Heels of Steel

by Barbara Kavovit

  “You okay for money, darling?” He must have asked three times a day. No matter how she answered, he was always worried about her finances, sticking a twenty-dollar bill into her jacket pocket or the front of her purse whenever he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Bridget was sad when the table was finished, expecting her father to go back home and take up his job hunt again, but the next day he showed up as usual, a sandwich in one hand and a stack of newspapers in the other. He retrieved a yellow highlighter from Bridget’s desk, settled himself at the table he had made, spread out the papers and glanced up at her. “I’ll admit that there might be something to this female-led construction company thing, but you need my help,” was all he said before he bent his head and began to read.

  Every day for weeks, Bridget worked the phones. She called past clients to make sure they were satisfied and see if they needed anything else from her. She called people she had met at parties and luncheons who had shown any interest in what she did. She checked in with the small network of architects, building owners and owners’ reps that she had come to know, seeing if they had anything new for her to bid on. But she was still stuck in the small-time renovation ghetto. She couldn’t seem to get anything commercial—everything involved bathtubs and new kitchens. She liked working in people’s homes. Small residential jobs kept her afloat. But if you really wanted to be someone in construction, it had to be bigger—much bigger. Bridget dreamed of a whole block of condos, an entire chain of retail stores, ten stories of corporate offices, an entire building from the ground up. She wanted stadiums and concert halls. She wanted to build a skyscraper. And Bridget knew she’d never get there if she couldn’t find a crack into that side of the market.

  While she worked the phones, her father read every newspaper—from the New York Times and Wall Street Journal to the New York Post. He was looking for businesses that were expanding or moving. Every day he would bring her pages and pages of highlighted names of corporations that he insisted she should be calling.

  “What about this one, darling?”

  Her father showed her a news story in the business section of the Times about a chain of bookstores that was expanding its headquarters.

  “Russo Construction already won that bid,” she said.

  Her father frowned and turned the page. “Well, what about this place, then?” A celebrity chef who wanted to open up his own marketplace.

  She shook her head. “Russo got that one, too.”

  Her father knit his brow. “Who is this Russo?”

  “One of the biggest and oldest commercial contractors in the city. If they want something, they get it.”

  “Hmph,” said her dad, pulling out the Wall Street Journal. “Well, have you heard about this development along the waterfront in the financial district? Eagle something—”

  “Eagle Point. Yeah. Everyone has heard of it, Daddy. It’s been shut down.”

  He pursed his lips. “So prime real estate is just sitting there half built? Surely, they’ll find the right construction company and start up again?”

  She shook her head. “The last construction company tried to get around hiring union workers and hire only nonunion and the delegate shut the project down. Nobody is doing anything there now. Can’t get any deliveries and no one will cross the picket line.”

  Her father looked her in the eye. “So you should call the developer.”

  She laughed in response. “Daddy, don’t be silly. I’m not a union contractor. I don’t have experience with that kind of building, and they’re not going to want some random woman from the Bronx butting in, anyway.”

  He tsk-tsked. “I know I didn’t raise a daughter who quits even before she begins.”

  “I’m not quitting anything, Daddy. It’s just unrealistic and would be a complete waste of my time.”

  He smiled at her. “But how will you know that’s true if you don’t even try?”

  * * *

  The next morning Bridget came into the office, hung up her jacket, took one look at her father, who was already sitting there expectantly, highlighter at the ready, and shook her head as she picked up the phone.

  “Hello, this is Bridget Steele of Steele Construction. I’d like to speak to Mr. Peter Hannity about the Eagle Point project.”

  She could see her father’s satisfied smile beaming at her from all the way across the room.

  “Oh, he’s not available? May I leave my number?”

  She dictated her number and then hung up the phone and looked at her still-grinning father. “Are you happy now?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  * * *

  It became a habit. Every morning, for twenty-five days in a row, Bridget walked into her office, hung up her jacket and called Peter Hannity’s office. Before she had her coffee, before she started in on her long list of other calls she needed to make, sometimes before she even sat down, she made that call. And every morning, for twenty-five days in a row, she got the same polite refusal from Peter Hannity’s secretary to put her through.

  She knew it was hopeless. She knew that she had no business going after a job so beyond her experience. She didn’t know what the scope of work would be and she’d hardly know where to begin even if she did get it. And every day, after she hung up the phone, she swore to herself that would be the last time she’d call.

  But then the next morning she’d walk into her office, see her father’s expectant smile and sigh. Then she’d pick up the phone again.

  On the twenty-sixth day Bridget’s office phone rang. A number she didn’t recognize.

  “Steele Construction,” she said, making her voice both higher and more nasal so it would sound like she was her own secretary.

  “May I speak with Miss Bridget Steele?”

  “And whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Mr. Peter Hannity.”

  Bridget blinked. Peter Hannity. Peter Hannity!

  She was so excited she forgot to put him on hold before she changed back to her normal voice. “Mr. Hannity? This is Bridget Steele.”

