He paused for thought. “And I do not think it is such a good thing—for you—that you do.” He turned to leave, his words settled softly behind him, like a light snowfall.
“No,” Adrian thought. “I don’t think so either.”
24 – Right Away Mr. Clooner, Sir
The shop doors slapped behind him as he stormed down the hall. With jaw tight, fists clenched, his mood was a mix of fury, confusion and frustration.
“Hey, Corley, I didn’t know you were back,” said Ruth as he swung past her desk toward the north hallway. He glared without speaking or slowing.
Corley pushed through Wally’s door without knocking. He flowed across the room like a well-dressed sandstorm, his Louis Vuitton suit jacket tight around flexed muscles. He stopped in front of Wally’s desk, vibrating with the energy of a coiled spring.
Wally leaned back in his chair; unsurprised by his sudden appearance. He cupped his fingers beneath his chin and waited for the outburst.
“Who the hell is this new guy?” Corley demanded. His voice, harsh with tension and cigarettes, was like a rasp filing across a pipe. It threatened and challenged; anyone hearing it would have reacted with aggression of their own or with submissiveness.
Wally did neither. He simply waited.
“The new guy. The new engineer. Tall... thin...with the scar.”
“Adrian Beck,” Wally said, not reacting to the violence implied in Corley’s voice and body. It was as if a bear had charged into the room and Wally didn’t care. He calmly reached into his desk for a pack of Marlboro’s, tipped one out and held the pack up. “Want one?” He shrugged and lit the cigarette,
“Adrian is the best engineer we’ve ever had. Don’t you fuck with him.”
The flat delivery of the obscenity sounded sharp and brittle, at odds with the calm indifference to the tension coiling around him. Wally sat quietly, taking slow drags and soon his patience began to work. Corley began to loosen, no longer resembling a human battering ram. His fists became hands, his breathing slowed, his eyes blinked once. He rubbed a hand across a perfectly shaved chin and nodded, the storm averted.
“Tell me more,” he said, his voice now soft and reassuring. It was the voice of the salesman, the Corley Sayres who had charmed a hundred secretaries and told a thousand lies. Wally actually thought this was the more dangerous tone.
“Not much to tell.” he said. “Adrian’s been here for about three months. Like I said, he’s the single best engineer I have. His projects are on time. he doesn’t make waves, he does whatever he’s told. He’s exactly what we want. What’s your problem with him?”
Corley honestly didn’t know. He’d reacted to Adrian Beck the way a snake reacts to a mongoose. What was his problem with the guy?
He considered. It wasn’t the interference with Dafari. He’d handled things like that before, with fists or a hard look. He prided himself on that look, and had practiced it since college when he discovered that a perceived threat was often better than a real one. Especially if the real threat was there to back it up.
No, that wasn’t it. It was Beck. He said the name silently, getting the feel of it on his tongue—Adrian Beck. The new engineer. His reaction had been in response to body language: the posture that said he wouldn’t back down, the firm stare meeting Corley’s eyes. The scar was a subtle psychological sensation, it gave the guy a piratical look, as if he didn’t care about danger. Like he didn’t care about anything.
Corley thought these things but didn’t say them. They seemed foolish on reflection, like monsters under the bed, or a bogeyman in the closet. Corley had spent his adult life facing fears. The feeling should go away if he just stood up to it.
What about falling? ‘That’s different,’ he thought. ‘I can handle heights.’ But he knew it wasn’t true and some inner desire for honesty—a compulsion to always tell himself the truth no matter how often he lied to others—made him admit it.
“There’s something about the guy,” he said at last. “There’s just something dangerous about him.”
Wally burst out laughing. “Dangerous? Adrian Beck? You can’t be serious.” He looked up at Corley’s expression and reconsidered. “You are serious! How can you possibly think of Adrian,” he smiled at the very idea, “As dangerous?”
Corley didn’t like being laughed at, but he clamped down on his emotions. It had already been a bad enough day. He paused to light a cigarette of his own, taking the time to caress the end with the flame of his Zippo. Reluctantly, he listened to Wally.
