EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What's the point? You're right, it's your call. Except I think you forgot I don't work for you, Mrs. Ford. We'll see what Arroyo has to say about this."

  "Fine by me."

  "One more thing: If you ride the Skyjack again, be really careful. Next time, I'll let you fall."

  * * * *

  They avoided each other the rest of the day, which wasn't difficult in the chaos of construction. At five, Arroyo stopped by for his daily update and they adjourned to the office, where Lydia popped her laptop open and quickly brought up the new photographs she'd taken.

  "As you can see, the original ceiling is still intact. It's also nearly four feet higher than the acoustic tiles, giving the room a massively larger look. On television, it will be spectacular. Timeless."

  "It's certainly striking,” Arroyo said drily. “Your opinion, Mr. Shea?"

  Dan hesitated. “No opinion,” he said curtly. “Not my call."

  "I see. Well, to be honest, I'm not sure. Perhaps we can discuss it over dinner, Mrs. Ford? I find a little social time with my employees makes the job go smoother. All work and no play, as they say."

  "Dinner would be lovely,” Lydia said. “Of course, Mr. Shea and I will have to change, we're hardly ready for prime time. Why don't you have your wife join us? Make a real party of it."

  Arroyo eyed her coolly a moment, then shrugged. “Unfortunately, I seem to be running a bit late. Another time, perhaps. As for the ceiling, you're right, it will look very dramatic on camera. Tear down the tiles, Mr. Shea.” And he was gone.

  Lydia was staring at Shea.

  "What?"

  "Know something, Shea? Discussing things over supper isn't a half-bad idea. Except for the part about dressing up. Paddy Ryan's? My treat?"

  * * * *

  They took the booth with a view of the Chapel. Sam brought them coffee, jotted down their orders, and left them to it.

  "Does that happen a lot?” Shea asked. “Clients hitting on you, I mean?"

  "Why? Do you find the idea so incredible?"

  "Of course not. And you handled it well, it's just that ... Look, can we straighten something out? Seems like every time we have a conversation, we end up arguing. I don't know what's wrong, personality clash, miscommunication, whatever. But I don't like it."

  "Nor do I. Maybe it's the generation gap."

  "Nuts to that. It's only nine years, maybe less."

  "What is?"

  "Your famous generation gap, Mrs. Ford. I looked you up on the Internet. Assuming you were eighteen when you graduated from high school, you're nine years older than I am."

  "You've got a lot of nerve!"

  "Thank you."

  "That wasn't a compliment!"

  "It is where I come from, lady. Working construction takes nerve. And if checking out your age was rude, sorry about that. At least I'm working on the problem."

  "What problem?"

  "The reason you and I can't swap three sentences without ticking each other off. Like just now, for instance. Can we get back to that?"

  She looked away a moment, fuming.

  "All right, Mr. Shea,” she said, her eyes locking on to his like gun sights. “I agree we have some issues. But I think they're mostly on your side. So. Exactly what is your problem? With me, I mean."

  "Straight up? You bug me. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's your money. From what I found on the ‘Net about family connections, charity donations, and such, you must be pretty well off."

  "By your standards, that's probably true. So?"

  "So this is a low-rent project. Nobody cares about it but Arroyo and he's only looking to get a big, historic church for peanuts. It's a dirty, dangerous gig. And since you obviously don't have to work for a living, why are you here?"

  "What, you think I'm just playing at this?"

  "Heck no, you're really good at what you do. Good enough that you could probably use your connections to land a lot better job than this one."

  "You're right, I probably could. My turn, Mr. Shea. If you hit the lotto tomorrow, what would you do with the money?"

  "What the hell kind of question is that?"

  "Mine. Answer it, please."

  "You're serious? All right, how much do I win?"

  "Let's say two million."

  "Two? Okay, I've got a sister in Texas, raising three kids on her own. I'd like to help her more than I do. Buy her a house, maybe. And I'd definitely give my guys a raise. My aunt runs a school for handicapped kids—you're shaking your head. What?"

  "So far, you've only mentioned people you'd help. What about you? Wouldn't you like a new house?"

