After a month, it was clear that Frank’s men weren’t working up to speed. They were slow, unskilled and plagued by periodic shortages of materials. The mason couldn’t finish the block work around the loading dock until the door frames were installed. The electricians couldn’t finish their hook-ups until the control boxes for the doors were in place. There was a domino effect, until it seemed that every contractor on the site was held up for some reason or another by Frank Giardella.
Steve placed angry phone calls to the manufacturer and sent a series of threatening telegrams to Frank’s office. But nothing seemed to work. He got to know each of the workmen, and every day he made a point of talking to them about how the work was going. If there was a problem, he went to Frank and solved it.
That morning Steve’s attitude towards Frank Giardella changed. Frank came in to pick up a check for the work he’d completed, and Steve got mad that he had to pay Frank for anything. He decided Frank was lower than dirt, and he started to treat him that way. “The doors for bays 1, 2, 3 and 4 need to be done by the end of the week, Frank,” he told him.
Frank lounged in the doorway of Steve’s office, picking his teeth with an ivory toothpick. The whippet sat on the floor next to him, his big brown eyes focused on the resemblance between Steve’s foot and a large milk-bone biscuit. “I don’t know if we’ll be able to manage it,” Frank said. “I’ve only got eight men on the job and the union hall is empty. And I’m not sure we’ve got enough nails to last us.”
“I don’t give a shit where you get the men or the nails from, but I want that work done by the end of the week or you can kiss this month’s check goodbye. So you’d damn well better see that the work gets done.”
Finally Steve had found a language that Frank Giardella understood. He put away the toothpick and glared at Steve, but he sat down in the chair across from Steve’s desk. They agreed on a list of things Frank had to finish before Steve would turn over his check. Frank agreed to complete the list by the next morning. “But I’m warning you, I don’t work well under blackmail,” Frank said.
“You want blackmail, I’ll give you blackmail,” Steve said. “If you don’t shape up, I’ll start commandeering your shipments and dealing directly with your men. I might even replace you with another installer.”
“I’m the only authorized union installer in this county,” Frank said. “You’ll never replace me.”
Frank walked out, pulling so hard on Beauty’s leash that the dog lost his footing on the linoleum and slid down the hall, his toenails dragging. Steve pulled out a directory of Florida licensed contractors and started making phone calls.
At eleven thirty Celeste buzzed him. “Uncle Max just called from his car phone. He’s about two miles away and he wants us all out in front.”
“You really aren’t kidding, are you?”
“I never kid where Uncle Max is concerned,” Celeste said. “I don’t have to.” Steve walked out to the reception desk and met up with Junior, Maxine, Brad and Miranda. “I called all the superintendents in, too,” Celeste said as they rode down the escalator to the first floor.
“So tell me all about this guy,” Steve said to Celeste while they waited in a line in front of the Welcome Center.
“His name is Terry Kubiak and he’s an architect,” Celeste said. “He’s been working on festival marketplaces for almost ten years. I know what his salary is but I can’t say.”
“You tease.”
Uncle Max’s Land Rover pulled in the driveway and Celeste began to wave. Everyone else followed her lead. Steve felt sort of like Miss America in a convertible, waving at strangers with a grim smile.
Terry Kubiak was a stout man in his late thirties, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of gray suit pants. He and Uncle Max waved back at everyone graciously, like a visiting royal couple.
Uncle Max took Terry through the line and introduced him to everyone, then clapped his hands together for quiet. “We’ve got some lunch upstairs in the conference room, so that everyone can have a chance to talk to Terry,” he said. “But before we eat, I want to lead everybody in some group meditation exercises.”
“We’ve all got work to do,” Maxine said. “Can we hold off on the meditation until after the opening?”
“Not a chance.” Uncle Max led them into the atrium lobby of the Welcome Center, where the fountain between the escalators was bubbling gently. “Everybody on the floor,” he said.
