Including interest on the loan, the estimated total cost of the endeavor was never far from Stew’s brain. $922,000. If the current real estate market held, Stew would be able to sell his spec house for somewhere between one point eight and two million. That’s more than an $800,000 profit, thought Stew. Not bad for a year’s labor. He might even have enough left over to lease Pam that Mercedes station wagon she so dearly lusted after.
If she stops busting my fucking balls.
Stew liked to keep his crews small. “Less chatter and faster hammers,” he would say in Spanish. He was surprised that at the age of forty-one, how much practical use he had made of his required two years of high school language.
The crew consisted of four general laborers and a crew chief named Henry, the only legal citizen of the bunch. Stew didn’t bother to find out where any of them were from. Guatemala, Nicaragua, El Salvador. They were all beer-drinking, Tejano-dancing Mexicans in his book. He paid them cash, faked their check stubs and kept his workmen’s comp paid up.
Brown faces. That’s all Stew wanted to see on his construction site. So who the hell’s the vanilla stick? wondered Stew. Who’s the nervous-looking white guy ducking the falling two-by-four stubs?
“Watch out, will ya?” shouted Stew. The man was clearly no building inspector. Building inspectors were usually retired contractors who knew their way around a construction zone.
“Are you Stew?” asked Ben. His nerves were so wrecked he had wanted to turn around the moment he stepped foot on the property. He could have, too. So why didn’t he? Was it because Ben possessed some strange need to follow through, no matter how stupid the idea? Pratt’s audio recording had clearly rattled him. For two days now, he was off his game and out of the safety of his own safety zone.
“And don’t lean yourself on my new windows!” barked Stew.
In trying to avoid the falling two-by-four tails, Ben had lost his balance and was in the process of steadying himself on a squarish, tarp-covered pile that he thought was wood or sheetrock.
“All glass,” said Stew. “Could put your arm right thought it and hurt yourself.”
Ben stood in place and assessed the big man who nimbly bent and slipped between a window frame and wall joist. He quickly billed Stew to be well north of six feet, heavy-beamed at the shoulders, with a dwindling patch of blonde curls and a face rounded by years approximating his own.
“Not safe at all,” finished Stew, who on approaching Ben, had transformed himself from annoyed general contractor to a grinning, inspector’s best friend. He obviously thought Ben was some kind of official “whatever” and that it would be best to put on his most winning front with a broad smile.
“Stew Raymo,” said the big man.
“Martin Benjamin,” lied Ben.
And there it was, Stew’s outstretched hand, friendly, wrist twisted to two o’clock, palm facing upward. All Ben had to do was grip the man’s hand and he would know whether Stew Raymo was the devil. At least that’s what he had reasoned an hour earlier while stuck in eastbound traffic.
But not a stitch about Stew stirred anything in Ben. Nor was there any hint of déjà vu. Stew, as he appeared to Ben, was a complete stranger. As if the two men had never, ever met. Their paths never crossed.
Ben didn’t need the handshake. His heart, he believed, had already weighed in. From the second he had heard that big voice and set eyes on the easy lumberjack of a man, he felt that he had truly erred. This Stew wasn’t a killer. On first impression alone, the contractor was exactly the kind of man Ben would have hired to run a residential construction site. Athletic and commanding, with the right dash of authority. Stew had that air of a former college tight end who tilted brews with his old football gang on Saturday afternoons.
Ben felt plain awful. In his mind, the morning was already a huge mistake. He needed to shake the man’s hand, tell a few more of his rehearsed lines, then get on with his present life as soon as humanly possible.
Move on, Ben. Move on.
“What can I do for you?” asked Stew.
With that, Ben gripped Stew’s hand and shook it. And just as he expected, the only tingle he felt was from the heavy calluses on Stew’s palm. While inspecting factories, Ben had shaken many such hands in recent years. The rougher the hands, he had learned, the better the intel on the factory’s work conditions. Hands like Stew’s rarely lied. At worst, they might spin things a bit for the management upstairs. But overall, rough palms could be trusted.
