by Trixie More
“What?”
“Journeyman working on the Third Avenue Bridge. Caught between,” the kid said. Derrick took this to mean the man had been caught between a beam and something else in a rigging accident.
“He OK?” Derrick asked, but if the kid’s hands were shaking, he already knew the answer.
The kid shook his head. “I gotta get these over there,” he gestured to his left.
“I’ll bring this one,” Derrick didn’t let go of the tray, carried it where the kid directed and left. Caught betweens were nasty business. The guy might have lost just a finger, or he might have lost his life. A robot that could ride on an ironworker’s harness and notice motion, alert the wearer or even take action to deflect a beam, what would that look like? His mind worked on the question as he walked, finding the raising gang he and Ben belonged to getting ready to head back up to the deck. He joined them, standing to the side, waiting for a passing beam to come to rest.
“You hear about Crazy Joe?” Nate, an older ironworker, asked as Derrick walked up.
“That the guy caught between?” Derrick asked.
“Yeah,” Nate said. He shook his head. “They say it don’t look good.”
“He’s alive?”
“Yeah, but only from the waist up.”
Derrick winced. “Shit.” Nate nodded.
“He got kids?” Derrick asked.
Nate nodded again. The beam swung into place.
“Let’s get to it,” Derrick said, and they headed up top.
The day wore on, the men around him relaxing as the time passed, Derrick acting like his usual self: quiet, self-contained. At work, other than the occasional curse or shout, he worked diligently, taking pride in getting his job done quickly and correctly. There was peace in just moving from bolt to bolt, walking the beams, building the shit. The work engrossed him, taking him out of his place and time and calling to all of him, his body, his mind. Building skyscrapers gave him something more than building robots did. It combined concentration of mind with demands on his body and put him solidly in a group of men that trusted each other with their lives.
Derrick made his life a cycle of going to the gym and lifting, concentrating on the body only, and working on his robots, using his mind, and then coming to the job to put the two together. In that way, he was complete. If more was needed, he had his grandparents and Sophia, Ben’s company, the projects they did together and the building they owned together. Add an occasional hookup, and his life gave him everything he needed.
At three o’clock it was time to drag up, and Derrick was pretty sure the episode with the general contractor was going to be overlooked by his mates. That was all he needed to know; he wasn’t ever going to leave the union unless they forcibly removed him.
Derrick loaded the rest of his gear into his bag and walked with Ben toward the plywood. Together, they uncovered the hole and climbed down to the ground, immediately heading off to where all the vehicles were parked. Behind him, Steve called out.
“Watch yourself, Moss. You need to be on site and working, not playing with toys. Don’t let me catch you with that on the job again.”
Derrick refused to acknowledge the warning. He heaved the duffel bag into the bed of the Toyota. Ben’s landed beside it with a thunk, just before his friend hauled himself into the passenger seat.
“Wanna try again tomorrow?” Ben asked. Derrick gunned the engine in response, and beside him, Ben laughed.
They rode in companionable silence uptown, crisp fall air flowing in through the open windows, the truck passing under Interstate 95 before Derrick pulled it into a bay at Connelly’s Auto Service, which was owned by Ben’s brother George. On the sidewalk, a heavyset man with a crazy growth of black hair on his arms stared at them avidly for a moment before heading off across the street.
“Man, you ironworkers, are the laziest guys on earth,” George called from underneath a Ford Torino. “What? Do you guys eat lunch and then call it a day?”
Derrick got out of the truck and locked it. He stood on the running board and hauled their duffel bags out of the back. “Who was that?” he asked, but nobody replied. The brothers were busy talkin’ shit.
“Hey, Bro, if you would get your ass out of bed and start your day early like the rest of the men, you’d be done now too,” Ben shot back. “I can’t help it if you’re too stupid to join the union.” Ben nodded in Derrick’s general direction. “Even D’ick here figured it out. He looked at his ol’ man, with that big house, wine cellar, gazillion dollar taxes and figured he’d be better off working union.”
Ben and Derrick had been friends since forever and Ben never tired of mangling Derrick’s name. Ricky and Dick seemed to be his favorites. Derrick sighed and waited for the punchline.
From under the car, the high chime of a wrench dropped on concrete sang out. The oil stained shoes on the feet sticking out from beneath the belly of the vehicle twitched, and George gave a grunt.
“Little Ricky there joined the union because even a bolt stripper like him could tell the difference between his dinner table and ours,” George said. Another grunt echoed in the garage.
Derrick glanced at Ben, raised his eyebrows and tipped his head, basically saying, he’s right.
If he hadn’t had the Connellys during his last year of high school, he might have become a bartender working for his grandfather. And while that wasn’t a bad thing, nothing could compare to the feeling of being out on the steel, high above the city, feeling the wind and the sun. Nothing he knew required that amount of sheer focus and grit. And nothing he’d experienced at home had come close to the feeling of connection his friend’s family gave him. Nothing except being a union man. Or being at Mastrelo’s. Turned out, there were a couple of ways to replace the cold and glittering dining room of his childhood.
