by Steve Gannon
“I needed him inside running trim,” answered Nash. “The owners are coming by Friday, and Tony wants the interior done by then. Now, if you two don’t mind, I’d appreciate seeing some of this cedar gettin’ nailed.”
“No problem.” Junior looped the air hose around the safety bar, securing the gun. “Come on, Red. Going up.”
Travis reluctantly mounted the plank and moved to one end, placing his foot in the jack stirrup. Glancing over, he saw Junior do the same. Without speaking he began to pump.
It took a number of minutes to raise the scaffold plank to the spot where Pete and Travis had quit for lunch, over twenty feet above the ground. The hillside at the base of the wall fell away sharply, making it seem even higher, and Travis noticed that Junior had remained strangely silent on their ascent. He also noticed that the higher they rose, the more carefully Junior had matched his own movements on the jack. With a feeling of satisfaction, Travis realized Junior was terrified of the vertical environment in which he himself felt completely at home. “You aren’t afraid of heights, are you?” Travis asked, locking off his jack.
“Screw you, pussy. I ain’t scared of nothin’.”
“Whatever you say.” Travis moved to the center of the plank to select the first length of cedar. In transit he pretended to stumble, causing the scaffold to shake. He smiled as he saw the blood drain from Junior’s face.
For the next two hours Travis and Junior worked steadily, nailing up the cut lengths Wes sent from below. Travis hauled wood and helped place the pieces, occasionally sending down a board to be recut. Junior nailed. Neither spoke more than necessary. They progressed smoothly up the wall, ascending another eight feet by midafternoon, and despite his dislike for the man sharing the plank, Travis grudgingly had to admit that Junior was a skillful carpenter. If it hadn’t been for Junior’s sadistic game with the nail gun, the afternoon might have even been pleasant.
Two things must happen for a pneumatic nail gun to fire: The trigger must be depressed, and the nose of the gun must be firmly pressed against a surface to trip a safety mechanism in the tip. It’s possible to circumvent this dual triggering feature by manually holding down the safety catch in the tip, something Junior amused himself by doing from time to time when Wes wasn’t looking—shooting at birds, the equipment trailer, and various other objects within range. But as the day wore on, he found another target: Travis.
At first it had merely been irritating. The small finish nails they were using tumbled as soon as they cleared the barrel, rarely hitting point first. But from close range—say, twelve feet, the length of the scaffold plank—they stung, especially when they hit bare skin.
Several nails had pelted Travis before he figured out what Junior was doing. He’d slapped at his legs, thinking he was under attack by a persistent horsefly. The third time it happened he caught Junior in the act. “Knock it off,” he warned.
“Or what?” said Junior with a smirk. “Gonna go cry to your big brother? Or maybe you wanna call your mommy.”
“Just cut it out.”
Junior considered the situation, obviously enjoying himself. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s make it interesting. A hit scores one for me; a miss one for you. First to a hundred wins. Ten bucks says it’s me.”
“Gee, that sounds like a lot of fun. Maybe some other time.”
Junior feigned disappointment. “Okay, then we’ll call it an experiment. I’ll say move. If you get outta the way in time, you don’t get hit. I predict by the end of the day I’ll have you jumpin’ like a trained flea. What do you say, pussy?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“Not an option,” Junior chuckled, pulling the trigger. The nail caught Travis on the back of his hand. “Oops, forgot to say move.”
“What’s going on up there?” Wes called up from below.
“Nothin’, boss,” Junior shouted down. “Just trainin’ the new guy. Right, Travis?”
Travis rubbed the growing welt on his hand.
“Quit screwing around and get to work.”
“You got it. Let’s move, Red,” Junior barked, grinning as Travis flinched.
Ignoring Wes’s warning, Junior continued his game, taking shots when he couldn’t be seen from below, aiming at Travis’s legs, arms, and the back of his neck. Travis tried to avoid the nails as best he could, miserably waiting for the day to end. But otherwise he did nothing, telling himself it would be too dangerous to start a fight on a plank thirty feet above the ground. Besides, a fight would get him fired, and losing his job was something he didn’t want to explain to his father. But deep down, he knew the real reason he didn’t retaliate: Junior was just too damn big.