  "Don't need one. I live with my dad when I'm home, which isn't often. My grandfather built our house, felled the logs himself, peeled and set them. I'd like to add on to it someday, but I'll do it myself, by hand. See if I can match his work."

  "So money really doesn't matter to you?"

  "Of course money matters. A lot."

  "But the work matters more. Even if you hit the lotto, you'd keep working, wouldn't you?"

  "Sure. I like what I do."

  "Well, so do I. The only difference is that, since I don't need to work, I try to choose projects that can have an impact. Like this one. With luck, this reclamation won't just save an historic building, it could revitalize the whole area."

  "Fair enough. I guess I can understand that."

  "So when it comes to work and money, we're not so far apart, are we?"

  "Doesn't seem like it. Which brings us to the thing on the Skyjack."

  "Thing?"

  "You know what I'm talking about. When I caught you. The way it felt when I held you."

  "You mean after you hit your head? You were probably groggy. It was only for a few seconds, and even if it felt like ... something, I'm still old enough to be, well, your older sister, anyway."

  "Can we leave the age thing out of this for now?"

  "No, I don't think we can. It's like money. It matters."

  "Not to me. Or at least, not as much as the rest of it."

  "The rest of what?"

  "For openers, I don't want to make a complete ass of myself. If I've misread things and what happened was totally one-sided, just say so and I'm gone."

  "Wow, that's really tempting."

  "What is? Blowing me off?"

  "It would certainly simplify things. But it wouldn't be ... honest. The truth is that you seem like a nice young man—"

  "Skip the young part, okay?"

  "All right, a nice guy, then,” she conceded. “You sort of saved my life and it's been a long time since anyone ... held me in midair. And I liked it. It made me feel ... never mind. Maybe we shouldn't make too much of a three-second tumble."

  "It didn't start then. I think it started the first day, the first time I met you. It just took awhile to register."

  "That doesn't change the way things are. My work is important to me and office romances are bad for business. I don't do flings, Mr. Shea."

  "Neither do I. That's not what this is about."

  "Then what is it about? What do you want from me?"

  "Nothing! Or maybe a lot. I don't know! I mean—damn. I'm not saying this very well, am I?"

  "You're doing fine. In fact, if this is a line, it's a pretty good one."

  "It's not. But—look, I'm not good at this. And it's your turn again anyway. What do you think?"

  "I'm not sure what to think. But this is what I know. The situation's impossible. We're a terrible mismatch, I'm older than you are, we have practically nothing in common, the timing couldn't be worse—why are you smiling?"

  "Because it's familiar. I came up with pretty much the same list. But it doesn't matter."

  "Why not?"

  "Look, I'm not saying this makes any sense, I just know how I feel. How you make me feel. I want this. But if you don't, just say so and I'll back all the way off. Like it never happened. Is that what you want?"

  "I don't know, I just—could you please shut up a minute? I need to t
hink."

  "Maybe I should go—” She glared him back into his seat. “Or I could just sit here and shut up."

  The silence stretched out for roughly a decade. Or felt like it.

  "Okay,” she said, taking a deep breath.

  "Okay?"

  "I think I've got it sorted out. It's just ... chemistry. We don't know each other or have enough in common for it to be anything else. Chemistry. An infatuation. Whatever you want to call it, that's all it is."

  "Chemistry. That's not such a bad thing to have, right?"

  "No. There are worse things than chemistry."

  "So what do we do, Lydia? Forget about it?"

  No answer. She looked away, and for a moment seemed so vulnerable and unsure of herself that he wanted to take her hand, tell her everything would work out. But knew it would be the wrong thing to do. Whether this came to something or nothing was her call. He'd have to live with it either way.... She turned back to him, meeting his eyes. And he had no idea what she'd decided.

  "We should go,” Lydia said.

  * * * *

  Shea paid the check, said goodnight to Sam and Morrie. Lydia took his hand as they stepped out of the cafe into the gathering dusk. Behind them, the lights of Paddy Ryan's flickered out as Sam closed for the night.

  Their cars were parked in the cafe lot, but she led him across the street to the Chapel instead.