“Adrian Beck is a whipped dog. He came to me with a letter from Jack Anderson asking for—make that pleading for a job. Any job! I could have made him the janitor and he would have taken it.” He considered. “Of course, given how banged up he was, there’s no way he could have done a janitor’s job. He was a mess. Broken leg, his arm screwed up. I think he had a couple of broken ribs...and that scar,”
“What happened to him?” asked Corley. He sat down stiffly on one of the guest chairs.
“I don’t know,” Wally said. “Accident of some kind. I never asked and he doesn’t talk. But Corley, you should have seen him. He was about as beaten down as I’ve ever seen a man. Do you know what I pay him? For Randy Birmingham’s job?”
“What?”
“Fifty-Two thousand.”
Corley’s eyes came up in surprise.
“That’s right, as an engineer. We paid Randy nearly eighty thousand and he’s not half the engineer Beck is.”
“But he’s—” Corley shook his head in frustration. He couldn’t find the words to explain. There was something about the guy that threatened him. Something that threatened them both.
“What?” asked Wally. “He’s nothing. I deliberately made him a low offer and he took it. That’s how bad off he is. And I haven’t seen anything to make me think he has any more backbone than a worm. You’re just wrong about him, that’s all.”
“I’m not wrong,” Corley growled. “He’s trouble.”
“No he’s not. This is another of your instincts. We’re partners in this business but I’ve got to say this, you have an impulse control problem. You attack people for no reason, you lose you temper over nothing, and you overreact to things. Like Randy Birmingham, remember?”
Corley flushed. He did remember. He hadn’t meant to hurt the man, at least not that badly, but Randy had asked for it. His smart mouth, the jokes at Corley’s expense. When he got too curious about how business was run at Control-logics, he had to go.
“We talked about that,” he said defensively. “You agreed. We couldn’t have him here any longer.”
“I did agree,” said Wally. “And yes, he did have to go, but not to a hospital. And you could have waited until we had a replacement. We have jobs that need to get done or the whole scam falls apart.”
Corley gave in. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and sighed. “I shouldn’t have hurt Birmingham, I should have waited until you had someone else. That Beck guy is off limits and you’re doing a great job. Satisfied?”
“I could do without the sarcasm,” Wally said. If he felt any fear at his larger, more volatile partner, he didn’t show it. The lack of fear was probably what kept him from Corley’s angrier impulses. “Look around you, Corley. We have a good thing going here. The company’s making money—legitimate money—and we’re doing even better with what you bring in. Speaking of which, we got the shipment you brought in Saturday. It’s going to Adrian Beck. He’s heading the project.”
“Swell,” said Corley. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the new engineer was a problem. Was it the way he’d looked at him? Or just the way he looked? Something...he hated to let it go, but what could he do? Wally was right, they had to keep their engineers.
“In fact,” Wally said, “Beck was in here last month asking why he couldn’t order his own equipment. Said it was standard procedure everywhere else for the engineer to control a project’s purchasing.”
“That’s true,” said Corley.
/>
“I know it is! But we can’t have people knowing what we’re doing.”
“So what did you tell him?”
“I shut him down of course. He was seeing some sales rep from Carlton Electric and I made sure he understood. We don’t talk to sales reps, we don’t talk to other engineers, we just do our job and stay quiet. And do you know what he said?”
“What?”
“Our Mr. Beck, the guy you think is such a big problem, just lowered his head and said, ‘yes sir, Mr. Clooner’, ‘you’re right, Mr. Clooner.” Wally changed his voice to an effeminate falsetto when he mimicked Adrian, and began to laugh. Despite himself, Corley smiled.
“All right,” he said “You made your point. I was wrong about the guy. He sounds like a total loser.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you. Trust me Corley; Adrian Beck is no trouble.”
Corley changed the subject. “So we have the electronics for the Arizona project. What’s next?”
