In This Rain (2 page)

The money wasn’t that good, neither, now he thought about it. Maybe he’d tell Kong that. These three jobs, they was— what was it, when you was in the union? “Apprentice,” that was the word— they was apprentice jobs. Now you seen what I can do, you got to pay more. Yeah, that’s what he’d tell Kong. Serve the fucker right, always keep him waiting.

He jumped when the roof door creaked, but he made himself stay where he was. He watched Kong walk out onto the tar and look around. Big light-skinned fucker, head all shaved and shiny. Frowning around like this roof was his and better not be nothing on it he didn’t like.

Kong found T.D., nodded, and said, “T.D., my man.”

“I ain’t your man.” Fuck, this cocksucker was scratching on his last nerve.

Kong smiled. He didn’t move, but it seemed like maybe he did. Like sometimes on the corner, you could feel the subway running uptown even if you couldn’t hear it.

T.D. suddenly got cold. He blew out smoke and decided to quit. Didn’t have to put up with this shit. There was lots of work out there for someone smart and quick as him. “You got what you owe me?”

“Sure, T.D.” Kong walked toward him still smiling, like it was cool with him that T.D. was over by the tank and Kong had to do the work, walking over.

T.D. knew it wasn’t cool but fuck if he was going to say anything. He finished off the blunt, ground out the fire, and pocketed the roach. “About the next job,” he began. You got to give notice, he knew that. He wasn’t in no union but he knew about being businesslike.

“No next job, T.D.”

What shit was that? “The fuck you mean, no next job?” How could he give notice, walk out on this asshole, if there was no job to quit?

“There was a problem Friday, my man.”

“I ain’t your fucking man and there wasn’t no fucking problem! Nobody saw me, heard me, nothing. The way that storm was pounding my ass, you lucky I ain’t charged you double!”

“Guess you don’t read the paper.”

T.D.’s face heated up, like it always did when somebody talked about reading. His moms, always coming with Reading is all that, you got to try, Thaddeus, you just got to try some. He sneered, “Don’t have no time for that shit.”

Kong shrugged, like he knew it didn’t have nothing to do with time but he didn’t give a shit could T.D. read or not. “My people says there was a problem.”

People? The asshole coming like he got people? He somebody else’s people, no doubt about that. “Well, fuck,” T.D. said. “Don’t matter. Don’t want no more of your shit, anyway.”

“My shit? What shit is that?”

“I quit!” T.D. spoke too loud and too fast, like he seriously gave a damn. He told himself to chill. “I ain’t working for you no more. I already decided that, before you come talking about there was a problem.” There, at least Kong would know T.D. got there first.

Kong nodded like T.D.’s moms did sometimes, like T.D. was right but it didn’t matter. T.D.’s face went hot again.

“Just give me my fucking scratch,” T.D. said.

“I don’t think I got no more scratch for you, my man.”

“The fuck? The fuck you mean, you don’t think? You owe me!”

“You fucked up.”

“Bullshit! Oh, bullshit, nigger! You pay me, or you be sorry.”

“How you gonna make me sorry?” Kong asked this like he was just interested, like he was asking, How you gonna light that blunt, you ain’t got no matches?

“How?” Damn, that was a good question. But from nowhere, T.D. had the answer. “Them drawings you give me. For the first job? The ones you say I better study, the ones you was so serious, I better give ’em back?”

“You gave ’em.”

T.D. smiled big because Kong sounded confused. “I copied their asses.”

“Say what?”

“I got copies. Zee-rocks.”

Kong’s face rippled into a grin. “Naw. You ain’t got no copies. Why you gonna do that, make copies? I know you didn’t.”

“Did,” said T.D. Damn, this was fun. “Because you was so serious. I thought, these things is so important, maybe I need to keep ’em.” That wasn’t the real answer. T.D. liked those drawings. They were like little pieces of blueprints. He was planning on studying them. Not the way Kong said, but to practice making lines like the ones in them. Maybe even work out the words. “You want them, you got to pay me. What you owe me, plus extra. For my trouble. I got to go get ’em for you.”

“What, they far away?”

T.D. wasn’t falling for that, no way. “Just show me the money, bro.”

“Couldn’t be no trouble, getting ’em. You just ask your moms, right? Nice lady, your moms. Got a skinny ass like you. Or Shamika. Bet Shamika got ’em. Hot bitch like that, I know I’d give her my copies.”

