Invasion of the Blatnicks

by Neil S. Plakcy

  “But I bought her two drinks,” Sheldon whined.

  “You can buy her a hundred drinks, pal,” the bouncer said. Maxine sat down, pulled out a mirror and adjusted her coiffure. The bouncer put his arm around Sheldon’s shoulders and steered him toward the door. “If she don’t want to go home with you, there’s nobody says she has to.”

  In the commotion Steve had been moved away from Maxine, and while she was busy with her hair he slipped out the front door. Dusty and Sheryl followed.

  “It isn’t fair,” Sheldon said when they were all standing on the curb. He half-turned around and swung his fist into the plate-glass window of a store next to the bar. There was a loud noise, and suddenly there was shattered glass everywhere. Then the store’s alarm went off, with sirens and bells.

  Sheldon stood there for a moment, his hand dripping with blood and fragments of glass. “Jesus, Shelly, get in the fucking car,” Dusty said. He tossed the keys to Steve, and said, “You live in this crazy town. Get us to the hospital fast.”

  While Steve ran around to the driver’s side, Dusty and Sheryl got on each side of Sheldon and hustled him into the convertible, then they both jumped over the door into the back seat. Steve floored it and roared down Collins Avenue with Sheldon holding his bloody hand out over the street to protect the upholstery.

  Steve’s heart was pounding and all he could concentrate on was getting to Mt. Sinai Hospital, which he remembered was north of the deco district, by a causeway back to the mainland. He ran through red lights and swerved around tourists in rental cars and they made it to the hospital emergency room in minutes. The nurse on duty hustled Sheldon away and Dusty, Sheryl and Steve collapsed onto the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area.

  The way Steve’s heart was beating, he felt like there was a tiny triathlete inside who wanted to jump out of his chest and continue down Collins Avenue to the tip of the island and the open ocean beyond. The rush of the broken window, the sirens at the store, the red lights and the crazy dash from the parking lot into the hospital were all more excitement than he normally handled. Sheryl and Dusty looked pale and sober in the bright light of the emergency room.

  “You gotta admit, things are never dull when the Blatnick boys are in town,” Dusty said.

  “Yeah, and the police have records to prove it,” Steve said. He did not want to think about Monday morning; even though Maxine had not conclusively linked Steve to Sheldon it would certainly be uncomfortable to see her at work.

  He sat back in the molded plastic chair and stared into space, imagining again those monster insects devouring the Everglades Galleria with their giant jaws.

  9 – You Crazy Truck

  Junior was a fitness fanatic, jogging five miles every day. On Monday morning when Steve got out of his car in front of the trailer, he caught a glimpse of Junior pounding across the site, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His electric yellow nylon running shorts and torn white t-shirt stood out like a warning beacon as he swerved and darted to avoid new trenches, stacks of stockpiled materials and the slow lumbering paths of earth movers and cranes. Every now and then he’d scare a rat out of its hiding place. The rats were all over the site, drawn by the combination of wet ground and trash, and every time Steve saw one he shuddered.

  Any other jogger would have chosen to run along the narrow path alongside the highway. A daredevil might even jog on the verge of the highway itself, taking a thrill from the gusts of wind thrown by the long-distance truckers. But only Junior would take his morning run on the crowded and dangerous acreage of a construction site.

  Junior kept a pharmacy cabinet full of vitamins behind his desk, and Steve had watched him come in from his run and swig down some orange juice and a handful of multi-colored pills. He climbed the steps to the trailer, shaking his head at Junior’s boundless energy. Then as soon as he opened the door, he ran right into Maxine. She gave him a half smile, said, “Morning,” and kept on walking.

  “Good morning,” Steve said. He waited for Maxine to say something about Saturday night.

  “I didn’t say it was good,” Maxine said. She picked up a coffee mug from the file cabinet and went down the hall.

  Steve stood in front of Celeste’s desk staring at Maxine’s back. “Don’t ask,” Celeste said. “Maxine had another one of her weekends. She doesn’t remember anything about this one except some guy pulling her hair.”

