45. Forty-Five
Forty-Five
Carl Michaels
It had been a fucking day. Since last summer, Frank Barrett had put me back in the big leagues. The last six years had been nothing but failed projects and shitty strip mall demolitions. Now, I was working on a development project for high-end condos in West Barrett.
But my paycheque hadn’t gone back to what it was before. Nor had Frank reached out to say thank you, even though I’m the one who found his fucking kid.
Still, I was glad to be back working on real fucking job sites, with guys who knew how to do their goddamn jobs.
Mostly. Except, on days like today. Franklin had just launched his fancy new East side project, aimed at cleaning up the slums of East Barrett and my team was attached to one of the worst projects.
The building he had us working on wasn’t a renovation, it was a full-on shit hole.
From day one, I’d said we’d be better off blowing it up than renovating it.
But no, Frank had insisted that it couldn’t be torn down.
So, my crew had spent all week ripping out meth-damaged drywall and moulding walls. I’d earned the beer in my hands.
It was practically crying out to be opened when I pulled it from the fridge, but a knock at the front door stopped me.
I would’ve said fuck it, too, if ten seconds later there hadn’t been another knock.
The second one was harder than the first and followed by a man’s voice hollering, “Carl! Open the fucking door!”
I did, and in the dim porch light there wasn’t just any man, but Frank’s son.
“Uhhh…” My brain scrambled, trying to remember the kid’s name. Not that he was a kid really. He might have been even been bigger and taller than my boy. Though, I doubt he was as strong. Rich living was an easy road to softness, or so my old man always said.
“Francis,” he answered, filling in the blanks.
“Francis. Right. Uh, come in,” I backed up, waving him inside, “What can I do for you?”
He stepped inside and slammed the door closed behind him. Francis didn’t really resemble Frank at all. His dirty brown buzz cut too military and his size too at odds with the polished look I’d come to expect from my boss.
“You might want to sit down.”
I didn’t. But I did clutch the glass neck of my bottle a little tighter.
“Carl, seriously, you might want to sit down.”
The best I could offer was to back up against the table Marcy had left behind the day she left. The boy didn’t move.
Instead, he said words. Words I would only put together later. Days later.
Words like ‘my father’ and ‘gunshot’.
Words like ‘accident’, ‘Cole’, 'dead’
After that, it was a wash. There was shattering glass. And a howl. And beer every fucking place. I wasn’t sure how it got there, but it dripped down the cabinets and over the countertops.
None of that mattered. All my work. All the effort I’d put into making that boy into something. All that fucking time and money, and now it was just fucking gone.
I didn’t remember Francis Barrett leaving. I didn’t remember sweet fuck all for days after that, other than brutal hangovers, dry mouth, and the taste of stale beer. I didn’t even go to work.
But five days later, my phone rang and bleary-eyed as I was, I picked up. On the other end was that voice again. Francis.
Asking, “So, Carl, how would you like to come and work for me?”