Chapter Two
The angry shriek of the alarm clock woke Aaron Casey out of a fitful sleep. His head throbbed. Banging with the pulsing of his blood and the ringing in his ears, his body telegraphed the tell-tale signs of a yet another well-earned hangover. Aiming for the nightstand, he blindly slammed his hand down, knocking over a glass of water before hitting the clock and silencing the high-pitched wailing.
The house was still dark and the red lights on the clock blinked six o’clock. Sitting up, he rubbed his eyes and tried to swallow. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, the gritty residue of too much alcohol clogging his taste buds. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and placed his feet on the cold floor, dehydrated muscles protesting in pain. He scrubbed his unshaven face in his hands.
Still a bit unsteady, he walked to the wall and turned on the light. The brilliant flash set off another denotation of pain between his ears. He snapped the lights off again.
“Another day. Oh joy,” he groaned sarcastically to the dark and empty room.
Making his way down the hall to the bathroom, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back had seen better days. The wrinkles barely noticeable a few months ago now shouted their presence from the polished glass. Puffy bags outlined the bloodshot eyes squinting in the harsh light of the room, detracting from his handsome features.
You look like hell. He reprimanded the man in the mirror. You better get your act together!
After showering, he made his way into the kitchen, guided by the frenzied bubbling of the coffee maker, and inhaled the warm aroma of the fresh brew. Grabbing the remote control, he turned on the T.V. and listened as the harsh sound of the CNN news broadcast filled the room.
The “brown bottle fog” in his head finally beginning to clear, he heard a small tinkling sound between headline stories. He recognized the noise as Rambo's collar tag. In the blink of an eye the small white cat perched on the arm of the chair, her deep amber eyes watching him expectantly.
“Are you ready for breakfast, you little fur‑ball?” he asked. Rambo meowed in agreement.
As he dished out her food, Rambo paced impatiently. She circled his legs, fluffing up her long white coat and swishing her tail in anticipation. Aaron set the dish down and watched her eat with a gusto that never ceased to amuse him.
While he gazed at her, his mind began to wander back to the dream he had last night. It was nothing new. It was the same dream that invaded his sleep almost every night. It was a dream that woke him up screaming, the sweat pouring from his body in spite of the December chill in the air. It was a horrific nightmare, the images a disturbing montage of fiery death he was powerless to prevent or control.
A knock on the door snapped him back with a start. Rambo never moved. She just cocked her head, rotated one ear toward the source of the sound like a satellite dish, and listened.
He walked to the front door and checked the peephole. The round, smiling face of his housekeeper, Mrs. Nunez, looked back.
It’s 7:30 already?
Opening the door, he motioned her into the apartment with a wave of his hand. “Good morning Carlotta, come on in. How are you?”
The housekeeper took off her coat before answering. “Oh, just fine for a walking Popsicle. It must be five below outside.”
Aaron left the woman and walked into the kitchen. “You want some coffee to take the chill off?” He called over his shoulder.
The Mexican woman responded with a hardy laugh. “I thought you'd never ask.”
He returned from the kitchen and she accepted the large mug gratefully. He watched her sip the steaming liquid and warm herself. His heart went out to her.
At 33 years of age, Carlotta Nunez worked two jobs to support her three children. Aaron hired her to cook his meals and clean his apartment after she finally gathered the courage to testify against her horribly abusive husband, sending him to prison. He did it not because he needed her, but because she lived in the building and this job allowed her to bring her children with her after school and save the cost of childcare. That was a year ago, and the arrangement worked out well.
Aaron put on his coat and grabbed his keys. “See you tonight.”
The slightly round woman waved as she started her work. “Have a good day!”
He looked at Rambo with mock impatience. “Are you coming, Princess?”
Rambo appeared at his side so fast she seemed to materialize in place. He picked her up, put her on his shoulder for the walk to the office and with a nod to Carlotta, closed the door behind him.
His heavy footsteps echoed quietly off the corridor’s polished marble floor, the hollow sounds bouncing off white plaster walls as he approached the elevator. Reaching the doors, his temples throbbed, still fighting the after-effects of his over-indulgence in cheap scotch. He stepped inside the sparse interior of the car and pushed the button for the ground level, doors closing with a soft whirr.
