EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  "The school was built by the Diocese in eighteen ninety-eight, two years after the Chapel,” Lydia explained as they strolled down the tiled hallway, footsteps echoing in the emptiness. “Our plans call for restructuring the classrooms into sixty one- and two-bedroom apartments. Doable, Mr. Shea?"

  "I don't see any obvious problems,” Shea observed, looking around. “The surfaces look true and there are plenty of bearing walls to take the weight. This building is in much better shape than the church."

  "A lot cleaner, too.” Puck noted.

  "The city's been operating it as a jobs center the past four years,” Arroyo said. “Trying to retrain some of the locals, get them off welfare. A lost cause."

  "How so?” Shea asked.

  "People in the Chapel district don't want to work,” Arroyo sniffed. “They're addictive personalities, hooked on drugs and welfare checks."

  "Ever try to live on welfare, Reverend?” Puck asked.

  "Certainly not!"

  A door opened down the hall and a woman stepped out, a Latina, dark eyes, her hair braided with colorful beads, wearing blue jeans and a peasant blouse. Slender and strikingly attractive.

  "Can I help you?"

  "It's Pastor Arroyo, Carmen. I'm giving some of my people a tour. Carmen San Miguel, this is Mr. Dan Shea. He'll be handling the heavy construction. I believe you've already met Mrs. Ford."

  "Our lease agreement allows us to operate until the end of the month,” Carmen said flatly. “I expect you to honor it."

  "Why fight progress, my dear?” Arroyo chided. “I should think you'd be overjoyed to move to the west side. It's not the end of the world."

  "It might as well be. There's no bus service out here and most of my trainees don't have cars. How will they get to the new jobs center? Speculators are already buying up rental units in the district and evicting the tenants. Where do you expect them to go, Reverend?"

  "I'm sure there's affordable housing in other parts of town."

  "Hit-or-miss, maybe, but they'll be isolated, no relatives or sense of community. Most of them grew up in this neighborhood. They've never lived anywhere else."

  "Perhaps a few people will have difficulty adjusting, but what about those kids playing out there? How often do they duck behind those walls to dodge drive-by bullets? Do you really think they're better off in this neighborhood? Suburban kids their age are deciding between Michigan State or U of M. Kids in the Chapel district get jumped into gangs while they're still in junior high. Breaking up this community will be a public service."

  "This place is a jobs center, right?” Shea interrupted. “Got any people who want to work?"

  "Of course, that's why they're here. We help them earn GEDs, prep them for job interviews—"

  "I don't care about resumes, miss, but I'll need workers to help clean up the Chapel. Manual labor, seven to five, six days a week till the job's done. Minimum wage plus three bucks an hour. Five people for openers. Can you supply ‘em?"

  "That depends,” Carmen said. “Will it be a problem if some are ex-convicts?"

  "Only if they got sent up for bein’ lazy. House rules: no dope or booze on the job. If they show up late or stoned, they're gone. Period. No excuses, no second chances. Deal?"

  "I can supply the people, as long as you don't try to order them around like cattle. They're poor, but they have pride. A few may have, well ... difficulty with authority."

  "So does every man in my crew."

  "Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you, Mr. Shea. When do you want them to start?"

  "Tomorrow. Seven o'clock. Tell ‘em to wear old clothes."

  "I wouldn't worry about that,” Carmen said, smiling for the first time. “My trainees have problems, but overdressing isn't one of them."

  * * * *

  "Well done, Mr. Shea.” Arroyo beamed as they made their way out of the school. “I've been battling with Carmen San Miguel for the past eighteen months. She's attended every council meeting to speak against this project. Two minutes and you get her cooperation. Maybe I should switch to your brand of aftershave."

  "She's got workers, we've got jobs. Why can't we all get along?"

  "Her being a pretty little thing doesn't hurt, neither,” Puck said slyly.

  "Didn't notice,” Shea said. “Is there someplace we can grab a cup of coffee and kick this around?

  "Right across the street,” Arroyo said. “Paddy Ryan's. The only cafe in the neighborhood."

  A pleasant surprise. Paddy Ryan's was like stepping back in time forty years. An old-fashioned diner, tiled walls inside and out, large windows with a view of the Black Chapel parking lot and the surrounding streets. Turquoise Formica counter- and tabletops, chrome-sided stools. The only thing missing was bobbysoxers in poodle skirts.