And no Dead Zone moment, thought Ben. After all. It was just a frickin’ movie.
“I’m with OSHA,” announced Ben, going ahead with his rehearsed dialogue.
Stew’s eyebrows clinched for a moment. His eyes slightly narrowed. Then when he let go of Ben’s hand, his face turned into a human question mark. Maybe he hadn’t heard so well over the ringing of a circular saw spinning to a stop.
“You say somethin’ about oceans?”
“Oh-Sha,” pronounced Ben. “Office of Safety and Health Administration. We monitor safety and health conditions.”
The rest would be easy, thought Ben. He was still lying, but from his own comfort zone. Though he had since moved on from his government job, the back-and-forth patter was second nature. A little history. OSHA overview. An eight-hundred number for Stew to call in case he had any questions. Then, maybe, Ben could crawl back to his Volvo with what little tail he had left between his legs.
“Okay,” said Stew. “I got it. Isn’t that for factories and stuff? I’m pretty up on all the city and county regs and I don’t remember—”
“A workplace is a workplace,” interrupted Ben. “Primarily, I’m just here to get a first look around, take a few notes, then I’ll generate an initial summary. After that, we can talk.”
“And what if I’m not up to standards?” asked Stew. “Are there fines?”
No, thought Ben, there would be no summary report and no follow-up conversations. Stew might sweat a week or two waiting for a fax, but after a month he would feel as if he had dodged a regulatory bullet. He wouldn’t be dumb enough to follow up. No contractor would actively seek out fines or penalties. And Stew would never see or hear from Ben again.
“So far everything looks dandy fine,” said Ben. “Might want to run some warning tape across the steep stuff. A couple of red flag stakes next to your pilings... How about your second-story guys? They got steel toes like you?”
“Unless Nike makes ’em,” said Stew. “But what they don’t have I’ll buy. I’ll take care of it.”
Ben had one more recommendation and the sales job would be complete. It had to be something ridiculous only some overzealous bureaucrat in government could have concocted in the name of blue-collar concern. Something even Ben would find frivolous and dumb.
“What about cups?” asked Ben.
“Cups? What kinda cups?”
“To protect the genitals,” said Ben. “Athletic cups.”
“Like for baseball and shit?” asked Stew. “You gotta be kidding.”
“Look,” said Ben, posturing as if the advice he was going to give was about doing Stew a favor. “Let’s say one of your guys is walking a beam and falls the wrong way. Takes a hard one in his junk. You don’t want your workmen’s comp getting sucked dry because Jose can’t get it up no more. Know what I’m saying?”
“That’s crazy,” said Stew.
“I don’t write the rules,” shrugged Ben. “Good news is that athletic cups are cheap and purchased at any sporting goods store. While you’re there, pick yourself up a half-dozen cycling helmets.”
“My guys gotta wear helmets?”
“No actual regulations yet,” said Stew. “But they’re lighter than hard hats and offer more protection in a high fall.”
A little added value, figured Ben. And not the worst idea. Hard hats only offered protection against objects falling from above. But nearly zero protection for falling humans. As Ben stood there with Stew, a lobby group representing cycling helmet makers
was proposing new workplace rules.
“Christ Almighty,” said Stew. “And I’ll get all this in your—”
“Called a Workplace Safety Summary,” finished Ben. “Otherwise, you’re good to go.”
As Stew was shaking his head in disbelief, his words were wisely conciliatory.
“Well, thanks, I guess,” said Stew. Once again, Stew offered his outstretched hand. “It’s Marty, right?”
“Ben,” answered Ben by rote, before quickly catching his own error and correcting with, “Benjamin. Martin Benjamin. My mom’s the only one who calls me Marty.”
“Sorry,” apologized Stew. “Lousy with names.”
Stew hung onto Ben’s hand. The handshake was well past the stage of formality. It was time to unclasp. But Stew kept a firm grip for an uncomfortable two seconds longer before letting go.
And once again, there it was—the curious clench between Stew’s eyebrows. The puzzled look. A human question mark.
“Have a nice day,” said Ben.
