Steel City Heroes (Book 1): The Catalyst

by C. M. Raymond

  Their company, that is.

  Two years before her father’s death, Alarawn Industries had gone through a takeover. It could hardly be called hostile. Mr. Alarawn rolled over and gave it to them like a possum playing dead. He ceded majority control to Van Pelt and company, retaining his position as CEO, but ultimately leaving AI’s fate in the board’s hands—a board that now sought to dissolve the company, against Brooke’s wishes.

  Dammit, Dad.

  ****

  “Feels weird up here, doesn’t it?” Mr. Alarawn asked.

  “I thought riding shotgun would feel more grown up.”

  “You’ll think that about a lot of things,” Mr. Alarawn said, patting his daughter’s leg. “Just wait until you get to drive your own XJ.”

  She knew the Jag made him feel like he was in the Old Country—though he had never lived in the UK. Not to mention the Alarawn family wasn’t from England. Pittsburgh was the only home Brooke had.

  From the passenger side of the XJ8, she watched the sleepy houses of Sewickley glide by. She knew them by heart—this was the route they always took to her dance class. The wealthy town, north of the city, was what many of the local elites called home. Alarawn despised them and their place. They were the new destroyers of the Steel City. But Sewickley contained a prestigious studio, and no matter how bad a ballerina the ten-year-old Brooke was, she still received the best.

  They passed a young mother pushing a double stroller. Every piece of her athletic wear matched. She’d put more thought into her workout gear than most Pittsburghers did their work attire. Big puffy headphones were plugged into a Discman.

  Alarawn shook his head. “New money.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pittsburgh. It’s filling up with new money. That woman, she’s part of it. I bet her husband just landed a job at one of the tech startups or UPMC.”

  He often spoke like this to Brooke—about work and the world—but she rarely understood most of what her father was saying.

  “Our family is old money,” he said. “But money isn’t the point, really. Money only goes so far. You see, new money doesn’t care about the city. It only cares about making more.”

  “Why are you talking about money, Daddy?”

  This made her father grin. Without taking his eyes off the road, he said, “I’m not, really. Old-money people like us, we care about different things. Your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and I have spent our lives building something that’s bigger than us. It’s bigger than you. We’ve built Pittsburgh. They don’t understand.” Alarawn jutted his chin at the neighborhood.

  Brooke’s eyes got wide. “You built Pittsburgh?”

  Her dad couldn’t help but laugh. “In a way, yes. Steel made the city great. It made the city thrive. And unlike so many of the companies that started before us, we decide to stay through the bust. This town was good to us in the old days; we’d be traitors if we left when it was in need. Before you were born, there was a time when most of the steel mills moved out. It was a terrible time. Those who could leave, left. And those who stayed had a hard time finding work. Pittsburgh fell apart—now it’s barely limping. But she’ll make it. I was pretty young then, just getting acquainted with the business, really. But your grandfather left it to me. Alarawn Industries is his legacy. This city is his legacy. And it will be yours one day. I’m damn sure not going to leave.” Brooke always blushed when her dad use those words.

  ****

  “What we need right now is penetration,” the chairman nearly shouted.

  The outburst brought Brooke back to the conference room. She bit her lip, holding back laughter.

  “Did you hear me, Ms. Alarawn?” Van Pelt asked.

  “I’m sorry, I was running numbers.” She tapped her temple. “Did you say you really need penetration?”

  The middle-age men in the room chuckled behind their hands. Many of them loved her spunk—and a few despised the chairman.

  Van Pelt’s face was granite. “Do you think this is funny, Ms. Alarawn?”

  Brooke’s body quivered with contempt. “I think this is tragic, Lance.”

  He hated being addressed by his first name, especially during a meeting. The man pulled on his collar, looked around the room, and then toward the large screens on the wall. “Tell us what’s on the table, Fong.” His eyes moved back to Brooke. He almost smiled. Brooke turned her eyes toward the LCD and focused on the elderly Asian man, half a world away.

