by LE Barbant
“Chem, no. I didn’t mean that, it’s just…”
“In fact when I was down in the south, there was this one black, gangsta-looking brother, he loved him some Dixie Chicks. Sure, it was a while ago, but he loved the Dixie Chicks. You don’t get much whiter than that.”
Elijah said, “Hey, man, I’m sorry…”
“Racist.”
Elijah flushed.
“I’m messing with you, man.” Chem laughed. “I mean, I’d have said the same if you popped in a ‘Fight the Power’ CD.”
Elijah looked at him blankly.
“Really? Public Enemy? Def Jam Records? Ringing any bells?”
Elijah grinned. “Does that make me more racist?”
“Probably.” Chem reached for the radio and turned the dial, his normal toothy grin spread across his face. “You had a big crush on Tori Amos, didn’t you?”
Fitting all his earthly possessions into a twelve-foot truck relieved the professor. The life of a young academic wasn’t geared toward laying down roots. Boston had claimed several formative years, but had given him little more than a few mediocre publications and a broken engagement to show for it. The town was only a reminder of fouled relationships and a poisoned vocation. Adjuncting on the circuit burned him out. He was a hired gun with no connection to the hits he was paid so little to carry out. But this move came not only with a sense of closure but with a glimpse at a new beginning.
The tired truck coughed its way out of the Fort Pitt tunnel, and its passengers were greeted by the explosion of the skyline accessorized by its bridges and rivers. Over his thirty-four years, Elijah had lived in many cities, but none had a gateway quite like Pittsburgh’s. His stomach turned over when PPG Place came into site. The soaring tower of glass and steel topped with fairytale spires soured his homecoming, even though he fully expected its effect.
Brooke Alarawn, the CEO of the steel company that had hired him for a research job, turned out to be more complicated than a Facebook relationship status. At the base of Pittsburgh’s iconic glass and steel high-rise their brief affair came to a climactic end. Brooke, transformed into a monster of ice and hate, and Elijah, taking the form of metal and fire, went toe-to-toe, leaving shattered glass and broken dreams in their path.
Chem scanned from country to The Fan, Pittsburgh’s sports talk channel.
“Not this one,” Elijah said. Like most academics, Branton was allergic to sports.
But his aversion to The Fan had more personal origins. It always made him think of Rex, Brooke’s assistant. The man had remained a mystery since the day Elijah laid eyes on him. It only increased on the final night when he engaged Elijah and his friends at the tower. Rex wasn’t just Brooke’s driver, he was a warrior. The man’s involvement in the chaotic events remained veiled in ambiguity, but his complicity was undeniable. What Elijah knew for certain was that Rex was still out there.
Elijah hit scan once more. The radio landed on a local news report as they crossed the Fort Pitt Bridge and exited toward their new place in Homestead.
“…man was found dead this morning in Springdale, just outside the city. Authorities have yet to determine cause of death but sources close to the scene report that it appears as if this is another victim of the so-called ‘monster problem.’”
Elijah turned up the volume as a reporter began interviewing local witnesses.
“‘I saw it with my own two eyes. It was large and glowing, scared my dog nearly to death. It was that same thing that smashed up Mount Washington last winter...”
Elijah glanced over at his driving partner. An uneasy feeling settled in his chest.
“Home sweet home.”
****
The moving truck eased across the Homestead Grays Bridge, an enormous structure that spanned the Monongahela and marked their movement into the town of Homestead. While it was true that Elijah despised sports and the culture it nurtured, he felt a compulsive need to research the history and symbols associated with his new home. In Pittsburgh, that most often meant sports history. Renamed in 2002, the bridge was a memorial to the Homestead Grays. Born of the Homestead steel mills, the Grays was a baseball team banned from the Major League due to the complexion of the majority of the players. The blue-collar sluggers joined the Negro National League and took home the first nine pennants. That was the kind of sports the historian could appreciate.