“Yeah. You, too. Thanks for comin’ by.”
Run, thought Ben. Escape. While you’ve gotten away with it.
Gotten away with what? Not embarrassing yourself?
Ben wondered what sick part of him was so pitifully paranoid. And what other parts were still sane and rational. His soul felt in conflict with his brain. After shutting and locking the door to his Volvo, he sat in the seat and performed a mental check. His heart was pounding but his mind seemed crisp and aware. He took a cleansing breath. He was mostly okay, he reasoned. Wise, even. He had realized his mistake the moment he had met poor Stew Raymo. He had deftly danced his little OSHA jig though his conscience heckled him for going ahead with the whole cup and helmet ruse. Ben’s retort was that it was a harmless prank. And he had been so rattled he hadn’t had the faculties to deviate from his practiced script.
Then, before turning over the engine to his car, he cursed that evil raspy voice on the CD who had planted the seed.
“Christ, Ben. It’s not healthy!” he spoke aloud to nobody but himself. “Let them go.”
Jesus, please, help me let them go!!!
RIIIIIIPPPP!
Ben heard the sound before realizing just what he had done. His fingers had slipped into a crease in the sunroof’s veneer, his right biceps had flexed and with that, torn a piece of upholstery.
The involuntary act frightened Ben. He sucked back the sobs and drove away so nobody could see him. No one to witness his private pain. On the drive to his office he would need to rework through the critical steps of grief recovery in order to slide the heavy lid back over his emotional abyss.
Stupid ass. What can you really know from a handshake?
A simple handshake.
Stew couldn’t get over his sudden flu-like symptoms. When he touched the hand of that what’s-his-name inspector, it was as if all the blood in his body had surged to his face. And it had remained there, just below the surface, pushing out beads of sweat for the morning breeze to chill.
Then his stomach turned.
A demon, thought Stew. Not the inspector. The vanilla-faced man appeared docile enough, and beyond his official role, devoid of threat. It was feeling the presence of demons of the personal kind that usually made Stew’s face flush and his joints ache.
One of your own demons, Stew.
Fuck that, Stew said to himself. He had plenty of demons. All of ’em as old as he. And he had beaten them down more often than they had beaten him. The demons were the losing team in Stew’s book. Ten years straight, sober, and violence-free. In his head, the score was clear. Stew - 10. Demons - 0. A good goddamned rout.
And I own your demon asses.
And with that primal notion, the blood spilled back into Stew’s body. His face cooled. The pain in his bones released.
Stew found himself blanketed by the shadows of his illegal laborers. He twisted and squinted up at the rafters. One man was holding a heavy four-by-eight Glu-Lam into position while another balanced between two beams, hammer ready, waiting for the joint to be fit. Stew noted the distance between his high-wire workers and the concrete slab below. Stew’s brain turned to the ever-increasing costs of his workmen’s compensation insurance.
“Friggin’ bike helmets,” muttered Stew to himself. “Can think stupider ideas.”
“What’s that?” asked Henry. The crew chief was behind Stew, swirling up a fresh bucket full of Quikrete.
“Yeah,” said Stew. “Lunchtime, I want you to run over to Sports Authority and pick up some bike helmets.”
“Bike helmets? What for?”
“Just get ’em,” barked Stew. “Helmets and some athletic supporters. Kind with the cups.”
“You’re messing with me, Jefe.” Henry liked Stew’s casual style. The two of them—boss and crew chief—needled each other constantly.
But Stew shook his head. “Just do it, will ya?”
End of conversation, decided Stew. He hopped off the slab into what would eventually be the backyard pool. He figured he could use a good swim.
A swim and a blowjob.
After dinner, thought Stew. A meal, a naked swim with his beautiful, porno-licious wife, maybe a little online poker, then a deep, demon-free sleep.
****
Woody Bell was so fat that sometimes he would tell people he bought his clothes at Home Depot. It was good for a quick laugh and dispelled the discomfort most new clients felt sitting across from the self-described inspiration for Jabba the Hut.