  Hannity paused for a brief moment. “Oh.” He chuckled. “Oh, I used to do the same thing when I was starting out. Except I had my wife answer and pretend to be my assistant.”

  Bridget laughed, embarrassed. “Well, um, I don’t have a wife or a husband.”

  “Indeed, indeed... In any case, Miss Steele, I am calling because every day for this past month I have received a message from you, and every day I have ignored it. But I’m starting to get impressed by your persistence. Plus, my secretary just told me she would quit if I didn’t finally call you back.”

  Bridget’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of her chest. Her hands were shaking. She forced herself to sound calm. She looked for her father, who, for once, was not in the room. “Yes, sir. I wanted to speak to you about your Eagle Point development...”

  * * *

  “Daddy!” Bridget was roaring as soon as she got off the phone, running out the door to find her father sitting outside, nursing a cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and sitting on a hijacked office chair in the weak sunlight. “Daddy! Oh, my God! He called! He called!”

  Her father turned to her, his face placid. “Who, darling?”

  “Peter Hannity, Daddy! He wants me to come in and discuss Eagle Point! He wants to speak to me about negotiating with the union!”

  Her father’s face split into a beaming grin. “Oh, but that’s wonderful news!”

  Bridget stood there for a moment, suddenly washed in fear. She felt like she couldn’t breathe. “But...but what do I know about negotiating with a union? And even if I manage to do that, what do I know about building something this big?”

  Her father rolled his eyes. “Good Lord, Bridget. Your entire life has been nothing but negotiations. ‘Bridget, take the garbage out.’” He mimicked her voice, “‘I will i
f I can have extra dessert.’ ‘Bridget, pick up your towel off the floor.’ ‘I will if I can have the bigger, fluffier towel next time I take a bath.’ And as for building something this big, what did I teach you? You can build anything if you take it piece by piece.” He beamed at her. “You can do this. You know you can.”

  Bridget bit her lip, took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “You’re right. I can. I can totally do this.”

  Her father reached for her hand and squeezed. “Now I’m happy.”

  * * *

  It was odd, Bridget thought, where life takes you. If she hadn’t been mugged, her father might not have brought her a model to build, and if she hadn’t built that model, she might not now be standing dockside in the middle of a dead construction site, waiting for the union delegate, Sal Delmonico, from the Local 6, to show up.

  Once a site bustling with hundreds of carpenters, electricians and masons all working like ants to build an ultra-exclusive condominium development for the mega-rich, now all that remained were stacks of rotting wood, moldy drywall and crumbling bricks strewn across the ghost town that had been advertised as the new premier private community in downtown Manhattan. Bridget shook her head at the abandoned garbage dump this priceless piece of property had become.

  “It’s a real shame, eh?” said a voice behind her.

  Bridget turned to face a man wearing a blue polyester suit and what she was pretty sure was a fake Hermès tie. He was smoking a cigarette and his mustache put Sam Elliott to shame.

  “You Steele?” asked the mustache.

  “You must be Delmonico,” said Bridget. She put out her hand to shake.

  Delmonico waited a beat before he took it. His grip was so tight and clammy that Bridget could swear she heard a squelching noise as their hands parted.

  “A girl, huh? What’s Hannity’s game here?”

  Bridget shrugged. “No game. I was asked to negotiate a deal so we can move forward and get this project built.”

  Delmonico stared at her for a moment and then casually spat off to the side. “Let me paint you a picture,” he said, making a sweep of his arm toward the water. “Women who look like a young Cindy Crawford sitting on the decks of their husbands’ two-hundred-foot yachts, which are strategically docked smack dead in front of their condos that jet right out over the river. Three-hundred-sixty-degree views, floor-to-ceiling windows, plunge pools and gold-plated faucets. Chefs’ kitchens that actually come with their own personal chefs.” He paused to inhale from his Marlboro and then blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. “It was going to be a candy land sprinkled with diamonds, mink, big dicks, fake tits and cocaine.”

  “Sounds nice,” said Bridget.

  “It would’ve been.”

  “And you ended it all,” said Bridget.

  Delmonico smiled a big, satisfied grin. “And I ended it all. Kicked ’em in their balls so hard that they’re still down on the floor crying like little girls. They came whining to me about how they couldn’t afford to hire union labor. Wanted to make a deal so they could bring in a bunch of scabs. Said the whole job would go down if they couldn’t cut costs. So I pulled the plug. One hundred percent union or no deal, I always say.”

  Bridget nodded thoughtfully. “How about fifty percent union?”

  Delmonico’s face scrunched up. “Did you not hear what I just said?”

  “It sounded to me like you said you killed the chance for a whole lot of your guys to get some solid work. I wonder what they thought about that?”

  Something passed over Delmonico’s face and Bridget knew that she’d hit a nerve. “My guys got more work than they can handle.”

  “Yeah? Because at the very least this is a two-year contract, and if the client likes what your guys and my nonunion guys can do, there’ll be plenty of future projects for everyone.”