“Where he went wrong,” George continued, “was assuming that being a steel monkey is what makes Dad the righteous father he is.” The feet slid out, and George’s T-shirt appeared, followed by his face, black with grease. “Sorry, Dick. Our dad would have been righteous if he’d been picking corn, selling shoes or cutting up brains like your old man. And you went and joined the union for nothing. Lazy ass ironworker.”
Derrick walked over to the Torino, looking down, way down, at George. He put the toe of his boot against the edge of the dolly George was lying on, looked the man in the eye and shoved it back under the car.
Ben laughed. “G, think your wife will feed us tonight?”
George pushed himself back out from under the car, directing his first statement to Derrick, who was leaning against the fender. “Fucker,” he said. He stood and turned to his brother. “There isn’t enough food in the Bronx to fill your empty guts. If you want Debra to cook for you, you better bring the green.”
Ben flashed a look at Derrick. Whatever his friend was going to do, Derrick figured that was his signal to play along.
“Sure thing, G. Little Ricky and I will grab a shower, and head over in an hour.” Ben fished his wallet out and slapped some money into his brother’s open palm. Derrick didn’t miss the way George’s fingers closed quickly over the bills, an uncomfortable look on the mechanic’s face.
“Call Debra,” Derrick said. “Our lazy asses’ll be over there before you get home.” He pushed off from the car. “Keep the green for next time. We’ll hit the butcher’s and bring the steaks with us.”
“And the beer,” George said.
In Derrick’s pocket, his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out, glanced down and smiled. It was a GIF from Sophia—a bear hugging the air, with little hearts floating around. He sent back a smile and put his phone away. He heard Ben’s phone chime. Ben looked at it briefly and shoved it in his pocket.
Leaving George to his work after a few more good-natured put-downs, they pulled down the metal door to the bay and locked it, walking the short block to their shared loft with their duffel bags swinging loosely from their hands, their flat soled boots quiet on the noisy str
eets.
The loft was on the top floor of an old three-story building they’d bought. Boarded up windows sat at street level, giving the whole place a look of disrepair. The men had picked it up for a song when the former business went under. They’d gutted the top floor and undertook two years of intensive work, renovating it into a living area that was modern and exciting. They were both crazy proud of what they’d built.
Derrick opened the side door, to the right was an open doorway into the ground floor area. As soon as they managed to save up some more capital, they’d get started with that floor, working it into something they could rent out to a couple businesses and make some rental income on. For now, it was just a dusty hodgepodge of wood and debris. They walked up to the top floor, opening the big door to their loft, each heading to his own end of what was basically an entire floor of a former warehouse, renovated to have a bedroom, office, and bath at each end. In the shared open space between the two, the industrial feel remained. There was a central kitchen, with no cupboards above counter level to preserve the view, flanked by a living area on one side and workspace on the other side. Ostensibly a dining area, Derrick had usurped it for their robotics. Metal and plastic parts littered the massive worktable. At one end, a computer perched on a standing desk next to a high barstool. Beneath the table, supplies were stuffed into rolling plastic carts. Windows lined the entire wall opposite the entry door.
The men parted, each heading toward opposite ends of the space. As he passed the worktable, Ben stopped.
“Hey.”
“Yeah?” Derrick answered, looking at his friend’s back.
“You think something’s up with George?”
“Yeah.” Just the fact that there was always a bay for him to park in and George no longer had a second man working there was enough to tell Derrick something could be better.
Ben started to move again, and when he spoke, he sounded a little lost. “I’m gonna ask Debra what’s going on.”
Derrick watched his friend disappear into his section of the loft, then he rubbed the back of his neck and headed for his shower.
There’s nothing to ask, he thought. The guy’s business is going under.
Chapter 2
“You should hire someone to help you, Allie Girl.”
Allison rolled her shoulders, trying to shrug away the irritation she felt hearing her father tell her what to do. She’d never needed anyone to help her before, why would she now that she was a twenty-three-year-old business owner? She kept walking, leaving her dad sitting on a chair in her office. Outside, a delivery truck sat, waiting to be unloaded. She went down to the basement and opened up the bulkhead door. The driver would unload, and he’d bring the cases of cans and gallon containers to the door, but that was it. She’d be the one putting all the stuff away, and by away, she meant down the damn stairs into the basement.
“Hey,” she said by way of greeting to the driver. He was a scrawny looking man in his fifties with a sparse ginger beard.
“You the owner here?”
“Yep. I’m Allie. Where do I sign?” He pressed a clipboard into her hand and disappeared into the back of the truck. He came back with a stack of cases of #10 cans of tomatoes, six to a case. She hefted one case to her shoulder and headed down the stairs. Her first order of supplies. She grinned, and the box felt lighter. She was going to get a work out at this job, and she was going to be in business for real, just as soon as the perishables arrived. She felt her nerves. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time. From upstairs, she heard her father call.
“Allie Girl?”
“Yeah, Dad. Be right up. I gotta put away some supplies.”
“Oh. OK.” She heard him heading back to the office, and she felt a surge of love for him. He was her dad, after all, and he was becoming frail, with his white hair, smudged glasses, and newsboy cap. Allison clomped up the stairs to get another case and stopped short, one foot outside the bulkhead, one on the stairs.