Every time Wes left to check on the rest of his crew, Junior resumed his puerile diversion in earnest, gleefully inflicting his stinging depredations on Travis. The longer it went on, the more humiliated Travis felt, and the bolder Junior became. To make matters worse, Travis realized with a flush of shame, Junior’s prediction was coming true. He was beginning to cringe involuntarily every time Junior yelled move.
“You know something?” Travis said finally, burning with frustration and anger. “You’re sick, Junior. You’re nothing but a sadistic asshole.”
“You gonna cry for me, Red? C’mon, let’s see some tears.”
“Drop dead.”
“Okay, you don’t wanna cry, then move!”
Travis fought not to react.
Junior laughed. “Damn, your trainin’ seems to be undergoin’ some kinda relapse.” He sprayed several shots at Travis’s legs. “I said move!”
Toward the end of the day a pattern of angry welts covered most of the exposed skin on Travis’s arms and legs. The only thing detracting from Junior’s enjoyment was a progressively mounting bout of stomach cramps that had increased in severity as the afternoon wore on. “Man, I’m never eatin’ them fuckin’ enchiladas again.” he groaned after a particularly acute attack. “I gotta hit the crapper. Let’s get this thing on the ground.”
Travis glanced down at the cutting table. Wes was gone. “We aren’t finished for the day.”
“Now, pussy,” Junior ordered, hurrying to his end of the plank. “We’re goin’ down.” He placed his foot in his jack and looked over, waiting for Travis to do the same.
Travis hesitated, noting the urgency in Junior’s tone. Stinging from an afternoon of ridicule and abuse, he came to a decision. As he turned and walked to his jack at the other end, he deliberately kicked the ½-inch hauling line over the side. It dropped to the ground, uncoiling as it fell. “Now look what I did,” he said. “Guess I’ll have to go get it.”
Without another word he grabbed the metal support pole and placed his feet firmly against the wall, bridging the four-foot gap with his body. Alternately moving up his hands and feet while maintaining outward pressure on both, he rapidly scrambled to the overhanging eaves.
“Hey, where the hell you goin’? Get down here!”
“Be back in a sec,” Travis promised, shifting a hand to one of the rafters. Smoothly, he swung over a leg and mantled to the roof.
“Goddamn you, get back here!”
Without answering, Travis crossed the sloping roof surface. He dropped over the side again just past the chimney chase, hanging by his hands from the eaves in a section where the exterior had yet to be sheathed. Quickly he kicked through the paper and insulation stapled between the studs, then swung into the house. By the time he exited on the ground floor, a small crowd had gathered at the base of the scaffolding, drawn by Junior’s angry calls. They stood in a loose semicircle, laughing and jeering at his predicament.
“Slide down the pole, Junior,” someone hollered.
“Climb up to the roof like the kid did,” advised another who’d witnessed Travis’s scramble.
“Jump!” offered a third.
“Fuck you!” Junior bellowed down, holding his stomach as he raced across the plank from end to end—first ratcheting down one jack a little, then the other—tedious
ly lowering himself.
Wes, who’d returned to investigate the cause of the yelling, moved to stand beside Travis. “What happened?” he asked, glancing curiously at the welts on Travis’s arms and legs.
Travis shrugged. “I knocked the rope off the plank. I climbed down to get it, then couldn’t get back. Guess Junior’s nervous up there without me.”
“Looks worse than nervous. More like desperate.”
“Yeah, he does, doesn’t he?”
Quitting time was fast approaching. Welcoming any diversion to consume the final minutes of the work day, the rest of the crew rapidly joined those already gathered below Junior, with a festive atmosphere soon pervading the mocking assembly. Inch by inch Junior lowered himself, all the while reviling those below, saving his most dire threats for Travis.
By the time he had dropped the plank to within sixteen feet of the ground, he’d grown frantic and had resorted to hunching over in a curious crouch to ease his cramps, his simian posture inspiring a whole new generation of imaginative heckling. Driven by his distress and unable to wait any longer, he finally hung by his hands from the edge of the plank. His boots still dangled eight feet from the ground when he let go.
