Chapter 6.

They cashed their tabs, hustling to catch the 1:50 bus to the worksite instead of hoofing it. Boots volunteered to take Umberto home, so they left Frank on the curb as Umberto bopped to the payphone under Eliot Ness to leave word at his son’s job while Boots picked up a carton of smokes at the building’s liquor store. Waving goodbye, Frank crossed the parking lot, fishing in his deep canvas pockets for his keys. Someone hailed him, and he stopped, turning towards the voice.

A long-haired electrician with a droopy mustache emerged from a shadowy corner trailing a pungent cloud of marijuana smoke and asked, “You hear about Otto?”

Frank’s heart fell. “The kid?”

The electrician’s hand gestured, ‘STOP,’ his head shaking. “No, thank God. But they fired him and are challenging his unemployment claim.”

Frank clamped his jaw and said, “Why that son-of-a-bitch...” He nodded a sharp farewell and turned, crossing the lobby, anger smoldering in his breadbasket. Each step fanned the flame, so by the time he entered the bunker, the flame in his belly glowed, white-hot.

Because Howard knew he’d be firing Otto during this morning’s meeting and kept mum.

Goddamned snake.

He rapped at Howard’s door, wincing at a faint pain in his Bo-stopping fist.

“One minute,” Howard said, his tenor muffled by the door.

On the phone, Frank reckoned, digging the plug from his breast pocket and gnawing off a chew. He stewed, chomping the tobacco with wolfish ferocity, waiting. As the juice built, he spat into a garbage can.

Several beats later, Howard opened the door, his face open with shock as he retreated into the office. “I... I assumed you’d gone home.”

“You assumed wrong.” Frank braced himself on the jamb, snarling. “You canned Otto?”

Howard moved back, seating himself on the edge of the desk. “Had to. It was just business.”

Frank’s face flushed, his cheeks hot. “Bull. This wasn’t business, it was personal. You got this inexplicable hard-on for Otto that wouldn’t quit. I mean, Manny wouldn’t do anything half this rotten. He’d know better because he’d been there, but not you.”

Howard ground his molars. “Fuck off, Frank. Otto missed—”

“Enough,” Frank said, cutting him off, entering the office, and standing face-to-face with Howard. “Art and I are gonna pull double-duty to keep the toothpaste in the tube when the guys hear you fired a union brother with a sick child. There’ll be slowdowns, call-offs, even talk of an outright strike. And after Art and I warned you dozens of times.”

“Goddammit,” Howard said, his face flushing red, “Saint George is my family’s business, not yours.”

Frank glowered at Howard for several long beats, and the scales fell from his eyes. Howard always seemed so dapper to Frank. No more. Now, Frank focused, seeing his drooping suit, the askew tie, and a wrinkled shirt with sweat stains yellowing the collar. Howard was no muckety-muck. He was just a spoiled rich slob, born on third and thinking he’d hit a triple, afraid and fraying, acting big and hoping no one caught the empty bluster.

How had he missed that, Frank wondered?

Frank hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and leaned back on his heels, and spat a mouthful of phlegmy tobacco juice into the trash can. A defiant grin crept across his face, a grin that did not reach his narrowed eyes.

Howard’s face went round with shock. “Hey, no tobacco in the office.”

“Fuck you. It’s chew. Ain’t never gonna burn nothing, idiot.” Before Howard could respond, Frank slammed shut the door and clomped towards the exit.

Frank’s tread pounded across the parking lot and into the tarp-strew lobby which smelled of fresh latex paint. While wondering where the painters were, he marched through the finished lobby with its beige and green ceramic tiles, cursing Howard under his breath.

As he threw open the front door, the cooler air hit his face. He breathed deep and stood for a second, willing his pulse to return to normal. He watched the crows and seagulls picking from a discarded, overturned container of fast-food fries. Scavengers, he thought, but smiled. With their flitting and flying and chirping and cooing and cawing, Frank had always liked birds.

Before he knew it, his breathing steadied, and he sauntered through the lot towards his truck. And then he planted his heels, halting and groaning. He had to call Howard. The nearest payphone was next to the liquor store, so he turned towards Prospect, passed the security gate, and jabbed the crosswalk button. When the pedestrian light flashed ‘WALK,’ he crossed, looking up and pretend-shooting Eliot Ness with his forefinger, and then bounded to the phone. While humming the theme to The Untouchables, he fed the phone change.

He dialed, and after three rings got Art’s secretary, who put Frank on hold. As he waited, he realized the bum had frozen to death in this very alley. He shivered, hoping the guy had passed before the rats gnawed at his fingers, cheeks, and eyes. He had seen rats gnawing bodies, some still alive, in France during The War, and it still turned his stomach.

God, I hated that war. All those young soldiers dying, most with kids at home. For what? What a waste of life. Then he considered the death camps, reckoning he fought on the right side. He spat tobacco, rubbing spittle from his chin with the back of his hand. To hell with the Nazis, and fuck Hitler, the murderous little prick.