He was on the sidewalk, talking to the driver. The too good-looking dart player from the other night, whom she’d started to think of as construction god, if she thought of him, which wasn’t … much, was here, six foot and all the inches of him, wearing those same flat-soled boots. This time his plaid shirt was blue. Her nerves fluttered again. Aware, that was all she could think. Every bit of her body was aware of him. And then her brain kicked in. He had a case balanced on each shoulder and from the look of it, they were her supplies. Did he think this was a delivery for Rose and Angelo? She marched over and interrupted the men.
“Those are mine,” she said.
Construction god stopped speaking and turned his head slowly to look down at her. Seriously sexy. That was her first thought. Seriously taking my shit, was her second.
“You have my stuff there,” she said.
“I thought I’d give you a hand.”
OK, not what she expected. Still, she didn’t need help. She was perfectly capable.
“Well thanks, but I don’t need any,” she said, and to her own ears she sounded snarky. She just didn’t need to owe some guy a free meal. “I’ll take that.”
He glanced at the stack of cases, still by the door. “I can take these down.”
“No, you can’t. I don’t need help, and I don’t recall asking you to come in.”
His coffee dark eyes widened and then narrowed, his nostrils flaring slightly. Allison had pissed him off. Well good. She didn’t need anyone this good-looking distracting her, anyway. She held out her arms, and he lowered a case down to her, his fingers brushing her bare arm as she accepted the cardboard box.
“The other one too,” she commanded. He blinked, his lower lip quirked and some of the air seemed to go out of him. Allie could hardly stop staring at that mouth. There was something compelling about it, as if he had a slight underbite or a wealth of determination. He gently set the other case on top of the one in her arms and stepped back.
“Oof!” Frig that was heavy. Her muscles strained, but she’d be damned if she was going to set the boxes down in front of him. By the time she staggered over to the bulkhead, she was practically bent over double.
“Want another one?” he called from behind her.
“Har-de-har,” she said. “Just don’t be out here when I get back.” She staggered down the steps with her tomato cans and her pride. When she came back outside, she was disappointed to find him gone.
“Good riddance,” she muttered.
“To Derrick?” the driver asked. “You don’t like him?”
“I don’t know him,” she groused. “What else is still in that truck?”
“Some mayo gallons,” his voice floated out from the dim interior. On the street, traffic was bottlenecking as a single lane tried to squeeze around the truck. Horns blared, echoing the small, angry feeling inside her.
“Great. Pass ’em out,” Allison replied.
“Derrick’s a good guy, been helping Angelo out ’most ten years now.”
She glanced over at the bar’s front window. “He’s close to them?” Now the driver just laughed.
“Uh, yeah. You could say that.” He handed her the case of mayonnaise and hopped down from the truck. He pulled the bill out of his back pocket and handed it to her. “You can give me the check on Thursday when I stop back.”
“Mm. OK,” Allison said. She wondered how long it would be before she was actually making money. “Sounds good.” She carried the case inside, made several trips to bring everything else in and pulled the doors shut. Next stop, get something to eat and take her father home. Next door at Angelo’s was the most comfortable place to do that. Would Derrick still be there? She shut the lights in the basement and ran up the stairs.
“Dad? Get ready. I’ve got a few things to finish up, then I want to go next door and get some dinner, then I’ll take you home.” She walked past the office as she spoke, heading for the ladies’ room to wash up.
“Back here?”
“What, Dad?” She turned
around. He was standing in the office doorway, smiling at her like he used to when she was small, a smile full of love.
“After we eat, we’ll come back here?”
She frowned. “After we eat, we can come here before you go home if you need to. Do you want to leave something here?”
A fleeting expression crossed his face, a slight twitch of his eyebrows, a minor wrinkling of his forehead. “Oh, no. I’m good.” He sat obediently and looked at her expectantly. Allison went into the bathroom. What the hell was that about?
Good riddance, Derrick thought as he pushed open the door to the bar. It was the day after the caught between, the day after the general contractor had found him with the bot. Don’t be here when I get back. He and his family would be here long after she was gone. Who did she think she was? Thought she was too good for the neighborhood probably. He glanced down at his boots and realized they were full of dirt. Shaking his head, he stepped back outside to knock the mud off. As he did, he saw her taking the last case into the basement. She was nice looking, dark curly ponytail, ass as round as a ball, long legs even though she wasn’t that tall. Of course, most women looked short to him. Most men too. He heard her boots ring on the metal stairs as she came back up to pull the metal doors shut. Running a catering business alone was no joke. He knew from watching his grandparents, food service was a difficult business. She’d better be tough if she wanted to make it. The hours were gruesomely long at times, and a business like that didn’t come with a set of instructions. Not much of a people person though, he thought, and that made him laugh. He headed back inside, boots clean enough for Grandma Rose. Derrick stopped short when he saw his father sitting at a small table by the front window. What was his father doing here?
“Nobody in New York banged their head today?” Derrick asked.
His father, the brain surgeon, didn’t usually dine at his in-law’s bar. He looked up from the paper he was reading. A Reuben sandwich sat on a plate in front of him, black coffee steaming from a mug. He appeared to be alone. Weird.