  Steve relaxed and walked to his office. After a while, he heard Junior yelling at some contractor over the phone, pounding his hand against the wall for emphasis. Steve expected Junior’s fist, or his foot, to crash through any day. There was ample evidence around the trailer that sometimes the thin plywood was not strong enough to take Junior’s punishment.

  Max Thornton liked to pretend that they were all part of one big family. Junior’s name was actually Fred Simpson, Jr., and he had never before been called anything but Fred or Freddy. Thornton had also insisted that everyone call him Uncle Max.

  That afternoon Uncle Max called everyone in for a meeting. At the end of two hours, Steve knew everything he ever wanted to know about the mating and migratory habits of the snowy egret, and why it was important that they all watch out for snowy egrets on the site.

  After the meeting Miranda, Brad, Steve and Maxine gathered in Miranda’s office. She sat behind her desk, with Brad lounging on it in front of her. Steve and Maxine stood in the doorway. “I have this great hat from the forties with egret feathers,” Miranda said, pretending to model it.

  “Bring it in one day,” Brad said. “We’ll wave it outside Uncle Max’s window and see if it gives him a hard-on.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Maxine said.

  “I’d just eat it up.” Brad smiled at Maxine and licked his lips.

  “Ew,” Miranda said. “Brad!” She pushed him and said, “If you’re going to be gross you have to get off my desk.”

  Maxine shook her head and walked away. Miranda said, “I’m having a tenant meeting tomorrow, Steve. “Can you sit in?”

  “Sure,” Steve said. Junior had asked him to join Miranda and Brad at their meetings with tenants, to answer construction questions and explain the way tenant drawings would be reviewed.

  Miranda and Brad often made tenants extravagant promises that the construction crew could not honor, and Junior hoped that by getting involved with the tenants early, Steve could prevent a lot of problems. But most of the time Steve was just another cheerleader on the team, describing the flag court and the skylit atrium, the imported marble flooring and the tropical hardwood handrails and decking.

  “Who’s the tenant?” Steve asked.

  “They’re called Fish ‘n’ Fashion,” Miranda said. “They sell ladies’ clothes and tropical fish. The tanks are integrated among the clothing racks. I think it’d be a good idea for you to meet them right off the bat and look at their water requirements.”

  “Where do you dig these people up, Miranda?” Steve asked.

  She looked innocent. “What do you mean?”

  “You know exactly what I mean. Last week it was the people who sell exotic leathers. I can deal with eelskin wallets and lizard belts, but they sold iguana and ostrich, too. And then there were the people who weren’t sure if they wanted to sell pizza or small electronics. Oh, and the people who wanted to do the kiosk with raw bait and sushi. Are you digging these people out of some leasing file of lost cases?”

  “They’re bringing us some fish,” Miranda said, smiling. She got up and walked to the door. She looked across at Steve’s office. “I think an aquarium would be very nice in your office. You could rest your plans on it.” She gave Steve a big grin. “Tomorrow morning at ten. Be there or be square.” She grabbed Brad’s arm and pulled him off her desk. She took Steve’s arm too and pushed them both out of her office. “Now leave me alone, you guys. I have lease requests to write up.”

  Steve had begun to learn the jargon of the shopping center industry. Lease requests were forms Miranda
filled out to notify the corporate attorneys to generate leases for new tenants, and in them she spelled out the terms of the deal she’d made. Steve got a copy of all the lease requests, just to be sure Miranda and Brad had not promised tenants more water, electric power, or gas than was available.

  Steve was also learning about the history of the Everglades Galleria. Uncle Max had convinced the state legislature to build a fine four-lane road linking the interstate to his project. He had convinced the Army Corps of Engineers to drain his swampy land and build a series of interconnected lakes.

  He was able to do all this because of the aggressive profit projections he made. And in Florida, as anywhere else, private profit translated into public revenue. Sales tax dollars would roll into county and state coffers. The Galleria construction would provide jobs and salaries. It would open up an undeveloped area, generating permit fees and impact fees and eventually property tax assessments.