“I ain’t saying, cocksucker! You want ’em, you gotta pay me.”

Kong nodded his huge head, up and down, up and down. “All I got to do? I pay you, you give me the copies? Awright.” Kong smiled again. Because of the blunt, T.D. didn’t see right away that this was a different kind of smile. He tipped to it just before Kong slammed him in the gut. As he crumpled, Kong’s fist smashed his jaw. The clouds spun crazily. T.D. sucked in air, tried to stand himself up. Kong clamped onto his arm. T.D. tried to shake him off, to yell What the fuck? but he didn’t have the breath and Kong didn’t let go.

All this time Kong didn’t say a word, even when he dragged T.D. to the edge of the roof, even when he picked him up, even when he tossed him off. Whoa, T.D. thought, tumbling through the air; and he tried to soar, swoop down near the rooftops and fly up again. For a second or two, he thought he had it.

Heart’s Content

“Jesus, Joe. Say something.”

But he could say nothing. Ann Montgomery stood at his door and he just stared.

A gust of wind streamed her unbuttoned coat and her hair behind her, giving her the look, against his dissolute front yard, of a stern Renaissance angel clipped from canvas and pasted on cheap pulp. She folded her arms as his silence stretched on. “Can I come in?”

“Ann,” he said. Two steps behind as usual, Joe, he pointed out to himself with the smugness of self-disgust.

“No, Mother Cabrini.” She swept past him as though he were not standing in the doorway, which he discovered he was not. As he always had done, he’d moved without thinking to accommodate Ann. “Joe.” She faced him. “This is no way to live.”

He looked around, trying to see the rented cabin with her eyes. Faded wallpaper, but fresh paint; battered furniture, but the scent of oil soap; vinegared-clean windows sheltered by pines, sunlight lying quietly on the grass beyond. He disagreed. It was a way to live.

Not a reason. But a way.

She plunked her bag onto his table and showed him his blank walls, his empty kitchen counter, his sofa, and the two kitchen chairs. Without asking, she turned and strode down the hall. He didn’t follow and she briefly vanished; he imagined her leaning in the bedroom door, taking stock. Returning, she stood, hands on hips; clearly, to her mind, she’d made her point.

He asked, “How did you find me?”

“Find you?” She let her arms drop. “I called your parole officer. Earth to Joe Cole. Come in, Joe?”

Of course she had. It’s what he’d have done if he were still on the job, and Ann was still on the job. She’d probably checked his employment status (a road crew with a contractor used to hiring men from the prison; they spread asphalt and crushed stone and he didn’t give them keys to the office), his credit rating (it was still good), the status of his divorce (final), and the custody arrangements for Janet (Ellie had full custody; he could visit anytime but he had to call first).

Joe had to say something, so he said, “You want coffee?”

“You have two cups?”

“Just about.” Actually he had three. The oddness of it had struck him when he’d taken the place: three coffee mugs, five plates, nine highball glasses, endless mismatched knives and forks, but just the two kitchen chairs.

All more than he needed.

He poured the coffee. Always, when he was here, he had coffee on. Even after he’d broken out the beer he’d leave the coffee cooking down and make a fresh pot when it thickened to sludge. In prison, coffee was strictly breakfast, lunch, and supper. Though if you behaved well and weren’t locked down and had a few tokens in your pocket, and if the moody machine worked, and if the iron men weren’t holding the dayroom just to prove they could— if all these stars aligned for you, you could buy yourself a cup of cloudy muck that smelled like scorched newspaper and made even construction-trailer coffee taste good in memory.

Belatedly, handing Ann a mug, he recalled that she took cream and sugar, lots of both. He had neither. Then, as she lifted and sipped without comment, it also came back to him that she took great pride in her ability to improvise, and to adapt.

She said, “I need you.”

Without an answer, Joe led her through the back door, out onto the porch.

Looking over the rail, Ann let her vision touch each part of the yard. “It’s nice back here,” she finally said, not in pleased surprise but grudging acknowledgment. Hearing her tone, watching her eyes, Joe could see her theories on who he’d become and how he lived now— suggested by his front yard, reinforced by his cabin— reeling from the blow of his garden.

City Hall

From a block away Charlie Barr spotted the news vans. He nudged Don Zalensky and pointed through the limo’s darkened glass.

“Want to go in underneath?” asked Herb Washington, the mayor’s bodyguard.