“The Kelly Ridge Incinerator.”
Corley whistled. “We need that already? I thought that was next year.”
“I thought so to, but I put Dafari on it, and added Beck last month. Those two guys are good. I think the project’s going to be ahead of schedule.”
“No engineering project is ever ahead of schedule.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve got to do cash flow when everything we do is late. I’m billing 50% on projects I don’t even have engineers for.”
“So you think—what?—August?”
“Try June for the first load. I’m telling you, my guys are going to be early.”
“Shit,” said Corley. “Next month. I’m not ready for this. I can’t...maybe if we buy stuff for the first half of the job?”
“Sure,” Wally agreed. “If you want to let that much profit get away. The stuff you...acquire...is pure profit.”
“Steal,” Corley corrected. “Call it what it is. We’re stealing materials for the projects we build.” The stubborn core in him insisted he be honest, even when the picture was unflattering.
“You’re a strange one, you know that?” Wally said in resigned disbelief. “Fine. We’re thieves. That make you feel better?”
“It is what it is, Wally. We’re stealing so that you can play with your cars. We’re stealing so that I can retire next year and never see the inside of a shop again. It’s what we’re doing. We don’t have to be proud of it, but we have to be honest.”
“An honest thief? Is that what you want to be?”
“Don’t push it, Wally. We’ve been partners in this for three years, but that doesn’t mean you can treat me like these people you bully. Do you understand?”
For the first time, Wally became nervous, as if the trick bear had suddenly unlocked the cage and stepped outside. He didn’t doubt Corley’s power, he merely thought he controlled it. “Sure, Corley, whatever. What do you want to do about Kelly Ridge?”
“I don’t know. I can’t hit Bertold’s that soon. They’re not ready. Maybe I could set up someplace else.” He thought about it, adding possibilities, changing plans. “I guess, Toronto. I have a line on a place there.”
“So you can deliver by June?”
“I’ll try.” He considered. “I’ll have to leave soon. There’s a lot to do.”
“That’s probably a good idea. Go to Canada, it’ll keep you from my engineers.”
Corley smiled. In a sweet high voice he said, “Yes sir. Right away, Mr. Clooner, sir.
25 – Home For a Dead Pigeon
In late September Adrian found himself bored in LaSalle, Illinois. Three weeks ago he’d flown to Chicago O’Hare and rented an American mini car. He drove for two and a half hours through vast com fields until he reached a road that led to the banks of the St. Charles River and an abandoned Zinc plant currently under the stewardship of the Federal Environmental Department.
The job was a clean-up of decades of chemical abuse. Adrian’s specific task was to program the computers which ran the pumps and chemical injectors which made this possible. Since very little of the equipment needed was on site. and his computer program was complete, Adrian had little to do and fourteen hour days at the plant in which to do them.
Wearing blue coveralls, a hard hat and an OSHA breathing mask, he wandered aimlessly around the ancient brick building, between gargantuan blue fiberglass tanks that dwarfed the workers among them and past hulking pumps sitting idle while chemical engineers figured out the newest reason the plant wasn’t working.
Occasionally, his name would be called and he’d walk slowly back to his computer station, ready to make whatever changes were required for the latest round of creativity. So far the main water pumps had burned out, the fly ash delivery system had produced a lung destroying cloud, the mixers had produced a soupy zinc material too thin to shovel and too thick to pump, which, when stopped for analysis, became a cement like substance that had to be chiseled out of the machinery.
At one point, a rowboat had been lifted by crane and placed inside a huge tank when it was discovered that the shut off valve was inaccessible. Two pipe fitters had gingerly scrambled into the boat and rowed across to fix the problem.
All the while, Adrian waited for something to do. After hours he sat in a tiny Motel Six room near Interstate Eighty, reading from the many books Maggie had recommended.
