Chapter 2.

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Frank’s pulse surged as someone called in the darkness. Awake, he jerked the hat from his eyes, wary of the Nazi patrol outside the cellar where his fireteam hid.

A deep breath filled his lungs as the world about him clarified. His heartbeat steadied. Because he wasn’t starving and sweaty, stuck hiding in that root cellar in Normandy, AR at his side, jackbooted Huns lurking, sometimes near, sometimes far, but always deadly. Instead, he stood facing the empty reception desk, a smirking Rubin motioning from the doorway.

Rotten war, rotten memories, Frank thought, stretching, still stuck in my craw, haunting my dreams, like a mental scar.

“Sorry, Frank,” Rubin said, his puffy eyes round and mouth a bemused grin, “didn’t mean to scare you like that, but goddamn, were you dead to the world.”

“Yeah, in la-la land, dreaming.” Frank stood and sauntered towards the office. “Reckon, I need my beauty rest.”

“Beauty rest? You? Aren’t enough hours in the day.”

Frank laughed, clapping Rubin on the back as he passed. “Got me there, brother, you got me there.”

If Rubin’s ribbing buoyed Frank’s heart, seeing Howard Roark, grandson of the company founder, Emmanuel ‘Manny’ St-Georges, as he entered the office caused it to fall splat.

The gaunt, gray-eyed thirty-something Howard, dressed in a charcoal suit and red tie, shook his head, tapping a pen on the metallic desk as if the world wasn’t moving fast enough for him.

Pompous putz, Frank thought, preparing to be a thorn in Howard's side, but nipped his stinkin’ thinkin’ in the bud, forcing a smile.

You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, he reckoned.

The meeting started friendly, Howard apologizing for the twenty minutes they left Frank alone in the lobby. Frank shrugged. “No worries.”

Howard shifted gears with an abruptness that made Frank’s innards lurch. The muckety-muck leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “As you know, the project’s running late, so I’d like to hire extra hands, short-term contracts, for the topper crew beginning Monday, to beat the winter. That doable?”

Frank leaned back, considering. Recruiting workers would be simple, but completing all thirty-two floors before winter shut them down? Near impossible. Still, he’d play along. Winter was hell on the trades, with many of his union brothers laid-off until spring, and they’d love extra Christmas money. “I’ll have Art round up the usual suspects,” he said, the ‘Art’ in question being the local union boss. “Got a req?”

Rubin handed over a paper from his clipboard.

“Thanks.” Frank glanced at the requisition. “Equipment?”

Rubin nodded. “Leased from Five Points last night, for delivery Sunday.”

The meeting continued, but with a nic-fit driving Frank crazy, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He longed to leave so he could chew a chaw, but they obviously needed a union rep around, so he forced himself present.

He soon learned why: the project’s girder supplier, the steel giant CLV, had missed another delivery. Which they'd been doing since slick Wall Street raiders bought the company in a “hostile takeover,” whatever that was.

Rich as they were, the idiots couldn’t run a deli, let alone a steel mill.

Anyway, Rubin reckoned they’d run out of girders near lunchtime, and Howard offered half-days for the topper crew: crane operators, and ironworkers like Frank.

“Dock-time,” Howard said, “but it’ll be a three-day weekend.”

“Long weekend sounds good, but,” Frank leaned forward, brandishing the requisition, saying, “you’re bringing in more toppers Monday. We gonna be ready?”

Rubin paged through the clipboard, nodding. “We’ve already sourced material from three suppliers. They’re delivering late tonight and early tomorrow, guaranteed. And sicced the corporate lawyer on CLV, for breach of contract.”

“And general incompetence,” Howard said, smirking. “They’re costing us. Big. Time to draw first blood.” His face glowed with a passion, reminding Frank of Manny.

Maybe the kid wasn’t a lost cause.

“Unleash the hounds of war,” Frank said.

The men chortled, and Howard faced Frank. “About the half-day?”

“My guess is it’ll be a ‘yes,’” Frank said, tasting the free time. “I’ll run a quick vote at eight.”

Howard growled. “Can’t you just order them?”

Frank set his jaw, suppressing an eye roll. “Can’t order them to do nothing. I ain’t their boss, I’m their union rep, which means I represent them in discussions with management. I don’t dictate, it’s a democracy.”

Howard grinned, smug. “That’s why I don’t like unions, they’re inefficient.” He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, and one last thing: the Otto business.”

Fire shot up Frank’s spine, lodging like a red-hot rivet between his eyebrows. “Not this again.”

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Howard’s face tautened. “Yes, this again. It’s my project, my family’s company, and I want him gone.”

To avoid saying something he’d regret, Frank took several deep breaths, forcing a smile to his face. The anger cooled to mere frustration.

Now controlled, Frank considered the ‘Otto business.’

Otto was an apprentice ironworker, albeit a good one: smart, steady, and reliable. The poor guy was up against a family emergency: his pregnant wife in the hospital, her sky-high blood pressure threatening both mother and unborn child. The guy was distraught, sleeping on a cot next to his wife, seldom leaving her side.

Howard had a young family, so should empathize. Instead, he had a hard-on for the apprentice that wouldn’t quit.

Why the hell?

Frank squared, staring Howard down, saying, “The union's lawyer discussed Otto with your grandfather and his lawyer on Wednesday. So you can't fire him. If you have questions, call them.”

Howard tapped a jagged rhythm on his desktop. “You’re sure you can’t go out on a limb for me?”