  An odd mix of photographs staring down from the walls. Black luminaries like Langston Hughes mingled with IRA heroes—Charles Parnell, Michael Collins. All of them as dead as the district.

  The only customers were three young black guys sitting at a table in the corner, backs to the wall. Gangbangers: jeans, muscle tees, tattoos. Eyeing the new arrivals like lions staked out over a waterhole.

  Arroyo chose a booth beside a window facing the Chapel and the others joined him.

  Two old guys behind the counter, built like beer barrels, both bald with gray fringes, same blunt features. The older one was wearing Coke-bottle glasses, sitting on a stool, an aluminum cane at hand. His brother bustled over to Arroyo's booth, cheery as a leprechaun.

  "Welcome to Ryan's, folks. I'm Sam, that's my brother Morrie over there at the counter. Before you ask, nope, we're not related to Robert Ryan or Meg Ryan or even Ryan O'Neal, but we're the only Ryans in this ‘hood. Coffee all around for openers?"

  As Sam hurried off to fill their order, the tallest of the gangbangers rose languidly and sauntered over. A black pirate do-rag and wraparound shades gave him a praying-mantis look.

  "Y'all lookin’ for some action? Smoke, coke, light you up, mellow you out?"

  "All we want is a quiet place to talk, if that's all right,” Shea said.

  "Then maybe you best keep lookin'—"

  "You know these folks, Razor?” Sam Ryan interrupted, brushing past him with a tray, dealing out steaming mugs of coffee.

  "I'm meetin’ ‘em right now, Sam. Tryin’ to drum up a little trade, them bein’ new blood and all."

  "Okay, you've met ‘em. How about you see to your friends?"

  "My dawgs are okay where they are. These people don't belong here, Sam."

  "Yeah? When I was a boy growin’ up on Williamson, folks said your people didn't belong neither. But here you are, and you're welcome, Razor. As long as you mind your business."

  "Don't be pushin’ me, Sam."

  "Push you? What are you talkin’ about? I'm just a fat old man. ‘Course, if you put me in the hospital, you and your dawgs'll need a new place to hang. And there ain't noplace else. Is there?"

  Razor stared at the old man for what seemed like a month. Sam met his gaze calmly, and in the end, Razor looked away first.

  "Maybe you right. The Paddy's ain't much, but it's all there is.” He turned and sauntered back to his crew, graceful as a stalking cat.

  "Friend of yours?” Puck asked, watching the youth snake between the tables.

  "Just a local businessman.” Sam sighed. “The way the neighborhood is nowadays, me and Morrie can't be picky about our clientele."

  "Maybe Reverend Arroyo's new development will help your business,” Lydia offered.

  "We could use some help. Maybe you folks can, too. We've got a fair-sized parking lot, which isn't exactly overcrowded these days. Why don't you folks park your cars at our place, let the local kids play ball in the Chapel lot? It's the only basketball court in the neighborhood."

  "That's a generous offer,” Shea said, “but they'll have to find someplace else. The lot will be a construction zone. It won't be safe."

  "Safe?” Sam snorted. “Believe you
me, they're a lot safer shooting hoops than shooting each other. Or you. And your job site's safer if they're playing where we can watch ‘em instead of hangin’ on the corners thinkin’ up mischief. At least at the Chapel they can duck behind the walls if some gang decides to shoot up the neighborhood. Keeping the basketball court open will buy you some goodwill, mister. And in this part of town, you can use all the good you can get. Think it over. Either way, our offer stands."

  "From what you said, I take it you've lived here a long time, Mr. Ryan?” Lydia said.

  "Boy and man, yes, ma'am."

  "Then you remember the Black Chapel before it fell into disrepair?"

  "Back when Black Luke ran it? You bet. A wild place in those days."

  "Black Luke?"

  "The Right Reverend Lucullus Black, minister to the Brethren of the End Days,” Sam said, showing a gap-toothed smile. “Black Luke to us locals. We called his people Dazers because Luke preached the End Days, you know? And most of his flock acted like they were in a daze. Luke took over the Chapel in the ‘fifties, built up a big following. Heck of a preacher. We're Catholic, sort of, but Morrie and I caught a few of Luke's services ourselves. Great show. He was a local star, like James Brown or Prince, Saginaw style. I don't suppose you young folks remember much about the ‘sixties?"