There was some grumbling in the ranks, but they all sat down. “Now, you follow my lead,” Uncle Max said. “You bring your right leg up and cross it over your left. Pull the heel as close to your hip as you can.”
He watched them all carefully. “Good, good. Now the next step. Lift your left foot up, cross it over the right, and bring it up to your right hip.”
“Uncle Max!” Miranda said. “I’m wearing a dress!”
He paid no attention to her. Only Steve, Celeste, Junior and Brad were able to come close to the lotus position. Maxine sat Indian style, with her legs crossed under her, and kept pulling her mini-skirt down. Miranda ended up leaning on one elbow, her legs twined around each other as if she was an odalisque by Manet, an odalisque in a pink and white sundress with white stockings and pumps.
“Bring your hands together like this,” Uncle Max said, putting his palms together in front of his chest. “Now we’re going to imagine the energy that will flow out of this place on opening day.” His voice was slow and even, but there was an electric charge buried in it. “Close your eyes and imagine the force. Imagine the joy, the power, the thrill!”
Steve cracked one eye open and looked around. His co-workers were sitting on the floor, in the middle of various attempts at the lotus position, humming softly while Uncle Max chanted his mantra of materialism.
“Thousands of shoppers flooding in here, all that money waiting to be spent. Smell the new money, the crinkly bills and the shiny coins. Hear the cash registers ringing. Feel the adrenaline. It has a sharp metallic taste on your tongue.”
In the background, Steve could hear the phones ringing in the offices upstairs. It was cool and quiet and peaceful sitting there, though he was getting a cramp in his right thigh.
“When I clap my hands again, you’ll all feel refreshed,” Uncle Max said in his smooth, quiet voice. “You will feel the energy of the opening coursing through you. You will succeed!”
Then he clapped his hands twice. “Does this mean we can get up?” Miranda asked.
Uncle Max stood and stretched. “Get up. Get up and go forth.”
“Easy for him to say,” Miranda said. “I’ll never get this dress clean again.”
“My dear, I’ll be lucky if I can get up off this floor,” Celeste said. “Junior, give me a hand.”
Junior had sprung up, fresh and energetic. Steve and Brad had both hauled themselves up, then helped Maxine and Miranda. Junior gave a hand to Celeste. “Oh, Celeste, you look so light, but appearances are deceiving,” he said. “Steve, help me out here.”
Steve took Celeste’s other hand and they made a big show of pulling her up. “I’ll remember this, Junior Simpson,” Celeste said. “You wait til you radio in one day, Oh, Celeste, please do this favor for me. I’ll remember.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Junior said. He swept Celeste up in a big grip and began to carry her up the escalator.
“Junior!” Celeste said. “Put me down!” She kicked her legs and hit Junior on the back. He laughed and took the escalator steps two at a time.
“That girl has all the fun,” Brad said. “You want to carry me, Steve?”
“Brad.”
“Oh, well. Can’t blame a boy for asking.” He linked arms with Miranda and the two of them swept up the escalator. Steve followed a little behind, next to Terry.
“Welcome to the team,” Steve said. “I understand you’re the design police.”
“That’s right,” Terry said. “I’m a crusader for truth, justice and no plastic laminates in store fixturing.”
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“You’ll find you’ve got your work cut out for you. Some of our tenants have the design sense of cheap hookers.”
“Ah, yes, I know it well,” Terry said. “The French bordello look. Red velour upholstery, braided tassels, and pink scarves over the lamp shades.” They walked into the office and down the hall to the conference room. “One of my first jobs is to find some local architects and decorators whose work I like. I’d like to have a stable of people we can call on at the last minute to fix things up. You know anybody?”
“My mother’s a decorator,” Steve said. “Retired, but she knows a lot of architects. Maybe she can recommend someone.”
“You think she’d come in and talk to me?”
Steve had no intention of bringing Rita to the office. “She doesn’t get out much,” he said. “But I can have her give you a call.” He paused at the door to the conference room, ushering Terry in before him.