The line clicked. “Art Leadbetter, how may I help you.”

Frank snapped present. “Hey Art, it’s Frank. You hear about Otto?”

“Oh, hi Frank. And, yeah, I did. Just hung up with him. He’s nervous.”

“You blame him? That some rotten shit. Anyway, you told him we’ll take a collection to tide them over, right?”

“Of course,” Art said, his lawyer’s voice ringing with commanding certainty. “We’d never leave him hanging in the wind.”

“Good, I figured.” Frank sighed, and then shifted gears. “Anyways, you know we’ll have our work cut out for us come Monday. The guys’ll go wildcat. I mean, with all due respect, Howard didn’t think this through.”

“Nope. Not a wise move at all.” Art hummed without speaking for several long beats as if thinking. “An inexperienced manager, in over his head, trying to establish his bona fides as the tough guy and overplaying his hand.”

“About right, but I was... you know, following that Dale Carnegie stuff Manny sprung for.”

Art chuckled. “Don’t bother. Fuck him. Off the record, Howard’s a rotten human being who’s going to end up bankrupting his grandfather’s company if he ever gets hold of it.”

Frank grunted his agreement.

After two beats of uncomfortable silence, Art cleared his throat. “One other thing, someone called in a complaint against you.”

A black cloud rose in Frank’s mind, and he shook his head. “Bo?”

“Roundabout. Delaney Chase, point of fact. Said you busted Bo’s schnoz, sent him to the hospital.”

“That was me.” Frank’s shoulders slumped. “I mean, the guy was insulting my daughter, and he swung first. Plus we weren’t at work...”

“Witnesses?”

“Plenty.”

“Good, but I’ll have to investigate.”

“Figured. I mean, maybe I should have held back, him a union brother and whatnot. But dammit, he insulted my girl and called my son-in-law a n****r.”

“You did what anyone would. And off the record, you’re among a handful of guys I’d trust both next to me in a foxhole AND alone with my wife. Wouldn’t trust Bo or Delaney dog sitting.”

Frank’s heart warmed, expanding like liquid light. “Thanks, Art. You here Monday?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. we’ll keep the peace.” Art sighed as if the weight of the world lay on his shoulders. “Long weekend ahead of me, filing briefs for Otto, and now Monday’s fucked.”

Frank shook his head. “Sorry.”

Art scoffed, saying, “Wasn’t you, it was Howard.”

Frank smiled, glad he made his living with a hammer in his hand. Can’t take girders home with you.

He hung up with Art at just after three, crossing back over to the worksite and jingling his keys as he sauntered toward his Ford truck. A swirl caught his attention as he flushed several gulls, and his eyes traced their flight, losing them behind a building.

When he reached his parking spot, he stopped dead. Someone had written ‘N***R LOVER’ on the driver’s side, and ‘RACE TRAITOR’ on the hood and windshield in red spray paint. His blood boiled so hot it ran cold, and he said, “Son of a… I’ll knock Bo and Delany into next week…”

Frank fumed, his heart threatening to burst free of his chest, but caught himself. Anger wouldn’t help him, only action would: he had work to do. No use griping, so he turned and marched back to the payphone to file a vandalism report with his son Pat, his insurance agent, clenching and unclenching his tender fist, muttering under his breath.

Once again, Frank waited for the signal before crossing. Halfway through the intersection, he stopped dead, his heart throbbing, because he swore he’d seen a gargoyle statue above the liquor store move. Curious, he tilted back on his heels, hands in his pockets, and squinted up, peering at the building’s cornices and seeing nothing but seven solid stone sculptures, their surfaces eroded by the acid rain and defiled by wild-colored graffiti.

A car honked.

Shrugging and smiling in apology to the rail-thin driver dressed in a sharp black suit and black fedora, Frank said, “Sorry.”

Without warning, the skinny fucker flicked-off Frank, causing him to bristle and growl. Bo, Howard, the vandalism to his truck, and now this rude prick had Frank ready to explode, dragging this rude idiot from his car and beat him to a pup. But he couldn’t, so he turned back towards the payphone and was soon on the sidewalk, trying to remember a Dale Carnegie ditty to help him “do unto others” in this situation, but couldn’t.

At the payphone, he fished out more change, dialing his son Pat’s insurance agency. As it rang, he sensed a powerful entity protecting the softness within him, like the seraphim, and gargoyles protecting cherubs.

The phone continued ringing, and Frank counted until ten before hanging up.

He wondered if he had the number right, so fished out his wallet for the insurance card. As he double-checked the number, he swore he saw Eliot Ness nod to him, like a cop on his beat. Frank laughed to himself, taking his change from the coin-return and feeding the payphone again.

“Moving statues, Eliot Ness coming alive… damn, do I need some sleep,” he said, dialing from the card.