On the east side of the river, the Waterfront welcomed urban dwellers, suburbanites, and their fat wallets. It offered every chain imaginable from PF Chang’s to a movie theater with La-Z-Boy recliners. Sitting on the old brownfield of one of the largest steel mill sites of ages past, the Waterfront was a memorial to the past and a vision for the future.
Elijah smiled. Brooke came to mind again, and this was precisely the future Pittsburgh she was fighting against.
The academic in him still fell into thinking about places like the Waterfront in abstract terms. He recalled hours fighting with a friend who taught Community Development at one of the small private colleges in the Northeast. “There’s a fine line between urban development and gentrification,” she had said, five times during the course of three drinks. Was it better for Homestead to look like a yuppified complex that existed simultaneously in a hundred other cities all over the nation, or for it to take on a richer, more local (and less economically viable) milieu?
Just up the hill from the middle-class extravaganza was Homestead proper, which had seen better days. The neighborhood struggled to define itself in a post-steel age. Chem and Elijah decided the struggling underdog of a community suited them just fine. They were pleased to be a part of its fight for restoration, and it fit their limited budgets.
Elijah exhaled as the truck moved up West Street, away from the Waterfront. The town became a town again. New hipster bars, with fixed-gear bicycles locked out front, were scattered among old-time BBQ joints. White Presbyterian steeples stood blocks from black AME Zion churches. The multiracial dimension enhanced the appeal for Chem—even if he did listen to country music in the confines of the moving truck.
They turned left onto Tenth, a narrow, beat-up little street, barely wide enough to accommodate their boat of a truck.
“Here it is,” Chem said, with a nod to a house nestled tightly between two others both looking ready for demolition. Diagonally across the street was a green patch of urban park.
“Not much to look at,” Elijah said.
“Well, it’s our lair. And it’s what we can afford on the salaries of an adjunct and a DIY chemist.”
Elijah smiled at the sleepy little street and their dilapidated house. It was 1920s-era construction, with a sagging roof over a small porch. Its brick was dark, a patina from years of standing stubbornly against the soot rising from the stacks at the bottom of the hill.
He could imagine the man of the house dropping down the front steps, lunch pail in hand, heading off for the second shift at the mill.
“This is perfect.”
****
“Tim Ford.” The man in the sleeveless flannel and ripped jeans jut his hand out. “Glad to meet ya. Chem’s told me a lot about you.”
Elijah forced a grin. “Is that right? How much, exactly?”
The man grabbed Elijah’s hand and winked. “A lot. But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. And I expect mine will be with you as well.” He slapped Elijah on the shoulder and stepped toward the truck. “Let’s get this son-of-a-bitch empty, and I’ll buy you a brew. We can swap stories then.”
Tim Ford was everything that Elijah Branton wasn’t. The adjunct watched his new associate carry boxes two at a time, jealous of his energy. A man’s man, his ragged blond hair fell just between a set of high cheekbones and an angular chin. His exposed arms were muscular—but not pretty. They evidenced real world working strength, rather than arms carefully crafted in a $300 a month gym. A dark tattoo, a bow and arrow surrounded by some smaller lettering, embellished his right bicep. Faded scars were emblematic of stories from the man
’s mysterious past. Elijah knew little about Tim. Chem had held his cards close to the vest. The historian could only assume that this man was invited into their small circle of freaks for a good reason. But Tim’s gritty exterior poorly represented his personality. All smiles, the man joked and laughed throughout the move. He worked twice as fast, with vigor unmatched by the two men whose physiques were formed in the library and the lab.
Elijah struggled with a large box of books, weaving past the scattered furniture on the first floor. His room lay right off the kitchen. He moved to deposit the heavy box on the bed when he stumbled across something in his path. A harsh scream met his ears and he caught sight of an orange pile of fur darting from the bedroom.
Willa’s cat, Cat, had obviously made itself at home.
When Elijah had first met the pet, he found it odd that a creature belonging to a poet would have such a prosaic name. But the animal’s name aptly described its personality. Aloof yet needy, lazy and violent, fat but also swift, Cat was a synthesis off all things feline, which meant that it was a paradox and a complete mystery to the historian.