He piled together a sandwich of cold cuts and sat in the corner with Celeste, who was imagining various punishments for Junior. “I could put curry powder on his doughnuts,” she said. “Pour 151 proof rum in his coffee in the morning. That would make him lively at those construction meetings.”
Soon after Steve got back to his office, Rita called. Old Mrs. Blatnick was having a dinner party the following weekend and he was invited.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I thought you moved to Florida to be close to your family. The Blatnicks are your family.”
“Wrong on both counts, Mom,” Steve said. “I moved to Florida for a job, and the Blatnicks are just people we happen to be marginally related to. Not real family.”
“But you’ll come anyway, won’t you? For me?”
“I’ll think about it. Listen, Mom, I need a favor.” He signed a pile of letters on his desk while he told her about Terry. “So I figured you know a lot of architects in Miami, and maybe you could give him some advice.”
“I’d love to,” Rita said. “I’ve been feeling a little rusty, lately, ever since I finished helping Mrs. Lebenschmitt pick out her new sofa and chairs. I’ll put together a list and call him.”
“All right. But just make the list for him, OK? You don’t need to do anything more.”
“Trust your mother,” Rita said. “I won’t embarrass you.”
Steve hung up and settled into his paperwork. Around four-thirty his mother called again. “Guess what?” she said. “Your friend Terry wants to see my portfolio. He thinks I might be able to do some work for tenants, too.”
“I don’t want you working out here, Mother,” Steve said. “Don’t you think that would be awkward?”
“Your father has the Florida Club now. And what do I have? Mah jongg and grocery shopping? Once in a while I take some lady from the building to look for a new sofa. Big deal. Don’t you think I want to have something interesting to do, too? And besides, if I’m busy, I won’t be able to call you so much.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Yes, I do.”
Steve sighed. “All right. I don’t mind.”
“Good. I’m meeting Terry tomorrow at two o’clock. Why don’t I come over around twelve thirty and we’ll have lunch? Your father has a Florida Club meeting so I’m on my own.”
“All right.” Steve walked down to Terry’s office, with the vague idea of complaining to him. But after all, he was the one with the big mouth who had suggested his mother. Terry probably thought he was doing Steve a favor.
It was clear Terry was not a neat designer, like some of the architects Steve had met. After only a few hours in his new office, he had scattered papers everywhere. “Look at this shit,” Terry said, pointing at a drawing on his desk. He took a red felt-tip marker and wrote ”NO!” in big letters. “Fake brick, fake wood, cheap indoor-outdoor carpeting. And they want to sell hundred-dollar T-shirts.”
Terry believed that a store had to create an image that would sell merchandise, particularly in an impulse-oriented place like the Everglades Galleria. “You know what I mean,” Terry said. “Banana Republic sells an image. The romance of exotic travel. Brookstone sells old fashioned New England reliability in tools and gifts. The most successful specialty retailers sell image more than products.”
“But can’t you have a great image with terrible products?”
Terry nodded enthusiastically. “Of course you can. And you’ll go broke just as quick as somebody with great products and a terrible image. I’m no retailer -- the great products are somebody else’s department. I’m just looking out for design.”
Steve walked back to his office, wishing that his job could be so easy. Instead, he was looking out for construction, and looking out for Blatnicks. And now he had to look out for his own mother, too.
20 – Edifice Complex
The next morning Frank Giardella was at the Welcome Center at eight. “I’m here for my check,” he said, waving a piece of paper in front of Steve. “I finished your goddamned list.”
It was still early for Steve. They had just finished the morning contractor’s meeting, and he needed a cup of coffee and a few quiet minutes to get ready for the rest of the day. But increasingly, he was gulping his coffee on the run and living without any quiet minutes at all. He had to admit that he liked being that busy, because he didn’t have time to miss what he had left behind, or worry about the future.
The site was just beginning to come to life. The dirt road that connected to the highway was filled with cars and pickup trucks, guys blowing their horns and calling out to each other. A plume of dust rose from the road and hung suspended in the shimmering air.