  Delmonico sneered. “What makes you think there will be future projects for you? I only brought you here to set you straight. You want to work with me and my local? You gotta know the score. Other guys have messed with me and see that river?” He pointed out to the steel-gray Hudson, still dotted with chunks of late-spring ice. “That’s a real strong current. You’d get sucked right under the ice, if you happened to fall in.”

  Bridget felt her stomach clench, but she forced herself to laugh. “So now you’re going to throw me in the river? Listen, Hannity told me to tell you that it’s me or no one. He’s sick of screwing around. If we can’t make a deal, he’s donating this property to the city to make a waterfront park and taking the tax write-off. How do you think your boys would feel about that?”

  Delmonico looked at her sharply. Bridget kept her face carefully neutral, but her heart pounded. Hannity had said no such thing.

  Delmonico threw the stub of his cigarette and ground it under his heel. He looked back at her. “And what do I get out of it?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean? How about none of the guys from your local will be sitting on the bench for at least two years? That’s what you get.”

  Delmonico took a step toward her. “Yeah, but say I agree to your terms—fifty percent union, fifty percent whatever dregs you bring in—what are you going to do to sweeten the deal?”

  “Are you talking about a kickback? About money?”

  He shrugged and grinned. His teeth were yellow and stained. “Money or—” he let his eyes drop to her breasts “—whatever else you think might make me feel good about things.”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “Not if you were the last man on earth, Delmonico.”

  He laughed and reached for her. “Look at them nice big titties.”

  She grabbed his wrist and twisted just like her dad had taught her.

  “Ow! Shit! That hurts!” he yelped.

  She twisted harder. “You know what else I’ve got, Delmonico? A nice big mouth. You think the press would like to hear the story of the union head who molested the sweet, innocent girl contractor?” She glanced at the ring on his finger. “You think your wife wants to hear about that, too?” She threw down his arm.

  He sneered at her as he rubbed his wrist. “You’re going to be sorry you ever met me, Steele.”

  She turned to go. “I already am.”

  * * *

  Bridget sat in her apartment in the dark, a glass of cheap tequila on the table in front of her. She didn’t know whether to drink or cry.

  She’d been so close. She’d almost had it in her hands. The kind of project that would have changed everything. The kind of shot that she was pretty sure she’d never see again. Damn Sal Delmonico and his stupid freaking mustache.

  She looked at the drink and sighed. She had yet to call Hannity and she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. Better to get it over with so she could get drunk in peace.

  She reached for the phone, but before she could pick it up, it rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, I guess your persistence paid off again!”

  She blinked. “Mr. Hannity?”

  “You’re a genius, Bridget! I don’t know what you said to Delmonico, but he’s in. Fifty-fifty just like we planned. We can start work again next week!”

  She was stunned. “We can?”

  “So I’ll see you Monday at my office? We’ve got a lot to do.”

  She gulped. Her hands were shaking. “Yes. I mean, yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “No, Bridget, thank you!” He chuckled. “I had a feeling about you, and honestly, I could not be more delighted that it panned out. Go celebrate! This is a very, very big moment for you and your company.”

  Bridget hung up the phone, sat for a moment. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it would explode. She picked up her drink.

  “To...to Steele Construction,” she whispered as she brandished her drink in the air. She took a gulp and grinned as the tequila burned down her throat.

/>   Then she picked the phone back up to call her father.

  Chapter 4

  After Bridget brought in the Eagle Point job ahead of schedule, within budget and with minimal change orders, her reputation as a premier builder got out, and a flood of requests came rolling in: Bloomingdale’s, Carnegie Hall Towers, Yahoo.com, Coty, Inc., work on Scarlett Hawkins’s corporate offices and estates that netted Bridget TV and print exposure.

  Steele Construction was finally at the top of the NYC construction game. The projects were large—fifty thousand square feet and above—and the brand names she worked for were even bigger.

  Bridget found herself walking the halls of Sotheby’s painting storage facilities as the curator pointed out Pollocks and Manets and Warhols, Picassos, Cassatts and Kahlos.

  “Each piece,” said the curator, a tall, angular woman with severely parted silver hair, “is given an individual temperature-and light-controlled compartment before it’s brought up for auction. We need to make more room, of course—we’re expanding—but we also need to modernize everything, the HVAC, the lighting, the humidity control.” She slid out a small, brightly colored painting of a chair and looked knowingly at Bridget. “A lesser-known van Gogh,” she said, pronouncing the “Gogh” with a hard, guttural goff sound. “Do you like it?”

  Bridget nodded, awed. The painting practically gleamed with otherworldly beauty. She imagined how it would feel to own such a thing.

  “We expect the first bids on this painting to be upwards of fifteen million dollars. So you see, with these kinds of stakes, there is no room for error. We are responsible for some of the finest treasures in the world, and we take that very seriously. Everything must be perfect. Nothing overlooked. Which is why we hired you. We have been assured that you never miss a thing.”