  Lydia smiled. “My mom used to say if you can remember the ‘sixties, you weren't really there."

  Sam nodded. “She's dead right about that. ‘Sixties were boom times in this town. Auto plants runnin’ triple shifts, seven days a week. People had jobs, plenty of money, and Black Luke knew how to get his share. These are the End Days, people, so let's party hearty while we can."

  "Sounds like my kind of church,” Puck said.

  "Back then, a lot of people felt the same way. He really packed ‘em in."

  "Would you happen to have any pictures of the Chapel from those days?” Lydia asked.

  "Pictures, ma'am?"

  "We want the building as close to original as possible. I found a few photographs in the Castle Museum archives, but they only show the building's facade."

  "You're restoring it? I thought you folks were converting it into condos or something."

  "The school will be remodeled into apartments but the Black Chapel is an historic building,” Arroyo said. “We're going to restore it to what it was."

  "Mister,” Ryan said softly, shaking his head, “you got no idea what that place was."

  "I don't understand."

  "Then I'll tell ya. Workin’ this neighborhood, you meet some lowlifes, but Black Luke was the rock-bottom worst. That man didn't believe in a damn thing but the almighty dollar. Called the congregation his flock and sheared ‘em like the sheep they were. Bangin’ half the women in his church and their daughters, too. Young girls, twelve, thirteen. And they worshiped him! Treated him like some kind of junior-league Jesus. When they painted that Chapel black in his honor, I thought the End Days might really be here, that God almighty would strike him dead with lightning or something. That was thirty-odd years ago and I still get a shiver every time I look at it."

  "I'll admit, the place gives a man pause,” Puck acknowledged. “Never seen a church quite like it. But if this Reverend Black was so bad, why didn't somebody stop him?"

  "Somebody did. Cal Jenkins, the church caretaker, shot Luke in the head. And most of us locals said amen, brother. If Cal hadn't shot himself, too, he would have been a shoo-in for mayor around here. Don't restore Luke's church to what it was, folks. Make it something better."

  "Well, we'll certainly try,” Arroyo said tactfully.

  "Didn't mean to go off on you like that.” Sam smiled. “Old-timers like to hear ourselves talk. There is one more thing you oughta know, though. The Black Chapel's haunted, they say."

  "Really?"

  "Why wouldn't it be, all the vile crap that went down there and still does? Locals claim Black Luke and ole Cal wander the building at night, bleeding from their bullet holes, looking for their lost souls."

  "More likely it's junkies stumbling around,” Shea said. “From the trash, it looks like an army of them have been crashing in there."

  Sam nodded. “Might be junkies. On the other hand, if you restore the Chapel, maybe you'll bring Black Luke back with it. And I doubt roasting in hell all these years has improved his disposition any."

  "The doors of my Chapel will be open to everyone,” Arroyo said smoothly, “even Pastor Black, if he returns. You're welcome to attend our services yourself, Mr. Ryan."

  "Then you'd better bump up your fire insurance, Pastor. If Morrie and I stop by, your church'll surely get popped by lightning."

  "I doubt it.” Arroyo smiled politely, rising. “And don't think you've frightened me away with your ghost stories. I have an important meeting. I'll leave you two to sort things out."

  Puck excused himself as well, went off to find the men's. Leaving Lydia Ford and Shea facing each other across the turquoise Formica.

  "So, Mr. Shea. Are we going to get along?"

  "Maybe. As long as you understand that I don't work for you, Mrs. Ford. I work for the guy who signs my checks. On this job, that's Pastor Arroyo."

  "Fair enough, as long as you understand that that same gentleman has given me final say on all design decisions. I have a double masters in Interior Design and engineering. I'm not a civilian, Mr. Shea."

  "Glad to hear it. And call me Dan. Mr. Shea is my dad."

  "All right then, Dan. Have you worked with female engineers before?"

  "Not many, and up north we call them ladies, not females."

  "Very courteous. Any problems working with women?"

  "Not exactly. It's just different."

  "Really?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “How so?"