The large animal made Elijah think of its owner, but his reverie was interrupted as Tim pushed through his door and dumped another pair of large boxes on the ground.
“That was the last of ’em. Yinz guys ready for a drink?” Tim asked, with a hint of a Pittsburgh accent.
CHAPTER TWO
“That’s great, brother. But you can’t eat your ideals.”
The crowd at the Park House was scant, even for a weekday afternoon. While the day-to-day traffic varied, Rhett’s habits were like clockwork. Every Thursday for the last two months, he landed in the quiet North Side bar for a pint, a sandwich, and an argument with Paul. On his first few visits, Lenny—the bartender, cook, and host—was friendly but seldom joined in.
Rhett raised his eyebrows at Paul’s response: “If I can’t have my ideals, I don’t want to eat.”
Though thirteen minutes younger, Rhett looked at least a decade older than his twin. A perfect haircut kept his dark waves well above his ears and flawlessly arranged. His business casual attire could land him on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine, and he would sometimes wear a tailored suit for no particular reason. Rhett trusted that there was power in appearances, and that his image was the foundation of his influence.
Rhett imagined that Paul could still pass for an undergraduate. A tattered flannel, most likely third-hand, hung out over cutoff khakis. His black curls were left to their own devices, and having an acute allergy to hairstylists, they now hung nearly to his shoulders.
At birth, the two were identical. Now, without close inspection, it would be hard to tell.
“Industry destroying communities is a great American legacy. Pittsburgh Steel. Niagara’s Love Canal. And now, lead in Flint, Michigan. They say the water here is recovering from the old days, but it’s still over the acceptable amount of mercury in the water. Why in the world does it make sense to give the frackers a pass? It’s an asinine repetition of the same damn story.”
Rhett leaned back and spun a pen across his fingers, his eyes on his brother. The men had been debating the natural gas industry in the Keystone State since they had arrived several months earlier. It was the perfect foil for their perspectives with its economic and environmental ramifications. Rhett could argue either side with finesse and convince anyone with ease. Anyone other than Paul. Rhett saw his brother’s point, as always, but it didn’t matter. Rhett aimed for victory, not higher ground.
“Backyard syndrome,” Rhett said.
“What?”
“Like all the other libs, your concern is solely for yourself.” Rhett sipped on his lager and cleared his throat. “Did you use your heat this winter? Turn on the AC yesterday? Did you drive this year? Everybody wants to consume and then bitch about where their energy comes from. Natural gas will prove to be cleaner, cheaper, and more efficient than coal or oil. It will be locally sourced—keeping employment inside our boundaries and dollars from flying overseas. Fracking is already putting money in the pockets of the farmers selling right of ways across their land.”
“But, Rhett, the fluid. You’ll be drinking it in under a year.”
“Slippery slope. The regulations will develop with the industry, particularly because people like you will be keeping an eye on it. Have there been a few accidents? Sure. But there always will be. With oil, we either consume less or pay more. But the people who complain about Exxon gouging prices still want to keep out fracking. It makes no sense. Cheap. Efficient. Safe. You get to pick two.”
He laughed as Paul shook his head. Rhett was stubborn, and he knew he could hold out on his big brother forever if necessary.
“I mean,” Rhett continued, “we wouldn’t even be talking about this if the drilling was going on somewhere else. Hell, as long as we can’t see it, it doesn’t matter. We’ve been reaping the benefits of fracking for decades. You only care now because it’s happening in our new back yard. That’s called hypocrisy, brother. You realize we never had this conversation back in D.C., right? Why do you think that is?”
Rhett could see the frustration mounting in his brother’s face as Paul stood up from the table. “I gotta piss.”
“Classy.” Rhett smiled as he watched Paul pace to the back of the narrow bar. “You can run away from me, but you can’t escape my logic.”
