Chapter 4.

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Hands shot into the air.

From his makeshift stage atop an aluminum bench, Frank counted votes and grinned, savoring the promise of a long weekend. “The ‘ayes’ have it,” he said, “and we knock off at lunchtime.”

Most of the topping crew cheered in agreement, though a handful grumbled. But whether happy, sad, or somewhere in-between, the toppers disbursed, mingling with guys from other departments, enjoying the proverbial calm before the storm as they prepared to raise the forty-story monstrosity. Frank shook his head, heart somehow melancholy as he noted the vote count in his notepad, pondering the futility of making everyone happy. Which brought to mind yet another pearl of Dale Carnegie’s wisdom: “Happiness doesn’t depend on what happens to you, but what happens within you.” Spot-on.

Deep in thought, he stepped down and wove through the crowd towards the round-faced cherub Umberto and gawky gargoyle Boots.

Umberto nudged the tools stashed at his feet towards Frank, saying, “Glad as fuck it went through.”

“Amen.” Boots nodded, pulling on his heavy canvas outer jacket and zipping up. “Hey Frank, what do ya say, Theatrical for a liquid lunch? A lot of toppers’ll be there.”

Frank hoisted his tools. “Sure. Burgers and beer are the cornerstones of every nutritious diet.”

Laughing, they entered the lift, ascending towards the top of the building. Today, they should be able to complete the thirty-second floor before noon, provided they had enough material. As it was, they were almost nine floors from the skeleton being done, with like fifteen needing their glass and steel skin. Frank sighed, bemused at Howard’s stupidity, bringing in another crew.

The elevator thudded to a stop, depositing them on a platform on the twenty-fifth floor, the last stop. They headed for their separate workstations: Boots helping bolt the skin in place a story up, Umberto to his crane, and Frank climbing to the open sky where he tight-roped the girders towards the spot where Umberto would lift the next beam which Otto and he would bolt into place.

He winced, strapping himself into his safety harness, realizing it wouldn’t be Otto. Instead, Rubin had stuck him with Beauregard ‘Bo’ Childress. Bo’s father was a retired union brother, a mean-as-cuss numbnuts who’d retired a few years ago, getting Bo on as an apprentice after he knocked up some waitress he worked with and needed a job that’d pay for more than a beat-up Chevy, dope, speeders, and beer.

Frank sighed. Who was he to judge? He’d made plenty of mistakes in his life, especially in his twenties and thirties.

Straddling a horizontal beam and leaning his back against a vertical one, he sat, feet dangling thirty-two stories above the ground, bored. He reckoned the worst thing about relying on Bo was waiting. Frank had lived in constant motion, a blur moving from task to task: lather, rinse, repeat. Today’s idleness stressed Frank more than having too much on his plate.

Still, there was no way around it. He couldn’t work without help, so he replaced his ‘work mind’ with his ‘fishing mind’ since fishing was the only place you’d find Frank chilled and silent, sitting on his keister for hours.

For the first time in ages, he enjoyed the pretty view from his sky-perch. The clouds drifted, puffy pillows. And the crisp, cool air smelled clean, the breeze whisking away the chemical stench the plants in the industrial flats belched.

Thinking of industrial stink brought the fuck-ups at CLV Steel to Frank’s mind, so his eyes drifted towards the jagged jungle of smokestacks lining the Cuyahoga River, trying to locate the plant. No luck. The flats were too distant and jumbled, with nearby skyscrapers obstructing his view. But he had an unobstructed view of the river, and the dozens of barges hauling freight. Some had to carry their steel, he supposed. His gaze leaped from barge to barge up the river, through the port, trying but failing to find a CLV marker. But he soon forgot CLV and followed the line of barges past the metal and concrete break wall. A dozen or twenty miles out, in the deeper water of Lake Erie’s central basin, the stream of barges split. A handful headed east, towards Buffalo, Ontario, or the Seaway. But most cruised west, bringing steel and tires and salt and whatnot to Detroit, Gary, Chicago, or wherever.

Frank’s gaze swept the river, and he shook his head, remembering that the river had caught fire. A burning river: imagine that. Pollution. Factories, the lifeblood of Cleveland, damn near destroying it. CLV Steel giveth life, and CLV Steel taketh life away, he thought, a grim grin stretching his lips tight. Something biblical about rivers burning. What did the Bible say? Not water, but fire next time, and water burning sure reeked of God’s judgment.

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And yet, after that fire, they resurrected Lake Erie, cleaning the water. Hell, many weekends would find him out on the water, fishing for perch and walleye, fish they’d left for extinct in the ‘60s. Frank reckoned that was biblical too: death, cleansing, rebirth. But people forget the resurrection, fixating on death and destruction.

Why?

He shook his head, saddened by the ignorance of people. Frank reckoned he could ofttimes also act the fool.