  "Back here?” he asked. “Shouldn't we go someplace ... nicer?"

  "Nope. Office romances should begin in the office. It's a rule. Besides, if we're a total disaster, at least I can catch up on some paperwork."

  And he burst out laughing.

  But they weren't a disaster.

  In the darkness of the portal, she turned to him, lifting her face to his, and they kissed. Warily at first, like the strangers they were. But only for a moment. And then they seemed to meld, to flow together, as though they'd kissed a thousand times before. And would again.

  They drew back for a moment, stunned by the depth of their delight. And the power of it. But when they began again, there was no holding back.

  There was nothing remotely romantic about the office, barely room for two on the narrow rollaway. It didn't matter. In the fumbling haste of abandon, blankets on the floor served as well as a bed of roses.

  Their first encounter finished quickly; they'd both been alone too long. The second time continued for hours, or so it seemed, and was far more deeply satisfying.

  And there was a moment in the midst of their fevered fumbling when she lifted his face from her throat, and her eyes met his, and held.

  "I've been waiting for you,” she whispered.

  "I know."

  * * * *

  Something snapped him awake. Wasn't sure what. Realized they were still tangled in the blankets on the floor of the office, their bodies spooned together, still naked, a perfect fit, warm, and very natural.

  "Awake?” she whispered into the nape of his neck.

  "Thought I heard something."

  "An old building, settling. Or the bats. Or ghosts walking, take your pick."

  "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "I've never met one,” she said. “Never met anybody from Uruguay either. Which doesn't mean no one lives there. I have to leave soon."

  "Why?"

  "You know why. If there's any talk about us, I'll lose all credibility. We'll be a job-site joke."

  "I guess you're right. How soon?"

  "Not that soon,” she murmured, snuggling closer. He started to turn, then froze. This time they both heard it clearly, a scraping sound from somewhere overhead. Her nails bit into his shoulder. “What was that?"

  "I don't know,” he said, sitting up, pulling on his jeans. “But I don't think it was somebody from Uruguay."

  Barefoot, shirtless, clutching an unlit flashlight and a length of two-by-four for a weapon, Shea crept up the bell tower's narrow spiral staircase. Slowing near the top, he saw a figure outlined against the starlight through the louvers. He switched on his flashlight.

  The boy whirled. The fireplug teen, one of the basketball players from the lot. Dressed in a black Raiders T-shirt, his black jeans tucked into combat boots. Wearing a cellphone headset, camouflage binoculars slung from his neck.

  "What are you doing up here?” Shea asked.

  "Same as you, my damn job. What you gonna do with that board, white boy? Clock me? I don't think so.” Sweeping his palm across his boot top with a single fluid motion, the kid came up with an Arkansas pigsticker, eight-incher, the blade flickering like heat lightning as he shifted it from hand to hand.

  If Shea was impressed, he managed to conceal it. “So what are you, some kind of a lookout? For what?"

  "The Man, white bread, what you think? You can spot cops soon as they cross the river from up here."

  "Not anymore. This church is a construction zone and you're leavin', sport. Now. We can go a round if you want, and maybe you'll cut me up or I'll bust you up, but it won't change anything. This gig's over. For good."

  "Razor won't think so."

  "It doesn't matter what he thinks. Find another lookout. How'd you get up here, anyway?"

  "Same way I'm goin'.” The kid grinned. Sheathing the blade in his boot, he grabbed a rope, scrambled through the louver, and rappelled down the line to the roof at the rear of the belfry.

  "Razor ain't gonna like this,” the kid yelled up at him as he trotted across the rooftop to a second rope lashed to a vent pipe. “Y'all better finish this place in a hurry. You gon’ need a church for ya funeral!"

  * * * *

  Shea was waiting in Paddy Ryan's parking lot at seven when Sam and Morrie pulled in to open up.

  "Mr. Shea,” Sam said, climbing out of his ageing Mercedes. “You're up early."

  "I need some information, guys. The black dude who gave me static the first day I was in your place? Razor? I need to talk to him."

  "What about?” Sam asked, helping Morrie out of the car, handing him his cane.