Junior hit the dirt in a low squat, dropping heavily on his hands and feet, his ignominious landing accompanied by the prolonged, sonorous resonance of a noisy and distinctively wet-sounding fart.
“Damn, Junior,” one of his friends hooted over the laughter. “You got the Hershey’s squirts! You sure as hell ain’t riding home with me!”
Glaring furiously, Junior pushed through the crowd and waddled toward the outhouse, a telltale smear of glistening brown oozing through the seat of his jeans, clearly evident to everyone there. Travis laughed with the others, trying to ignore a plunging presentiment of doom.
At last, as the boisterous assembly drifted off to roll up for the day, Pete Wilson joined Travis by the cutting board. “Good one, Trav,” he sputtered, wiping away tears of amusement.
“Yeah,” said Travis dully.
“I saw a little of what was going on up there with the nail gun. Cobb had it coming. He’s a mean one, though,” the older man added somberly. “He don’t forget much, either. Hope it was worth it, kid.”
15
The following evening Allison answered McKenzie’s knock at the front door. Her friend was wearing a pair of crisply pressed jeans, Nike tennis shoes, and a soft cotton cardigan. Allison also noticed that for tonight’s date with Travis, McKenzie had applied a careful hint of makeup to her eyes and lips, and she was wearing her raven hair loose and full on her shoulders. Despite her nervousness, McKenzie looked radiant.
“Uh … hi, Ali,” she said. “I thought I would walk down early, save Trav a trip. Is he ready?”
Allison pursed her mouth in a prudish parody of disapproval and regarded her friend critically before replying. “You know, Mac, if you’re going to date, you should at least pick someone from your own species.”
“He’s your brother, Allison.”
“Only by some cruel twist of fate. I’ve got the hospital checking the records,” said Allison, still not sure how she felt about the surprising development between McKenzie and Travis.
Hearing voices, Travis emerged from his room down the hall. “Ali, where’s Tommy? I don’t want to be late the first time I—” He stopped when he saw McKenzie. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi, Trav. I walked down,” said McKenzie shyly. Then, with a roll of her eyes, “Dad wants me home by eleven-thirty.”
“In answer to your question, handsome,” Allison interjected, “Tommy already left to pick up Christy. He said he would be back for you soon. I hope you guys have a good time,” she added.
“You do? Who are you, and what have you done with my sister Allison?” asked Travis.
“If you look carefully, brother dear, you’ll find big green pods under all the beds in the house, including your own.”
Travis grinned. “Get rid of them all except Dad’s. His is liable to be an improvement.”
As if on cue, Kane strode in through the front door. “Damn, did Kate have another kid while I wasn’t looking?” he asked, scowling at McKenzie.
“Hi, Mr. Kane,” laughed McKenzie, long inured to Kane’s rough brand of humor.
“You’re not staying for dinner again, are you?”
“No, sir. We’re grabbing a pizza in Westwood before the movie.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to start sending your dad a food bill.”
Just then a series of impatient honks from Tommy’s newly acquired Tahoe sounded outside. “Come on, McKenzie, we have to go,” said Travis. “See you, Dad.”
“You girls have fun,” Kane called after them. Then, bellowing into the house, “Kate, I’m home. How about whipping up some chow?”
“Mom’s not here,” said Allison. “She started rehearsals with the Philharmonic yesterday, remember?”
“That’s only supposed to be during the day.”
“Tuesday’s a double rehearsal. She decided to eat dinner with Adele afterward and attend a special performance they’re having at eight. She left a note for you by the fridge.”
Muttering to himself, Kane stomped into the kitchen, finding Catheryn’s note on the counter beside a partially eaten vegetable casserole. He quickly scanned her neat, Catholic-school penmanship. “She wants us to heat up some crummy leftovers for dinner?” he called to Allison.
“Just you, Dad. Nate and I already ate.”