  He glanced at a legal pad and pushed his glasses up the flat bridge of his nose. “They’re interested. I don’t think they’re willing to meet our number, but if we played with it a bit, they just might bite.”

  Brooke’s perspiration returned. She shouldn’t have been surprised that this conversation had reemerged. Alarawn Industries had struggled since the mid-80s, and many of their peer corporations had made lucrative deals oversees. Selling made fiscal sense. “You’re not hawking my company like a used appliance.” Brooke’s left hand clenched her knee beneath the table. Her perfectly manicured nails left four tiny marks. “That’s a non-negotiable.”

  The chairman of the board couldn’t hold back his delight. “It’s not your company anymore, Alarawn. It’s ours. And you can’t dictate terms to us. We have a responsibility to the shareholders.”

  Brooke had never felt homicidal, not until that moment. “The shareholders? You don’t give a shit about them, do you, Lance? All you care about is your own bottom line. My father, his father, and his father before him built this city. When the rest of steel tucked tail and ran like a bunch of whiny bitches, we stayed. AI always knew this was something bigger than themselves. Pittsburgh needs this business, and I can save it.” Brooke stood, knocking her chair back. “Give me time.”

  A low murmur greeted her response. Several of the board members had been with the company since the old days, had known Brooke since she was a child. She knew they agreed with her, but whether or not they’d confront Van Pelt was another story. All eyes turned to the chairman.

  “Eight months.” Van Pelt removed his glasses and spun them on the table, casually, like this was all a minor detail. He rubbed his eyes. “The board has discussed this, and we decided to give you eight months to turn the company around. We want results, Ms. Alarawn, or Mr. Fong will continue to broker the deal.”

  Brooke turned and left the boardroom. She slammed the door hard enough to shake its frame.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elijah leaned against the cold brick wall in front of the library. The bus stop allowed for optimal people watching—it was a human zoo. He wasn’t sure if being a historian by discipline made him more attentive to his surroundings, or if he was just a curious person.

  Nevertheless, in times like these, he took in everything. He hadn’t been in Pittsburgh long, but even after a few weeks, people started to look familiar. Not much unlike a bar or restaurant, sidewalks and street corners had their regulars. Among the hipsters, nerds, and hippies, Elijah spotted the woman from the coffee shop. His first reaction was to hide behind the wind guard of the bus stop. But before he could, she spotted him. Her eyes narrowed—or at least they did in his imagination.

  He bolstered his courage and gave it another shot.

  “You again?” he said.

  “Me again?” she asked, raising her brow.

  “I just wanted to apologize. Sorry about what I said the other day at the coffee shop.”

  Her face lost all expression. “Coffee shop?” She cocked her head to the side. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  Elijah considered jumping in front of the oncoming 61A. Academic hubris makes faculty see themselves as utterly unforgettable. “Oh, right. Last week. Kiva Han. I made an ass of myself.”

  The woman’s expression broke; something between a giggle and laugh emerged. “I’m sorry. That was cruel. Of course I remember. I know it’s probably surprising, but it’s not every day a stranger calls me hot.”

  Yes, it is surprising, he thought.

  “An
d she has a sense of humor too,” Elijah said, as her laughter subsided. “Let’s try this again. I’m Elijah. Elijah Branton.”

  “Much better. And I’m Willa Weil. Postmodern poetry and contemporary women’s fiction.”

  Elijah cocked his head to the side.

  “We’re supposed to share our CVs whenever possible,” she said.

  He liked her. A lot. Her beauty was stunning and she was funny. And poets were kind of sexy, even postmodern ones.

  “My turn. I’m…”

  She put her hand up. “Wait. Let me guess. You are…Economics.” She looked him up and down. “No. You’re far too practical to be an Economics prof. Business Administration, with a concentration in ‘Leadership.’” She made air quotes. “Undergrad division.”