  "Keeping his people out of my building. Caught a kid up in the bell tower last night. A lookout."

  "No big surprise. Razor's pretty much the man in this neighborhood."

  "Times are changing."

  "You plan on telling Razor that?"

  "Somebody has to."

  "Look, Mr. Shea, Razor stops by our place most afternoons. How about I give you a call when he shows, you can talk to him here. Might be safer."

  "That's a kind offer, Sam, but you've got a nice cafe. I'd hate to see it get busted up. Just tell me where to find him."

  "I can do a little better than that.” He sighed. “Get in. We'll take you there."

  "Bad idea. There may be trouble. You don't want to be in the middle of it."

  "No offense, Mr. Shea, but me and Morrie were dealin’ with trouble in this ‘hood before you were born. And if you get crossways of Razor, we may be doin’ it after you're gone. Get in."

  * * * *

  "In the old days, this side of Saginaw was like the Wild West. Auto plants right across the river, three, four thousand men every shift. And when those boys got outta work, they were ready to party. Cathouses, dope houses, blind pigs. Every block had ‘em. All organized. The Five Families ran things then. Sicilians. Everybody paid them."

  "Including you?"

  "You bet. Anybody who didn't would just ... disappear. No muss, no fuss. Not like now, with crazy gangbangers shootin’ up the streets. This is the place,” he said, easing the old Benz to the curb. “Most of these boys know me, so let me do the talking, okay?"

  "Sam, I'd rather you didn't—” His voice died as Morrie popped open the glove box and handed Sam a battered Army .45 automatic. Jacking a round in the chamber, Sam shoved the gun under his shirt.

  "Feels like old times,” the old Irishman grinned, climbing out. “Can't afford to lose you, Mr. Shea. You folks are the best customers we've had in years. Wait here, Morrie. Too many steps.” Morrie nodded, but said nothing. As usual.

  Th
e crack house looked ordinary, a run-down three-story tenement backed up to the river. But if you looked closer, the first two floors were completely closed off, windows boarded up, doors reinforced with metal plates. A single outside stairway was the only access to the top floor, and as Shea followed Sam up the steps, he realized the top riser was hinged, held in place by a steel rod that disappeared into the wall. A single tug would drop the flight like the drawbridge to an ancient castle. And anybody on it would plunge thirty feet to the concrete below. Crude, but damned effective.

  Didn't have to knock. A door opened when they reached the top and a giant stepped out on the landing, six-six, probably four hundred pounds, wearing black camouflage. An AK-47 assault rifle cradled in his arms.

  Didn't say a word. Nodded at Sam, patted Shea down for weapons, then waved them by.

  Dark as a saloon inside, all business. Armed man in the shadows of each corner. Desk against one wall, small bar at the other. Razor was behind the bar, arms folded, wearing his black pirate bandanna, wraparound shades despite the dimness of the room.

  "Wanna drink, gents?” he asked. “Might be your last."

  "No drinks, just talk,” Sam said. “Mr. Shea here caught a kid in the Chapel bell tower last night. He could have been hurt up there. It's got to stop."

  "Maybe I should just stop the construction instead. Right now."

  "Wouldn't work. It's a big project, Razor, they'd just send a replacement for Shea and my people would come for you. They know I'm here."

  "Your people.” Razor snorted. “Don't make me laugh. Any hard guys you used to know are either dead or usin’ walkers like Morrie."

  "Not all of us,” Sam said. “I'm still here."

  "Not for long, you keep pushin’ your luck, Sam. But seems to me Shea here is the one with the problem. Considerin’ what happened to the last guy wanted to remodel that church."

  "What are you talking about?” Dan asked.

  "Black Luke,” Sam said.

  "He's right,” Razor continued. “Ol’ Luke had the same big ideas as you. Did you know that? Claimed he was gonna grow the Black Chapel all over that block. But in the end, only ground he needed was a hole, six by two. That's all any man needs, white bread. Even you."

  "C'mon, Razor, you're smarter than this,” Sam pleaded. “Why make problems? Move your boys down a block. The crackheads will still find you. And when Shea finishes those new condos, maybe you'll get some upscale trade."