  Finally, Uncle Max envisioned a festive market at the site, one that would celebrate Americana and the traditions of craftsmanship, creating an imitation of the culture of the land he had destroyed. He saw national chains and small vendors, a science center and a Miccosukee Village, airboat rides and tour buses full of shoppers. He saw parking lots and sales receipts and rent rolls, and it was good.

  He had no need of the state legislature or the Army Corps of Engineers to realize this vision, however, because he had his staff.

  Or as they called themselves, his rod and his staff. They were the people who made it happen, who took Uncle Max’s visions and gave them the substance he imagined for them. They were his attorneys and accountants, leasing agents and construction managers, secretaries and architects and word processors. They worked for him, they carried out his dreams, and they comforted him. Or at least Steve assumed that they comforted him, when he surveyed the work they had created in his image.

  At ten o’clock the next morning Steve joined Miranda for her meeting with Joe and Estelle, who sold tropical fish and tropical clothing under the name Fish ‘n’ Fashion. Both of them wore pseudo-bush clothes from their collection, tops with epaulets and lots of pleated pockets, with surfer shorts in neon colors. Joe wore a white mesh pith helmet with a palm tree stenciled on the front, and Estelle’s necklace, earrings and bracelets were all pendulous with palm trees. They were in their mid-fifties, with dark tans.

  They had brought their attorney with them. “He’s our attorney, but he’s really our nephew,” Estelle said. His name was Morty Fleischmann, and he wore a navy pinstripe suit with stripes so faint they nearly faded into the fabric, a crisp white shirt and a yellow paisley tie. Steve thought Morty could have been any of his college classmates, who all seemed to have become lawyers or at least married them.

  It was only ten o’clock, but Steve was already a mess. The hardest thing about the project seemed to be staying clean. After fifteen minutes out on the site, his shirt was soaked with sweat, his shoes were scuffed, and his pants cuffs were filled with dirt and small pebbles. Periodic dust storms coated him with a thin layer of grit, in his hair, his eyes and his ears. His horn-rimmed glasses were always dirty.

  As usual, Miranda was beautifully dressed. Steve envisioned the walk through the site, and how Miranda would look when they were finished, and smiled.

  But Miranda was an expert at minimizing contact with the outdoors. From the cool comfort of the trailer, she dashed for her car, turned the air conditioning on high, and drove all around the site without ever getting out. She drove through whatever was in her way.

  Steve finally understood a confrontation he’d seen the week before. “Those little strings you see out on the site are not there for decoration,” Junior had stormed. “They mark off areas where we’ve already graded. When you drive over them, we have to go back and regrade. If I have to regrade one more plot I’m going to be taking impressions of tire tracks. And the lucky winner will be eating dirt with his donuts for a long time to come. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” Miranda had whispered to Steve. “He’s always ranting about those little strings. It’s kind of a thing with him.”

  Steve kept his mouth shut as Miranda blasted over another clean, flat area that had been set off by strings, hoping that no one would see him getting out of her car. He was torn between representing his department, all those construction workers out there who had to grade and regrade the site every time Miranda barreled across it, and being a good team member and not letting the tenant see any problems between employees. Which was the better way to go?

  At the moment Steve could not go anywhere. He was sandwiched in the back seat of Miranda’s Nissan, with Estelle on his right and Morty on his left. “I hope you’re doing triple-compacting on this ground,” Morty said. “What kind of specs are you using for acceptability?”

  “I really don’t know,” Steve said. “The site work isn’t my area of responsibility. I can check on it, if you like.”

  “Please,” Morty said.

  Estelle beamed. “Such a good lawyer. He knows all the angles.”

  Steve wasn’t sure what the compaction of the site had to do with somebody building a fish store in the mall, but he made a note to check it out. When they drove past the skeleton of building B, the restaurant pavilion, Morty asked about the strength of the steel. Steve didn’t know.

  Up on top of the building, Steve could see a crew led by Bill Benzakry, directing a crane to the proper positioning of a roof truss. It looked like a giant erector set being put together by Lilliputians. “What’s the stress factor of the roof trusses you’re using?” Morty asked, pointing. Steve didn’t know.