Steve walked across a recently paved section of the parking lot, dodged the form work for sidewalks, and went in the main entrance of building A, Frank Giardella and Beauty trailing along behind him. Of the six items on the list, five had gotten some attention since the day before. But only two were finished. Steve pointed them out one by one.
“So basically, Frank, you haven’t done shit on this list,” Steve said. “You know what I told you yesterday. You don’t get your check til you finish.”
“You can’t threaten me,” Frank said. “You little punk.”
“I’m not threatening you, Frank,” Steve said calmly. “I’m just letting you know that Coleman Overhead is an authorized union installer up in Palm Beach County. The manufacturer has no problem with my replacing you, and Coleman is delighted to get the business. But I want to work out a reasonable solution here.”
Steve leaned up against a steel column. “You and I will set up a schedule that we both agree is fair, and you’ll guarantee to stick to it. If you slip even one day, though, you’re out in a heartbeat and I’m replacing you with Coleman Overhead, and any extra costs for hiring them come out of your pocket. If you read your contract you’ll see those are the terms you agreed to.”
Steve looked at the whippet, which snarled at him. Frank did the same.
“If you choose not to prepare a schedule with me today, I’ll replace you right now, but I’d rather keep this out of court and between friends. OK?”
“You ain’t my friend,” Frank said. “Beauty is my only friend here.” He patted the whippet. Calling him “Beauty” was like calling Frank “Tiny.”
Frank stood and thought. “What if I don’t want to?”
“Then you can collect your men and materials and get off this site by the end of the day,” Steve said, pointing at Frank with his index finger.
“Don’t you point at me,” Frank said.
Steve poked Frank in the chest. For the first time since coming to the Galleria, he felt absolutely sure of what he was doing. If he couldn’t provoke Frank into walking off, at least he’d hold the upper hand. “I’ll point at you if I goddamn want to.” He poked Frank again. “And I’ll go on pointing at you until you shape up and get your work done.”
Frank backed away a step. Steve poked him again. “Have you got that straight, Frank?” He kept poking and Frank kept backing away. Even t
he dog was backing up, cowering in front of Steve. “Have you, Frank? You got that?”
Finally Frank turned and stormed down the mall, calling to his superintendent. The men moved faster than Steve had seen them work, collecting gangboxes, tools and materials. By noon they had cleared out.
Steve called Coleman Overhead and they promised to have a crew at the site first thing the next morning. He felt great. He’d gotten rid of a big problem, and he’d stood up to a jerk. Some days, life could be very good.
Rita showed up at twelve-thirty and Steve took her to lunch at the Carbon Monoxide Café She didn’t care for it, but she was not fond of Cuban food to start with. And any place without air conditioning ranked pretty low on Rita Berman’s list.
They drove back to the trailer and Rita opened her flat black briefcase and showed Steve a portfolio of her work. It was a side of her that Steve had not often seen, as she went through a series of photographs mounted on cardboard. While he had always known about her decorating work, this was the first time she struck him as a professional, just like the other designers who had paraded their work through the office over the last few months.
Steve introduced Rita to Terry and went back to work. When she hadn’t come back after an hour, he walked down the narrow hall lined with posters from Uncle Max’s other projects and peered into Terry’s office. She was still there, leaning across his desk with him and looking at a set of plans. Steve frowned and walked back.
Another hour passed before Rita returned, smiling broadly. “Well, your old mother isn’t quite out of it yet.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m back in the decorating business. Terry’s going to refer some tenants to me.”
“I can’t say I’m happy,” Steve said. “But if you want to do it, go ahead.”
“What’s the matter, you begrudge your mother a little something to do? It’s a chance to get out of that condo on my own. What’s wrong with that? It’s healthier for your father and me to have outside interests. And the money won’t hurt, either, since it doesn’t look like you’ll be ready to support us soon.”
Invasion of the Blatnicks Page 18