Frank scoffed. “I can, but I won’t.”

A lost, hapless look flashed across Howard’s face, replaced by feigned self-assured arrogance. Sensing he had Howard on the ropes, Frank remained silent and let the muckety-muck stew. Howard tapped his pen, fiddled with his tie, and scowled, muttering under his breath, seeming uncomfortable and hot under the collar to Frank.

Enough torture, Frank thought half a minute later. To break the tension, he placed his hands palms-down on the desk.

“Come on, boss, leave Otto alone. He’s an excellent employee. Do right by him, I guarantee it’ll pay off. Call Manny, talk it over.”

They sat without speaking, the room silent except for the swooshing wind and the tapping pen. Howard’s eyes shifted towards the door, and he pouted.

Actually pouted.

Lightweight, Frank thought, suppressing a derisive laugh. Not that Frank fancied himself Ali, but he knew from tough. In WW2, he’d faced Huns trained to put a bullet in his brainpan as Patton’s army marched across Europe. Compared to that, Howard was a paper tiger.

Still, Howard could fire Otto and him if he wanted. Though Howard would lose in court, he could make their lives hell waiting for the payout. Which made the paper tiger not quite toothless.

Howard sighed. “So, that’s the union’s stance?”

“It is. A contract’s a contract, Manny’s word’s his bond.”

Howard glanced sidelong at Rubin, who shrugged, his expression a wordless, “Told you so.”

Grinding his molars, Howard’s attention ping-ponged between the other men for several beats with a steady tempo. “So you’re both taking that lazy half-breed coon’s side against the firm?” he asked, referring to Otto’s heritage, his father an Ottawa Indian and his mother black.

A jolt shot up Frank’s spine, and he said, in a harsh, steely voice, “Knock off that race crap. It’s nineteen-seventy-eight, not nineteen-oh-eight, for Christ’s sake. Besides, Otto’s a Vietnam vet, so America owes him.”

Howard’s mouth gaped open, and he held his hands in front of him, palms open. “Wait. I mean — I mean, I didn’t mean — Christ, I meant no disrespect.”

“Forget about it.” Frank paused for emphasis. “Anyway, Otto stays on the payroll, per the agreement, on personal leave.”

Howard muttered to himself, looking towards Rubin, whose shoulders shrugged, his expression a non-verbal, “So it goes.”

Frank leaned forward, and their attention shifted to him. “Look, firing Otto's a lost cause. The union will drag you into court, and you’ll lose. And consider the consequences. The guys know Otto's facing a family tragedy. Could be them tomorrow. Fire him, they’ll pull a slowdown and threaten to strike. Sure, Art and I will intervene, but that’ll take time, sending the project further behind schedule. You want that?”

Howard stewed in silence, and the pen resumed tapping.

A smirk Frank couldn’t control slid across his face because he had Howard dead to rights. “And you won’t be able to fire them either.”

Howard scoffed, and then said, his voice pinched and his face flushing red, “The damned agreement?”

“Yup.” Frank leaned back, steepling his fingers.

Howard’s face went stark, all cheekbones and tight lips, his focus inward. “Fucking unions.”

Frank pumped his imaginary fist into the imaginary air, thinking, Knockout. But once again, his conscience pinched, and he gulped, realizing he was acting as prideful as Howard.

He envisioned Saint Peter, scale in one hand and the key to the kingdom in the other, asking why Frank hadn’t “done onto Howard as he’d have had Howard do unto him.” Worse, Peter would know the company had sent Frank to that Dale Carnegie Course on Effective Communications when he first became a union rep, where he learned techniques for “doing well onto others.”

No fooling Peter.

Frank smirked at the irony. It was like God had pranked him into seeing Howard’s pride while acting like a prideful prick himself. He recalled that old saw, about seeing the splinter in your neighbor’s eye, but not the plank in your own, and sighed.

Scripture. It gets you every time.

Ready to stand, he planted his boots on the ground. “Mind if I go call Art and have the guys vote?”

Howard frowned. “We’re done, but it’s still bullshit. My company, my choice, but, you fucking union assholes….”

Pushing upright, Frank steeled and said, “We’re just regular guys looking out for each other. Manny appreciates the work we do, negotiated in good faith, and signed an agreement. Don’t like it, call him, and don’t insult us, don’t try making me feel inferior because I wasn't born rich.”

Howard’s glance flicked away.

A cold, mischievous grin slid across Frank’s face as he leaned back on his boot heels, victorious. Maybe he was Ali.

“Mind if I take care of the union business, boss?”

Howard waved, dismissing him. Frank shut the office door with a thud, reaching into his pocket, chomping off a plug of tobacco, savoring the nicotine buzz which washed away the bitter taste Howard left in his craw. He called Art from the receptionist’s phone. No answer, so he called the union’s answering service, leaving a message with the payphone number in the employee hut. After donning the skullcap, Frank split the construction office, heading for the employee bunker.

I’ll never understand that prick. I mean gunning for Otto, kicking a defenseless man when he’s down. What the hell?

His Irish up, Frank saluted the image of Eliot Ness, the FBI man who put down the murderous Al Capone. Ness’s stony gaze followed him as he marched, the earth quivering with each step, his heels sledgehammers splintering cement and smashing bedrock, sending a murder of crows, a gaggle of geese, and a flock of seagulls, who’d been foraging in the parking lot, scattering skyward as he stomped past, saying “Goddamned flying rats,” his voice booming so loud that the rats themselves dove for cover.