I TOSSED AND TURNED TO the point that Bruno pawed at the side of the bed, finally getting me up and going for our run two hours earlier than usual. Sometimes I feel guilty for having such a big dog in the city. Seems unfair to keep him closed up like that. But I’ve got a plan and one day soon, he’s gonna have all the room he needs.
Being an adult basically means we find ourselves doing shit we don’t want to do. Working at jobs we hate. Giving our hard-earned money to people who don’t deserve it.
I do every fucking month, and I don’t mean paying bills. I mean Jerry. I was ten years old when he and his wife, Celia, received the three of us from the state. Most of the time his example was pure shit, but I chose not to like him from the beginning, so my eyes may not have been willing to see any good in him.
When I walk through the front door and see him sitting in the same recliner he’s sat in for the last seventeen years, it’s hard to think of the good. Because he opens his mouth in typical Jerry fashion.
“And here I thought Christmas was over,” he says. He knows why I’m here and he fucking loves it. I don’t even entertain his bullshit anymore.
“Where’s Mom?” In all legal and familial meanings of the word, she isn’t my mother. But I’ve always believed she was the one good thing that came from the death of my parents.
“Where the hell you think?” He takes the envelope of cash in my hand before I can fully extend it to him. I instinctively curl a fist in its absence. He doesn’t miss it, curling one side of his upper lip. As much as I’d like to paralyze his sorry ass, I know it’d just be more work for Celia. That’s all that saves him. Guaranteed.
I can hear Etta James flowing softly down the hallway through the crack of Celia’s ajar bedroom door. Her humming reminds me of my earliest years in this house in the bedroom across the hall. I knock lightly at her door, looking briefly over at the closed door of my old room.
“Come in,” she says, and I open the door.
She’s sitting in front of the window in the oversized armchair I bought her this past Mother’s Day finally replacing the one she’d worn down after years of use. Her practiced hands work rapidly and without hesitation as she directs the crochet needles, creating hats and blankets for the babies that come through the NICU at Lurie Children’s hospital.
“Hey, Mom.” I push my way in, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You look nice today.”
She smiles big up at me. “I was beginning to wonder if you were gonna visit your momma this week.”
“Sorry. Been busy working around these holidays. I put Bruno in the back yard, he’s been cooped up all week.” I scoot back on the bed by her chair, the old bed frame squeaking with my weight. “I’m adding a new bed to my list of things to get you. How do you sleep on this noisy-ass thing?”
“Oh, stop it. If you want to make me happy why don’t you try finding a nice girl to bring into this family of wild men.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve got a business to build before that happens.”
“You were just featured in the Tribune, I’d say you’ve arrived. Now take a break and make me some grand babies, could you?” Celia’s fingers stop knitting and she looks up at me, seriousness all too evident in her eyes.
“I hear you, Mom.” I stand, kissing the top of her head. “Right now, I’ve gotta get to work before your other son screws something up.”
Ironically, some of my most productive days are the ones that start from my inability to sleep. I was like that growing up too. I’d wake up before Celia came to wake me, sitting at my desk working on chapters of the textbooks we hadn’t even covered yet. I knew if I wanted to make that money, win those fights, I’d have to be ten steps ahead at school. It kept teachers from saying too much when I came to school with black eyes and busted lips. Of course we went to a city public school where kids got arrested for bringing guns and knives in their backpacks, so I was really the least of their worries.
At sixteen, I’d already started working for one of Jerry’s old bosses doing construction work on the weekends that I didn’t fight. Masonry work isn’t easy, but I liked the challenge of perfection that came with it, how if anything was slightly off center you had to take it up and start over. But mostly I liked that I never had to do that. Mr. Passmore would say I had fire and ice in my hands, which I assume meant speed and precision.
Speed and precision is what’s necessary to accomplish what I’ve set out to do; bidding and winning these larger projects and being actual competition to some of the bigger contractors in Chicago. It’s a cut-throat business and the investors don’t give a shit how many people you’ve got on your payroll.
So as a contractor, you never want to see your fucking project manager on the job first thing in the morning. That can only mean one thing, and it ain’t good. Anytime you see a dude in a suit, or a woman in a skirt walking around a construction site with a hard hat on, just know that the contractor of that job is likely having a shit day.
I’m about to have a shit day.
And of all people for the project manager to be addressing anything with, pulling up to see her talking to Thorn isn’t good. We made a deal when we went into this partnership that I would handle the business end of things and he would focus on production. Period.
I scramble out of the truck, barely getting it into park before grabbing my gear and slamming the door shut.
“Morning, Lisa,” I say.
“Stone, we’ve got problems.” She pulls a red slip of paper from her clipboard and hands it to me. Okay, so a red piece of paper is worse than a suit in a hard hat. “Quality control filed a temporary rejection on your permits. They couldn’t give me any answers, so you’re going to have to go down to City Hall and find out what’s going on.”
“I sent all the guys home, told them we’d send out notice as soon as the problem’s fixed,” Thorn says, pinching off the burning ember of his cigarette and tossing it in his empty soda can. I’m distracted briefly by his lack of awareness.
“I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sorry. We’ve never had this issue before. I’ll call you and let you know what they say at City Hall.”
Storming back to my truck, I don’t have a good feeling about this.
When Mr. Passmore was ready to retire, he offered me the opportunity to take over the company he’d built. Over fifty years of hard work laid at my feet. I was glad that I had enough sense to know that was one man’s legacy being passed to another. Sure, it was a construction company, but one that had been built from nothing. I could drive all around this city and see where it left its mark. Buildings that were now points of interest for tourists and locals alike. That was something to be proud of and I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I want to be a rich old man one day, able to drive around and see my own mark on this city the way that Passmore did. But bigger and maybe even better.
Today is the first time since I bought Passmore out, that I’ve had one blemish, one fuck up. I’ve never had permits rejected, and damn sure never had a red slip handed to me. The feeling in the pit of my stomach grows into anger as I drive to City Hall. I don’t know how I’ll prove it, but I’m sure I know who’s behind this.