  They parked and began to walk into building A, the retail gallery, skirting a crew on their hands and knees smoothing out newly poured concrete. The truck rumbled with the sound of a thousand empty stomachs as the raw gray concrete spilled out a long tube that shook as if it was alive.

  Morty waited until they had entered the echoing quiet of the building, where only distant noises of saws and drills could be heard, to ask about the curing time of the concrete slabs. Steve didn’t know that either, and he was frustrated because Morty’s questions weren’t really important to Fish ‘n’ Fashion’s business, but he couldn’t say exactly why.

  Miranda pointed out the space that Joe and Estelle were considering, and then tried to herd them quickly back to the car, but Morty insisted they walk around and get some first hand feel for the site. He even picked up a handful of dirt and sniffed it. Steve had to stifle a laugh.

  To Miranda, though, it was no laughing matter. Tiny beads of sweat had already begun to form on her forehead, destroying her perfect makeup. It was over eighty and there was a strong scent of sulfur in the wind. Since it was close to noon, there was no shade anywhere, and the rolling hills of excavated sand and marl reminded Steve of his father’s nature programs on the Sahara.

  “You haven’t been able to answer a single one of his questions,” Miranda whispered to Steve as they let Joe, Estelle and Morty wander over the uneven foundations. Estelle was wearing high heels, and kept tipping over. Joe took one arm and Morty took the other and they guided her past the rough spots.

  “That’s because he’s asking stupid questions,” Steve whispered back. “He’s supposed to ask about the height from slab to slab or the availability of plumbing connections. That kind of stuff is relevant to tenant work, and I know the answers. I think he’s just showing off for his aunt and uncle.”

  “Well, he’s making us look bad,” Miranda said. “If he asks you anything else, make up the answer. If he’s bluffing, you’ll find out.”

  When they caught up to Joe, Estelle and Morty, Steve described the flag court and the main entrance to the project. At the moment, it was just a flat space between buildings A and B, but eventually it would be filled with three dozen flagpoles, each surrounded by beds of impatiens and hibiscus, a reflecting pool modeled after the one on the Mall in Washington, and specially commissioned bronze s
culptures of average shoppers. It was an area Steve particularly liked. He could almost smell the jasmine, see the cloudless sky reflected in the still waters of the pool, hear the banners snapping in the breeze.

  Morty asked if the flagpoles would meet all currently enforced hurricane standards.

  Steve didn’t know a thing about flagpoles. “They’re designed to withstand force ten winds,” he said. “They have a flexibility factor of eight point two and they’ll be set in double strength concrete.”

  Morty nodded his approval, and his aunt and uncle beamed. Even Miranda smiled as she blotted the beads of perspiration on her forehead.

  After a long walk around the site in the hot sun, Miranda convinced Joe, Estelle and Morty that they’d be better off continuing their discussion in the trailers, where it was air conditioned and there was indoor plumbing. They had just turned back toward Miranda’s car when Steve spotted a renegade earth mover on the horizon. It came toward them veering crazily, as if it were being steered by a drunk or by Dusty Blatnick, which was the same thing.

  In the distance behind it, Steve could see the small figure of a man, chasing it and waving his arms. He watched in fascination as it bypassed all that wide open space, the vast empty acres of swamp, marsh and sawgrass, heading straight for Miranda’s car, just missing buildings A and B. Miranda was describing the function of percentage rent to Joe, Estelle and Morty and did not notice the earth mover at all.

  The earth mover veered again, just before reducing Miranda’s comfortable five-passenger car to the size of a go-cart. Sparing the car, it headed directly for Steve, Miranda, and the tenants.

  “Look out!” Steve said. “It’s coming this way.”

  Everyone looked up at the same time, and Miranda and Estelle screamed in unison. The five of them scattered in five different directions. The machine seemed to be attracted to Estelle, and it chased her for several feet before her high heels gave out and she tumbled into a ditch filled with sawgrass. The machine roared past her, followed by the breathless operator, who was still hollering, “Stop! Come back here, you crazy truck!”