The elevator made its steady descent to street level and he reviewed the dream in his mind as the numbers on the floor indicator regressed. His skin prickled with grating tension as the scenes replayed across his internal vision. He could almost feel the heat of the explosion, smell the stench of the fire’s noxious fumes. He could almost hear the screams.
His toxic thoughts were interrupted by the chime of a small bell. The sharp ‘ding’ announced his arrival at the ground floor. Sighing, he put the images on the back-burner of his mind and began to look toward to the busy day ahead.
I’ll be fine as soon as I get to work, get focused on something else.
He expelled a long sigh.
The days are still a lot easier to handle than the nights.
Snow crunched under his boots as he walked down the block in silence, alone with his ubiquitous demons. The cold, crisp air stung his face, but with the sun finally up, he knew another beautiful winter day lay ahead.
He enjoyed walking to the office in spite of the bitter cold. It allowed him time to concentrate on getting his day organized and his cluttered mind prepared for the mountain of tasks ahead.
He made his daily stop at the coffee stand to get his caffeine fix and chat with the owner, Jimmy Dentella. “Morning, Jimmy,” he called from a few yards away.
Dentella was old-world Italian. A big loud bear of a man, he was dressed in a well-worn parka with the hood pulled up against the cold. A long, dark mustache outlining his toothy smile, he reminded Aaron of a walrus…in a suit.
“Morning Aaron. How you doin’?” he asked.
“Can’t complain. And you?”
Dentella’s sizeable bulk, magnified by the puffy jacket, filled the small booth. His hands constantly in motion, he cleaned the stainless steel counter and arranged his wares while he spoke. “Same old, same old. I guess. What can I get for you?”
“Hmm, let’s try something different today. How about a large Chocolate-Hazelnut to go, please.”
“Coming right up,” Dentella looked at Rambo, her graceful head peeking out of Aaron’s partially zipped coat. “And for the lady?”
“Milk, straight-up,” he said with a grin.
Jimmy busied himself preparing Aaron’s order, the large brass coffee grinder emitting a malevolent howl as he continued talking. Aaron got all the neighborhood gossip from Jimmy and this morning it was not good.
“Did you hear?” the huge man paused, looking around to see if he were being overheard. Satisfied in his privacy, he leaned closer to Aaron and continued. “Word on the street is they pink‑slipped three hundred guys at Mid‑Atlantic last week, and another two hundred at General Building yesterday. That sucks! What are these guys supposed to do, with Christmas only two weeks away?”
Dentella poured some warm milk in a small metal dish for Rambo as he lamented and she purred loudly as she lapped it up.
He paused in thought as he carefully wiped down his cart again. “Aaron, you know I hate to ask, but do you need any
help down at the job site? I know some of these guys that got the axe and they got families to take care of.”
Seeing the genuine concern in his friend’s eyes, Aaron responded tentatively. “I'll see what I can do.”
The Italian gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Thanks. I knew you'd be a stand‑up guy.”
Aaron smiled inwardly. That’s Jimmy, always trying to help out his friends.
He grabbed Rambo, who meowed in annoyance, and accepted the steaming cup from Dentella.
Aaron waved good-bye, the little feline now tucked safely back inside his coat and his coffee in his hand.
“You be good, pizan!” Dentella yelled as he watched him walk away.
Aaron moved down the street and thought about the grievous news Dentella shared.
If I went ahead with the plumbing and wiring on thirty‑one it would put a huge strain on the budget…but it would open up more than a hundred new jobs.
Making the decision to go ahead with the work, he scratched Rambo behind her ears. “Well, I guess you gotta spend money to make money.”
His pace quickening, he rounded the last turn onto Revere Street and saw his baby. The Boston Tower, Casey Construction's most ambitious project, stood gleaming in the newly risen sunlight. He took the concrete entry steps two at a time and pulled the door open, stepping inside.
The warm air surrounded him as he stepped in from the cold, and so did the noise of the multitude inside. The lobby of the Tower building bustled with the fervent activity of dozens of people, each on their own mission, crowded in line to catch the elevators. Sipping coffee and dodging each other with cell phones glued to ears, the over-dressed massed headed toward another “day at the office” while he joined the line and attempted to make his way upstairs.
"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I Page 2