“Hmph. Where the hell is Nate, anyway? Hey, Nate!” Kane returned to the entry and pushed on the trapdoor in the ceiling. “Damn—the little peckerwood’s got it locked. What the hell are you doing up there, Nate? Chokin’ your chicken?”
“I don’t think Nate’s old enough to have discovered his chicken yet,” called Allison, who by then had retreated to her room down the hall.
“Don’t be concerning yourself with your brother’s privates,” Kane advised. “People might get the wrong idea. Like me. Hey, Nate!”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Nate’s voice drifted down. The trapdoor lifted and his head popped through the hole. “Hi, Dad.”
“What were you doing up there?”
“Reading,” answered Nate, who had recently discovered L. Frank Baum’s Wizard of Oz collection at the library and over the past weeks had been spending most of his free time discovering Baum’s whimsical pleasures.
“Reading? When did you learn to do that? Never mind. Go back to your book. I just wanted to see what you were up to.”
“Sure, Dad.”
Still grumbling over Catheryn’s absence, Kane returned to the kitchen. Not feeling particularly enthusiastic about eating the vegetable casserole she had designated as dinner, he opened the refrigerator, discovering a number of other Saran-wrapped dishes jamming the shelves. Deciding the Fourth of July parties were worse than Thanksgiving for generating unwanted leftovers, he selected the best of the lot: a chili con carne ringed with soggy tortilla chips and covered with melted cheese and jalapeño peppers. After reheating it in the microwave, he retired to the table.
Kane had never liked solitary dining. In an attempt to finish his unaccompanied meal as quickly as possible, he ate directly from the Pyrex dish, scooping huge spoonfuls of meat and beans into his mouth and washing it down with a cold glass of milk. A second glass of milk and a hunk of leftover cherry pie followed. A quarter hour later, his stomach pleasantly full, he rocked back and gazed out at the raft bobbing offshore in the failing light.
As he sat, his mind turned to the vexing question of Catheryn’s new job. He had always supported Catheryn’s musical career as long as it didn’t interfere with their home life—especially as raising four kids on a detective’s salary had frequently been a stretch, and the money she’d earned from private lessons had pulled them through several difficult times. Her recently acquired position with the Philharmonic promised to disrupt the household for the next thirteen weeks, and because she would have to curtail her tutoring, which
actually paid better, it wouldn’t change their financial situation one iota. The way Kane saw it, the only thing that could possibly result from her temporary stint with the Philharmonic was the offer of similar work in the future, maybe even a permanent position. In other words, more trouble. To be fair, he wouldn’t have stopped her from doing it if she’d asked. The trouble was, he thought with a surge of resentment, she hadn’t.
Kane carried his dishes to the sink, then returned to the table and crankily resumed mulling over Catheryn’s unexpected insurrection, trying to arrive at a reasonable course of action. He ran over various scenarios in his mind—often speaking aloud to his absent spouse as he assayed various rationales, tacks, and stratagems—becoming progressively more irritated as he realized he could argue her side as well or better than his own. When the phone rang a half hour later, he rose with a sigh of relief.
“Kane,” he said, picking up the phone beside the kitchen table.
“Detective Santoro from CRASH. Is it snowing down there at the beach, Kane?”
“Snowing? Why?”
“Because when you hear my news, you’re gonna think it’s Christmas.”
Kane leaned forward. “You got some action on the Trans Am stakeout?” Although CRASH had located the classic 1981 Pontiac belonging to Annette Ramos, a sometime-girlfriend of Sotel gang member Miguel Voss, they had been unable to find Voss. A CRASH surveillance team had been sitting on Annette ever since.
“Yep,” said Santoro.
“The gangbanger boyfriend finally showed up?”
“The one and only. She met him in West Hollywood after she got off work tonight. From there they picked up her kid brother and drove to a nearby movie theater. We didn’t want to move without checking with you.”
“You did right,” said Kane. “They go in?”
“Yeah.”
“When’s the movie over?”
“Eight.”
“Okay, don’t do anything till I get there.”
After getting the address of the theater and making calls to both Arnie and Lieutenant Long, Kane grabbed his coat and started for the door. He stuck his head in Allison’s room on the way out. “How’s it going, princess?”