“Welcome to humanity,” he said, his voice dry and wry.

He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice, which the wind scattered into tiny droplets. From this high, spit never made the ground.

Still, he imagined. following the pretend path of fantasy spittle to ground level, where it pelted pedestrians who eddied around building entrances. Some entered, others emerged. Some had briefcases, some had purses, the rest were empty-handed. Dozens shivered, sipping steaming styrofoam cups of coffee they’d purchased from a nearby deli. They scurried hither and thither, like ants. From this height, absent clues like a purse, he couldn’t tell if a bundled figure was male, female, young, old, black, white, or whatnot. Instead, their individuality melted into a liquid flow.

He smiled, content and relaxed, in awe of everything: people bustling, industry shipping, the cooks at the corner deli slinging hash and pouring coffee, parents carting their kids to school or the doctors, etc. And he had his small part, raising buildings, a stage where those lives unfurled.

His eye rested on his old buddy, Eliot Ness, nodding a hello. He imagined Ness nodding back, tipping his hat, which made Frank belly-laugh.

His artisan’s eye assayed the old building’s workmanship. Astounding. The mason work looked machined, precise, near perfect. And the detailing was superb, the harsh brick and concrete corners softened by sculpted floral flourishes and sculptures of cherubim spreading their joy across the world, with the armed seraphim protecting and fierce gargoyles scaring away demons.

Or so the story goes.

A story he put not one iota of stock in.

Frank stood, hands on his hips, balancing on an iron beam, and closed his eyes. Like a Druid of old, he laughed, his spirit merging with the wind. Filled with reverence, he made the Sign of the Cross, thanking God for the glorious day. Then, he asked God to help Otto’s family, to grant Otto and his wife strength and solace, and to stop him from strangling that rat-fink Howard.

When he opened his eyes, winged seraphim and cherubim circled about him, singing a glorious “Hallelujah,” in an ornate, choral style. He laughed, breathed deep, filling his lungs. And then, he spread wide his arms, transforming into a mourning dove to join the angels in flight. A forty-foot tall Eliot Ness struggled free from the building across the street, the brick liquid, Ness’s figure emerging from the wall into three-dimensional space, like a mixing-stick emerging from a can of paint, or a building emerging from blueprints.

Ness bounded across the street, leaping up the building Frank was working on, catching Frank as he leaped in the flat of his brick hand.

Ness set his brow. “Don’t be a fool,” he said, his voice rumbling so deep Frank felt it in his molars. “People don’t fly, they splat.”

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In a flash, Frank woke.

His heart surged in his breast.

He still sat on the girder, teetering on the edge between life and death, where he’d worked almost every day of his adult life. And for the umpteenth time, he dozed off and almost fell. Also, for the umpteenth time, he did not fall.

Who knew what umpteen-plus-one-times held for him, he pondered, suddenly afraid. He gulped, having seen safety harnesses fail, but he shrugged it off, steadying himself. He was used to the edge, having been a topper for over thirty years. Odds were, he’d retire, whole, hale, and healthy from that ledge, though only God knew for sure.

A movement behind Frank stirred him. Done wool-gathering, he stood and snapped a mock salute to Bo. The tall, shaggy biker saluted back as Frank sauntered with feline grace along the narrow beam towards the staging area, Bo meeting him there.

Frank summarized the work plan, slapping Bo’s back. “And now, we gotta motor. You’re late, we’re behind, and twiddling away our time.”

Bo’s face assumed a knowing look, nodding as if in understanding. “Sure enough,” he said with a faint West Virginia twang. Which made Frank want to roll his eyes, because Bo grew up several blocks from Frank, in Cleveland’s Shantytown neighborhood. “Like my pap always says, can’t never trust no coon to work.”

Frank suppressed a snarl, but he sensed displeasure clouding his face. “Jesus, Bo, no race crap. Otto’s a union brother, a family man with his wife and kid sick. Have a heart.”

Bo waved to the distance as if dismissing Frank. “Whatever, man. You know what they say about leopards and their spots.”

Frank groaned to himself. He knew Bo well. He also knew from leopards and spots.

Bo was a neighborhood kid who’d graduated with his daughter Mary Lou. He had always been one of ‘those’ kids, flunking twice and always fighting, cutting class, stealing cars, and whatnot. Nothing but trouble. And Bo didn’t change after graduating. He dodged the draft, worked a series of low-rent jobs, and had indifferent references. The only reason Bo didn’t get the boot was his father’s union card. Period. Lucky for him, being a legacy carried weight in the trades.

Frank turned and spat. This lout, whose father all-but-guaranteed him a job, has the nerve to call Otto, a straight-shooter who’d earned respect through hard work a “lazy coon?” Really?

Frank gestured to Umberto, who fired up his crane, and turned to Bo. “Let’s get going, fast as we can. We need to catch up. But quality work, no slop.”