  “What? I am completely offended.” They both laughed.

  “So?”

  “History,” he said “Late nineteenth through mid-twentieth century, with a concentration in industrialization in the Rust Belt…”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” She cut him off. “Slow it down, tiger. You didn’t even buy me dinner yet. Don’t give your whole resume in the first conversation. Were you going to list your recent publications next?” Her eyes smiled. “There are rules, you know.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, as if she caught him looking—a ludicrous notion, seeing as January in Pittsburgh is sweater weather and parka weather and long underwear weather, especially if you’re always waiting for a bus.

  “I can only assume that you’re tenured, maybe tenure-track,” Elijah said.

  “Nope. Proud adjunct, going on half a decade. And I don’t mean to change that either.”

  Single mom?

  Rex pulled up in a tinted Lincoln Town Car before he could ask. “That’s me,” he said, nodding at the car.

  “Whoa. The adjunct life has been good to you? If I didn’t know better, I’d guess upper level administration.”

  “I struck it big in Internet marketing before going to grad school. You know—dot-com shit.”

  She finally laughed with him, not at him.

  Elijah pulled a card from the only institution that gave him cards. “Here. If you want to hang out or something. I’m new in town, my only friends are the nighttime stockers in the library.”

  Willa looked at the card, then waved it. “Speaking of stalkers.” She slipped it into the pocket of her vintage wool jacket. “I might just do that.”

  ****

  “Making friends, are we?” Rex asked without turning his head.

  “Even a man of history has desires,” Elijah said. “I can’t live entirely in the past.”

  When he first met Mr. Bertoldo, Elijah was far too focused on Brooke to really make much of him. Sitting next to him in the car gave the historian another opportunity to size him up, and there was a lot of him to size. Rex was tall and shockingly broad. Even in the luxury vehicle, he seemed to barely fit. While it was hard to tell what shape he was in underneath his designer suit, judging solely by the thickness of his neck, Elijah could see he was no weakling. Brooke had called him her assistant, but Elijah assumed he was the muscle.

  I doubt he’d even fit in my Subaru.

  Sitting next to a man that size prompted Elijah to consider his own physique. In high school he had been painfully thin—a source of great embarrassment. School was designed for people built like Rex, not 130-pound pushovers. Subconsciously, Elijah still saw himself that way, although a decade of bad habits and sedentary living had increased his weight by at least fifty pounds. Those fifty pounds certainly weren’t solid, and Elijah remained intimidated by those who looked like his driver.

  They drove mostly in silence; some local sports talk station filled the car. Elijah barely followed the rapid descriptions of games, players, and statistics. Sports wasn’t really his thing. A call-in segment began, which only increased his confusion. Ninety percent of the calls were lamenting the Steelers getting knocked out of the playoffs by the Broncos—nearly three weeks prior. The show was a mix of Monday morning quarterbacking and Pittsburgh therapy. Elijah always thought the Boston accent couldn’t be beat, until an enthusiastic caller yelled into the phone. “Yinz guys know the deal. In a play like that, you gotta throw dahntahn. What was Big Ben thinkin? Irregardless, now we gotta wait a whole nother year. Eh, at least we got the Buccos, am I right?”

  They drove south, putting distance between themselves and Oakland. Crossing the Monongahela River, they entered Homestead. Once a thriving industrial area, the town survived as a shadow of its former glory. Rows upon rows of houses, previously supported by the steel empires of the twentieth century, now lay empty. Maybe a tenth of its peak population remained.

  While Elijah could understand this town’s tragic decline in an abstract sense, he nevertheless loved the sight of abandoned buildings. It wasn’t something that he readily mentioned, but it was probably this very thing that first drew him to study the Rust Belt. Unlike much of the country, Pittsburgh contained ruins. For a historian, the tangible presence of a distant past proved irresistible. Elijah loved books—they provided a window into another world. But books and bricks…that provided a doorway.