“Last I checked,” said Woody into his handsfree phone rig, “I was four-hundred seventy-five pounds, give or take a ton.”
“You are seriously joking,” said his feline source inside the California State Corrections Office.
“Then again, last time I got weighed they had to use a marlin hook.”
“You don’t call often enough,” she said.
“Stuff I usually need’s just a couple clicks away.”
“Anything you can’t find out about a person?” teased the voice, sounding more southern belle than Nor Cal divorcee.
“Let’s try,” said Woody. “All I need is the name on your birth certificate and a social.”
“Not me,” she said, giggling softly.
“Yeah, you. Now, c’mon. Gimme some sugar.”
Gimme some sugar.
That’s how Woody started every damn day. He would say the words aloud when he woke. He would say them after he had broken his first sweat, wrenching himself from his heavy duty, bariatric bed into his custom wheelchair. He also said them first thing as he waved his hands over his magic computer keyboard.
Ah. Gimme some sugar.
“Right now?” she asked. “I’ve got work to do.”
“You and me both. That means my work cancels out yours so stop your stalling and gimme. Birth name and—”
“Social,” she interrupted.
Over his headset, Woody heard that soft, girlish giggle. Inside, he tingled somewhere he could no longer touch without the aid or a nurse or a prostitute.
The back bedroom where Woody plied his trade was permanently dark, curtained with a blackout material called Duvatyne. The fabric worked two ways. It kept him focused on his three computer screens. It also blocked his view of the empty backyard swimming pool that he wouldn’t have a prayer of ever swimming in again. If only his mom and dad had known someone like Ben Keller. Maybe life would have turned out differently for Woody. Maybe someone like Ben could have warned his parents of the spine-crushing dangers a backyard swimming pool possessed.
“Amy June Aitchison,” she said. “That’s A-I-T...”
He wouldn’t tell, but Woody knew precisely how to spell her last name. And his fingers were way faster than her slow, civil-servant cadence. If sweet Amy June could only see him, parked in his doublewide wheelchair with hydraulic lifters, docked at a u-shaped desk with three thirty-six-inch computer screens.
“What about your social?”
While Amy June quietly reeled off her social s
ecurity number, a soft electronic gong sounded. This was Woody’s cue to attend to the virtual chessboard on his left-hand computer screen. His online opponent, a not-so-deftly-named “bobbyfisherking7362,” hadimpatiently put the private detective on a warning clock. If Woody didn’t move within thirty seconds, he would have to forfeit the match. With two quick keystrokes, Woody snatched the queen and sent his opponent’s king on the scurry.
“How long’s this gonna take?” asked Amy June.
“Almost there,” said Woody.
“No way.”
“Way,” said Woody, unashamed to sound as if he was parroting that dumb movie, Wayne’s World. “Shame” wasn’t a word reserved for the nearly five-hundred-pound paraplegic. Shame was for Catholics and boys caught masturbating by their moms.
“You were born in seventy-one. Graduated Oakmont High School in Roseville, California in eighty-nine. Junior college. You’ve been married and divorced twice. First was sixteen months. Second was five—”
“TMI already!” said Amy June with added exasperation. “Christ Almighty.”
TMI. As far as Woody was concerned, there was no such thing as Too Much Information. The insurance policies left over from his old man’s death had long been exhausted. Without an information glut, how the hell was a paralytic gumshoe like him supposed to pay the utilities, the cable bill, let alone tip the pizza delivery man?
“We’re not even at the good stuff yet.”
“Good stuff?”
“Credit rating, bank balances, outstanding debts, where you bought your last pair of panties.”
“You do not know that!”
“Got a thirty-nine dollar charge here. August. Nordstrom.”
“You put that back!” she squealed.
Nice reaction. As if he had actually opened her panty drawer and was waving her pink lacies for the world to see.
And then when she had calmed down a notch: “How in Sweet Jesus do you do that?”
“My database, their database. Some legal, some not-so. Some are subscriptions, some are offshore. Lemme put it this way, if it’s intel, somebody’s either selling it or buying it.”
The Safety Expert Page 5
