral notebook.

When my boss, Richard Emory, needed his neglected gunite pool repaired, he hired my father.

Nine days later, the job was finished.

The pump was replaced. Damaged pipes were repaired. New filtration had been installed, and the water was crystal clear.

Richard had signed everything.

Then his wife refused to pay.

She offered my father $3,000 instead of the $7,800 they owed and reminded him that her husband employed me.

My father didn’t argue.

“I’ll handle it,” he told me.

Two days later, he called.

“Come to Richard’s house immediately.”

When I arrived, two police cars were outside.

My father was standing beside an elderly woman.

And Richard was arguing with the officers.