Charlie Barr ran his hand across his balding scalp. “No.” He pressed the talk button, told the chauffeur— NYPD like the bodyguards— “The front, Frank.”

The reporters on City Hall’s cobbled drive engulfed the limo, shouting questions as the mayor and deputy mayor climbed out. Herb cleared a path up the steps, with the other bodyguard, Jimmy Ryan, behind.

“Anything to say to the victim’s family, Mayor?”

“The DOI Commissioner and the IG for Buildings just went in— are they looking at someone in the Buildings Department?”

“What about it, Charlie? This a corruption problem?”

“Katz, New York Times. Could this be a result of your ‘fewer rules and regs’ program, Mayor?”

“Dolan Construction over again?”

The magic words. Charlie Barr stopped. He turned on the stairs and faced the reporters from mid-flight; he didn’t want the above-it-all image he’d get at the top. Microphones strained toward him and the hubbub died down.

He looked the crowd over, nodding to some, making a point to acknowledge Hutchings from The Amsterdam News. “First,” he said, “our deepest sympathy to Harriet Winston’s family. In this terrible time, they’re in our thoughts and prayers.” He took a respectful pause. “But: we have no reason to think that what happened at the Mott Haven development site was anything other than a tragic accident.”

“Then why a Sunday morning meeting, Mayor?”

That was what-the-hell-was-his-name, the new guy from CBS. Charlie made eye contact. “Because I want to be sure we don’t have a problem. And I want to be damn sure the city’s doing everything we can.”

“Denise Aday, NY1, Mayor. Three accidents in three weeks on that site, this last one fatal— you don’t think that’s a problem?”

“Of course it is. We’re investigating the accident and the contractor. If there’s any wrongdoing, we’ll find it. We owe that to Harriet Winston. The question for this meeting is— and this is why the Department of Investigation is here— the question is, should the city have done anything differently?”

“Like more oversight?” Aday shot back. “Rules and regs?”

She never quit, Charlie would give her that.

“Edgar Westermann thinks something’s not kosher,” shouted someone at the back. “You want to say anything about that?”

Yeah, I’d say it’s a funny choice of words, Charlie thought; but this was no time for smiling. “I saw his press conference,” he said. “The Manhattan Borough President is entitled to think whatever he wants.”

“Do you agree?”

“I’d rather have the facts before I make a statement like that. I’m about to meet with the Commissioners. I’ll fill you in later. Come back at two.”

He turned and double-timed the steps, Don hurrying beside him, Washington and Ryan keeping the shouting reporters at bay. Just before they hit the doors someone behind them yelled out, “Walter Glybenhall,” but the mayor didn’t turn around.

“You just set up a two o’clock press conference.” Don, a heavy smoker, wheezed as they pushed into the City Hall lobby. “You want Sue Trowbridge here?”

“No, I’ll handle it. But she might need to do a press release later. What’s that new guy’s name from CBS?”

“Bryon Quertermous.”

“Spell it?”

Don shrugged. He stepped aside and waited for the mayor to walk before him into the metal detector.

Charlie swept through without a beep. He was the mayor; he could go around the thing and save the guards embarrassment every time he forgot to take off his watch and they had to wand him. But No Exceptions was his policy, and as long as he followed it none of the Commissioners or Councilmembers could get on their high horses. And No Exceptions also meant No Complaining about favoritism or its in-fashion flip side, racial profiling. Dodging that headache was well worth the inconvenience of repocketing his change.

They trotted up the stairs. Don hated the stairs and Charlie knew it, but not as much as he himself hated being squashed in the private elevator with Don and the bodyguards: too many people in too small a space, standing still.

As they hit the second floor, Don clamped his cell phone to one ear and stuck a finger in the other. At the door to Charlie’s private office Don said, “I’ll get back,” and thumbed the phone off. The bodyguards gave the inner office a once-over, then retreated to the anteroom, closing the door.

“Sue’s standing by,” Don told Charlie.

“Good. Sorry about the stairs.”

“Why should today be any different?” Don jacked a Camel, shoved the pack back in his pocket. “Is it going to be a problem?”

“Is what?”

“The press digging into Three Star.”

“It’s already a problem. I don’t know what the hell Walter’s thinking. I can’t afford this. He can’t afford this.” Charlie pulled a contraband ashtray from a drawer— smoking was illegal in New York office buildings, an initiative the mayor, as a Councilmember, had co-sponsored— and clattered it to the desk.