Pieburn was working at the plant, but beside a cursory nod when Adrian arrived. he maintained a continual silence, his comments made in a low rich voice only when absolutely necessary. Pieburn was the head chemist, responsible for making the complex calculations needed to mix millions of gallons of water with chemicals to remove hazardous zinc before it leeched into the St. Charles river and the drinking water of the local inhabitants.
Since none of this was working, Pieburn was irritable, distracted and frustrated, which he showed by being perfectly dressed in charcoal gray slacks, white shirt and blue tie and a pullover sweater of red or brown. If he wasn’t a young man he would have appeared to be a slightly distracted college professor. On the rare occasions he entered the plant floor, safety requirements forced him into a white Kevlar safety uniform and rubber boots which he removed within seconds of returning to the non-contaminated areas.
He never raised his voice or expressed any of the private emotions that had to be coursing through him. Nor did he respond to requests to help, invitations to dinner, offers of coffee or any other communication.
It was a mixed feeling of compassion and intense boredom that caused Adrian to volunteer when the supervisor requested someone to remove a pigeon from the largest process tank.
“A pigeon?” asked Adrian with general interest. Nothing short of being allowed to go home would have elicited real interest.
“Yup. A dead one.” The super was Foster Welborne, mid-fifties and cheerful despite the constant failures around him. His expression was world weary, suggesting he’d seen it all and didn’t care. “I need someone to climb up and scoop him out.”
‘Climb’ got Adrian’s attention. Since coming to Illinois, the word flat had taken on a new definition. The small local towns didn’t have climbing rooms and the walls of the plant, though potentially challenging, couldn’t be climbed due to—in Adrian’s sour opinion—excessive safety regulations.
“What do you need climbed, Foster?”
“You’ve got to go over those catwalks there,” he pointed upward, “and climb about twenty feet to get at where the damn bird’s floating.”
“Okay,” Adrian said. “I can do that.”
Foster looked surprised and doubtful. “You? You want to climb fifty feet up and get a dead bird?”
“Put that way, who wouldn’t? I’m not much for the dead pigeon part, but I do like to climb.” Seeing the still doubtful look Adrian promised, “I do a lot of climbing.”
“Oooh-Kay. I guess.” Not at all convinced, Foster handed over a white plastic bucket and instruction. “Just go up there and fish it out. “He made scooping motions with h
is hands.
“Right.” Adrian climbed the metal stairs, painted yellow for safety, up to what would be a third story height, still twenty feet below the top of the huge tank. He stepped up onto a railing and hoisted his body, feeling the usual rush of energy when he climbed. Hand over hand, grabbing pipes and metal struts, the bucket an awkward companion, he quickly reached the edge of the tank and pulled himself over. The opposite side stood sixty feet away. The tank held nearly five hundred thousand gallons of zinc contaminated water.
Glancing down about four feet to the water level he saw, as expected, a bird floating in the milky water.
It was about ten feet to the left. Adrian slithered around and under a couple of obstructions until he was above it. He stepped up and leaned over, dipping the bucket and swirling it, making and eddy that propelled the pigeon to him. He lifted the bucket with a good three gallons of water and pulled it up.
Success! The weight of the water and the shape of the bucket combined to make him carelessly off balance. Ten feet below the lip his foot, encased in the heavy work boots, slipped on a wet pipe and he fell. The bucket sailed away as Adrian careened from pipe to pipe, bruising ribs.
He crashed heavily on the rough metal catwalk, landing on his wallet and the flat of his back. His head struck the metal rail and only his hard hat saved him from concussion. The bucket landed on him, sloshing water on his face. He lay on his back, wondering if he would ever breathe again, wondering if he cared. Then he fell unconscious.
When he woke it was to the confused disorientation of a man who’s stepped on a rake. What had happened? His face was wet, his eyes burned and something that smelled awful was on his face. He reached up and grasped a handful of rotting feathers, pulled it away from himself in disgust. Ugh; the pigeon.
He rolled to his side, spitting warm water, aching everywhere. Eventually he groaned and struggled to his feet, sagged down the stairs to the small office attached to the far side of the nearly empty building.
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