Rhett knew that Paul would return to the table with vigor, ready to defend his point as obstinately as a teenager. But Rhett didn’t mind. He was glad his older brother followed him around the country. Technically, Paul was the one who pointed the way, but the direction was always for and about Rhett.
He flipped through his phone, analyzing local reports. Pittsburgh buzzed with November’s political race, which was already heating up. Headlines floated across the screen as he tried to find something worth giving a few minutes to. But a better object for his attention entered through the door. A brunette, a bit on the short side, walked into the bar.
She took in the room, then glanced at her watch.
“Waiting for someone?” Rhett asked, pulling up next to her.
“No,” she said. “I have a meeting at the church across the park. Had a few minutes, so I thought I could just, you know, land here.”
“Hitting the bar before the church meeting,” Rhett said, flashing his perfectly white smile—“my kind of girl. A holy hell-raiser.”
She laughed. “It’s nothing like that. Just a meeting that’s taking place in their offices. It’s about my mom…” The girl stopped short and bit her lip. “I’m sorry. You don’t want to hear all of this. I don’t know why I even started.” A tear broke and rolled down her cheek.
Rhett pulled a handkerchief from his blazer’s breast pocket and handed it to her.
“Is that a hankie?” she asked.
“A lost art.” He grinned. “And it’s clean.”
The girl dabbed her eyes. “Thanks. It’s been a rough day.”
Rhett rested his forearm on the bar and leaned in toward the young woman. His brow was knit with concern. “Looks like it. Can I buy you a drink? Let me guess.” He looked her up and down. The skirt suit was classy, though not wealthy. “Red wine. Cabernet? No, pinot.” He waved to Lenny and placed the order.
Her eyes smiled at him. “Thanks. That should help.” She extended her hand. “I’m Zoe.”
Rhett took hers in his. “Zoe. Beautiful name. Filled with life.”
“You into names?”
“I’m into a lot of things. Zoe’s actually from Eve, you know, the mother of all. You can use that over at your church meeting.”
“I don’t feel very filled with life today.”
Lenny placed the glass of red in front of her. She thanked him.
“Be careful around this one,” Lenny said, nodding at Rhett.
“Nothing to fear, here.” He winked at the bartender, then turned back to the woman. “Now, Zoe, want to tell me about your mom? Sometimes we just need some huma
n connection—to help us through the dark times. You can trust me, I’m a good listener.”
Rhett eased onto the barstool as the woman vomited her history at him.
He used every active listening tool in his box: smiling, nodding, and saying, “Uh huh,” or “Is that right?” But he heard virtually nothing of her story. Mostly, he focused on the local news report from over the bar.
“Rhett,” he heard Paul calling from their table.
Rhett held up an index finger in his direction.
He placed his hand on Zoe’s arm. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Listen, my brother, he’s waiting for me.”
“Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.” The woman’s eyes scanned the bar, then narrowed as they landed back on Rhett. “I just went on and on, didn’t I?”
“Human connection, Zoe. Right? Seemed like you needed some.” Rhett pulled out his cell phone. “Why don’t you give me your number? I’ll give you a call later tonight and hear how the meeting went. I expect you’ll need to debrief.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Of course. Actually, even better. Let’s have dinner.”
“Rhett,” Paul’s voice again, ringing in his ears.
Rhett turned and nodded at his brother. “What do you say?”
The girl fell all over herself giving her information to Rhett.
“You’ll do great. Talk soon,” Rhett said, returning to his brother’s side.
It didn’t hurt when Paul jabbed him in the ribs. “You’re terrible.”
“Says the mouse to the cat.”
“Here it is.” Rhett followed Paul’s eyes to the screens.
“The mystery is unfolding today as Pittsburgh police release further details on the gruesome murder in Springdale last night. The victim has now been identified as Rob Vinton, Mayor Dobbs’ Chief of Staff. Vinton’s body was found in an alley behind an abandoned storefront on Porter St. Still no word on who, or what, caused his death.
“We’ll keep you up to date as the story develops.”