  "In school you studied construction equipment, right? Skilsaws, Sawzalls, plate compactors? You know how they work?"

  "I'm familiar with their specs and capabilities, yes."

  "Could you operate one? For wages, I mean?"

  "Certainly not. A soil compactor weighs more than I do. Why?"

  "There. That's the difference between you and a male engineer."

  "Because a man can operate heavy machinery and I can't?"

  "No, ma'am. Construction gear is heavy, dirty, and hard to handle. A Sawzall will zip through a two-by-six in three seconds and through your arm a lot faster than that. There's no shame in admitting you can't operate one. Trouble is, deep down, most male engineers think they can. It's a guy thing. Makes ‘em dangerous. Are you dangerous, Mrs. Ford?"

  "Only when provoked, Mr. Shea. Don't worry, I won't try filling in for any of your men. You run your side of the business, I'll run mine."

  "Then we should get along fine."

  "Somehow, I doubt that,” she sighed.

  "Yeah.” Dan nodded. “Me too."

  * * * *

  Ordinarily, Shea's gypsy construction crew rolling into a town scared the hell out of folks. A motley caravan of vans and work trucks driven by wild North Country boys, woolly and rough around the edges? Fetch the family twelve-gauge down from the attic and keep it close at hand.

  The Black Chapel neighborhood barely noticed. In the run-down shacks and shabby apartments, people kept blinds drawn and doors triple-locked as a matter of course. Most homes had guns. Loaded and handy.

  A new crew of roughneck white boys in town? So what? Drugs, drive-bys, and crack-crazy gangbangers had already turned the Black Chapel district into a combat zone. One more posse didn't matter a damn.

  * * * *

  Shea's troubles began at dawn the first day. Four burly black men and an even tougher-looking heavyset woman were waiting outside the church at seven when Dan arrived. They said Carmen San Miguel had sent them. Shea explained the job of cleaning up the church, told them the rules and the wages. Any questions?

  "Damn right!” the smallest of them piped up, a ratty little guy with a cast in one eye. “Carmen said we'd be workin’ real construction jobs. We oughta get more'n minimum
wage and a crummy three bucks a hour."

  "Put a cork in it, Freddy,” the black woman said. “Carmen never said that and I need this job."

  "So do I,” Shea said. “You're hired, miss. Freddy, take a hike. Any other complaints?"

  Nope. Shea took names and social-security numbers from the willing four and set them to work cleaning out the nave. They ripped into the job with a will but he warned Puck to keep a weather eye on them anyway. They were a crusty bunch and new hires always bring new headaches. Still, one attitude case out of five was better than average.

  The next hassle came from Mrs. Ford. Most of the church pews had been trashed for firewood or the hell of it. Lydia wanted someone to sort through the wreckage, hoping to salvage a few pews from the pieces.

  "No offense, but that's nuts,” Shea said bluntly. “You can replace them for twenty bucks a pop in any secondhand store."

  "But they wouldn't be from this church,” Lydia countered. “A restoration is supposed to preserve the heritage of a particular place."

  "We're also supposed to finish the job before Christmas. I can't spare men for this."

  "Then loan me two of your new-hires. They won't mind the extra hours. We can use the columbarium to store the salvageable pieces. The porch off the north side."

  "I know what a columbarium is, lady."

  "Glad to hear it. And since we're not working in it yet, I'd like to use it. Okay?"

  Shea eyed her, knowing he should draw a damn line in the sand right here and now. Decided against it. He'd be going head-to-head with Mrs. Ford soon enough. A few crummy pews weren't worth a war. Or so he told himself.

  "Okay,” he said abruptly, “go ahead. No overtime, though."

  "Thank you, Mr. Shea."

  "Yeah, right.” Dodged that bullet. But if she was already giving him static, it didn't bode well for the long run.

  More trouble. This time from a guy who was born for it. Mafe Rochon. Full-blood Anishnabeg/Ojibwa, and proud of his heritage. Mafe wore his thick hair braided, favored beaded buckskin shirts. A bull of a man, ironworker, hard worker, best hand on the planet with an acetylene torch.

  And one surly-ass attitude case. Mean as a snake when he was drinking, worse when he wasn't. Serious bar brawler. Never met a fight he didn't like.