A Thin Line of Smoke - Chapter 1

 A THIN LINE OF SMOKE 

Names and places have been changed to protect the guilty.

The innocent will have to fend for themselves.

Chapter 1 

GEORGE

               They’d started out as innocent fibs, minor exaggerations, or hand waving distractions. There was nothing nefarious about adding flair, or emphasis, at least that’s what I’d believed when this started. We all did it, puffing up our chests, building up our importance, but somewhere along the way a boundary was crossed. What might have been embellishment slid further from the truth. One lie was left unquestioned, then another, and another. They’d all piled up, each new lie the foundation for the next untruth. Each tale, each story, each exaggeration; another brick, another beam, another column in our corrupted version of this altered reality, this more beautiful truth.

Allister slid a thin sheet of paper across the folding table. “This question is from the plumbers. It needed to be answered last week.”

I frowned, another trap. “Then they should’ve asked this last month.”

The South African folded his hands. “Don’t get testy on me Georgie.”

“How much?”

“It’s small. A nothing, eighteen thousand, unless you have some smart answer that I can use to clean out their pipes.”

A nothing? In their haste to finish, the plumbers had installed cheap faucets that didn’t match my blueprints, expecting no one would notice. I’d made them switch things out, but never bothered to document the obvious correction. Now they were using my own drawings against me, gambling on a seemingly innocent request for information to shift blame from contractor to architect. The paperwork was a farce, an excuse to get paid another eighteen K for their mistake by papering it over with a distraction that seemed legitimate, prying more money from the Owner’s tight grip.

“This shouldn’t be more than ten grand, and anything that small isn’t worth my time. Make it go away.”

From our position in the elevated construction trailer we could see a third of the site. The parking lot was filled with pickup trucks, and box vans. A yellow loader was zipping around, moving pallets off a flatbed. My project, the headquarters for North Shore Displays, was brimming with workers smoothing concrete sidewalks, spraying dirt piles with hydroseed, installing mirrored glass, balancing doors, unfurling carpet, spackling, sanding and touching up paint. They teemed like ants dancing an unrecognizable pattern of frenetic activity, yet somehow working towards the same goal; to construct what I had drawn.

“We’re negotiating now?” Allister leaned closer, his posture applying leverage, like I was to blame. I couldn’t let myself get pissed off.

“What does Frank say - anything less than ten grand is a rounding error when you’re dealing in millions?”

“That only works when it’s your millions.” Allister’s tone didn’t waiver. Burly armed, clean shaven with a hint of ginger in his thinning hair, Frank’s first lieutenant held his stance, guarding the coffers of Krunka Construction.

The worst part was, he was right. It wasn’t my millions, or his. We were arm wrestling on behalf of our respective bosses, or maybe the same boss depending on how you did the math. “Think of it more as a compromise”, The word was sweet on my tongue. I used to find it sharp and bitter, something to be spit out, but after nine months on this job site the idea of compromise – the more beautiful truth - had worn down to a hard candy, easier to swallow, even if it broke my teeth or gave me indigestion.

“Twelve.”

It should've been zero, but that wasn’t my hill to die on. I scribbled a response to the RFI, felt the curdle in my digestive tract, and passed it back.

Allister added it to the pile.

Before the construction manager could start his next round of slippery negotiations there was a pop, like a balloon bursting. The fluorescent lights blinked. Allister’s computer flashed. The insatiable growl of power saws and screw guns paused for a deep breath as if all the workers had simultaneously taken their collective fingers off the triggers.

He reached for his walkie-talkie. “Lenny, where are they with the cut over?”

A squawk came back, “The transformer is set. The electricians are working hot in the street. Why?”

“Did something trip? “Allister asked.

We both scanned the site. Beyond the building and over the fence was Spagnoli Road, the boundary between our encampment and the battlefield. On the far side of the street a small army of flannel-clad picketers marched in place, hoisting signs and ringing cowbells to bring attention to the lack of union labor. Their tank sized inflatable rat, Scabby, bounced with every passing car.

In the demilitarized zone between construction and protest, two pickup trucks were parked in a vee. We couldn’t see the manhole between them, but a white cloud billowed out. Something had gone wrong.

We said it simultaneously - “Shit.”

Allister flew out of the trailer in a dead sprint.

What had they screwed up now? I followed, catching the flimsy trailer door before it slammed in my face.

“Who’s in the hole?” Allister yelled as he ran.

Three Finger Lenny, our burly labor foreman, and two of his guys were a few yards ahead. One of the laborers stopped to grab an emergency kit.

“Who’s in the hole?” Allister yelled again.

I couldn’t make out Lenny’s answer.

They moved with an urgency I hadn’t witnessed before. I had to run to catch up. Something was very wrong.

We crashed out through the gate.

Across the street the picket line was a mass of broiling faces, spitting maws and pointed fingers. They bellowed out slurs.

Smoke wafted between the trucks like the remnants of cannon fire.

An electrician sat with his legs dangling in the hole and his face in his hands, rocking back and forth.

Lenny moved like a bulldozer. He punched under the man’s arm, dragging him away from danger.

The acrid smell hit me as I followed into the cloud, charred wood dipped in battery acid. The metallic taste burned the back of my throat. It was worse than I could’ve imagined.  

“What happened?” Allister asked between huffing breaths.

“We arced.” The electrician’s face was between his knees.

“We?” Lenny turned back towards the road opening.

I was closest to the manhole. Below, I saw a horror I’d never encountered before. Kid Sparks slumped at the bottom of the ladder, enveloped in a gauzy haze. His hand lay on an open copper switch, his body twitching.