  Rex cursed at the radio, interrupting Elijah’s reverie. “Fucking moron. They don’t know what they have in Tomlin.”

  The bald man gripped the wheel tighter, his jaw clenched. “What do they expect? A ring every season? Guy pulled a playoff run off of a fourth string running back who was still sucking his mother’s tit, and no Roethlisberger for half the season.”

  Idiot.

  “That’s why I don’t really get into sports,” Elijah said with as much disdain as he could manage. “It’s far too childish.”

  Elijah looked at his driver, hoping he’d understood his joke. Rex returned the stare. His eyes were ice, and his lips curled into a sneer. Elijah swallowed hard and quickly turned to break eye contact. The man laughed and turned the radio up.

  Moving through the residential district, Rex piloted them into an open, almost rural space. As steel moved out, trees and wildlife pushed back in. The twentieth century was undeniably man’s century, but in the twenty-first—at least on this plot of dirt—nature was making a comeback. The verdant patch of land would almost be described as lovely, if it weren’t for the rusted heap of blight that rose up from it.

  They pulled onto a gravel road leading to the plant. The Alarawn mill was a behemoth—a long brick warehouse coupled with huge metal towers sticking out of one end. With its strange industrial fixtures, it looked like an alien ship had crashed nose first into the side of the building. The plant stood imposing, as it had for over a century. Elijah tried to imagine flames shooting out of the building’s flare stack, the dark billowing smoke which covered the city for miles around in a thin layer of soot and ash. This plant alone would have employed several thousand people, working 24/7 to put out tons of steel annually.

  Elijah decided to leave his bag in the car, opting only to take a notebook and a cheap Bic pen with him. He could take pictures with his phone. He was unsure of the condition of the derelict plant and cursed himself for not being more prepared. Rex reached behind his seat and grabbed a large Maglite. He also produced a small set of keys from his coat pocket. “These should open any door you find inside the plant.”

  “You’re…you’re not coming with me?” Elijah stuttered.

  “That’s really more of a job for someone of your intelligence. I’d probably just get in the way. I’ll just sit here and listen to sports stuff.” A smirk washed across his face.

  Elijah resigned himself to crawling around in the dark alone. As he turned to shut the door, Rex yelled out to him. “Don’t forget this.” He reached into Elijah’s bag and pulled out the medallion. Throwing it to Elijah, he said, “You’d better not lose it or I’ll have your ass.”

  The historian took it, running his thumb over the engravings. Considering Rex’s warning, he decided to put the amulet around his neck for safekeeping. With the muffled sound of The Fan pl
aying behind him, Elijah bolstered his courage and entered the building.

  ****

  The plant was freezing. A shudder overtook Elijah as he stepped into its frigid air. It was hard for him to imagine that once upon a time this place would have been sweltering, the heat of the furnaces baking the bodies of its workers. The factory was dim, but not completely dark. Large holes in the ceiling provided some illumination. Elijah was still thankful for the flashlight. Sweeping its powerful beam around the room, he surveyed the ruins.

  The massive room was filled with large metal machines—giant blast furnaces, rollers used to shape the hot metal ingots into sheets and rails, and large chains with hooks hanging overhead. This place had horror film written all over it. In its prime, hearing anything over the tremendous din that these machines produced would have been near impossible. Now, Elijah could almost taste the silence.

  He walked carefully through the plant, avoiding the rusted metal traps in his path. He skipped the administrative offices—they would have been cleared out decades ago—and moved deeper into the heart of the old building, the open-hearth furnaces. They were the source of the conflict in the months before Thomas’s death, and although Elijah couldn’t quite name it, he felt something pulling him in that direction.

  Walking toward the oldest corner of the building, he found several large pieces of equipment blocking his path. A steel walkway led over the top of the obstruction. Following his light, Elijah backtracked a hundred feet until he found a stairway leading to the platform. He grabbed the railing and shook it violently. Seeing that it passed his test, he took several tentative steps upwards.