The Downside Read online

“Now!” the VP repeated.

  Corman looked at him for a long moment. The guy was probably half his age, clean-shaven and glaring, collar turned up on a fancy oilcloth jacket.

  It would have been easy to swing the wrench, nine pounds of cast steel, and knock the VP right off the dock. For a moment, Corman could feel the impact, hear the dumbfuck yelling, see him tumble into the filthy, seething water.

  Instead, he nodded, set down the wrench, and found his cell phone.

  The VP stepped to the shelter of an open shed—some angle iron and a few sheets of galvanized metal that made up Cross-Harbor’s operations center. After a minute’s discussion with the captain, Corman trudged over.

  “He says it’s too dangerous.”

  “Fuck him.” The VP shook his head but took the phone. “Captain? Yes … No, I don’t need to hear that. No, I don’t see any whitecaps. Look, I’ve sailed a Radford yacht in thirty-knot winds, you can’t tell me anything about fucking currents. Throttle up and get that pile of shit moving away from shore!”

  Corman walked off.

  He needed the job. Barely more than minimum wage, cheapskate health insurance, and no possibility of advancement since he and one other hogger made up the entire roster of rail personnel. Not to mention the sheer indignity of moving garbage scows thirty feet at a time. But his days on the union list were long gone. After four years inside, he was lucky to be employed anywhere.

  The captain must have lost the argument, because in a few minutes, Corman got the signal to unhook the barge. He recovered the wrench, walked to the end of the dock, and started to unbolt the rail lock.

  The barge and the floating dock rose and fell on the swell. It seemed awfully rough to Corman, and glancing past, he could see the first foamy bits appearing on open water. He stopped to look at the tugboat’s bridge, raising both hands as if to say, Really? Are you sure? The captain leaned out to wave and gave a short blast on the whistle, so Corman bent back and finished the job.

  The tugboat’s engine rumbled, and a gap opened. Black water splashed and whooshed in between the barge and the dock. Slowly, the rail float moved into the harbor.

  Corman walked back and retrieved his cell phone from the VP, who was sheltering under the shed’s lean-to roof. The wind was loud on the corrugated metal.

  “Still looks dicey to me,” he shouted.

  “Thank God he’s moving away.” The VP turned toward the entrance. “They’re here.”

  A silver SUV pulled alongside the Mercedes and three men got out—suits, dress coats, shiny shoes. Their approach over the broken ground was slow.

  The VP made a shooing motion. “Disappear.”

  “What?”

  “I told you, this is a money opportunity. Not your conversation. Go … shovel some ballast or something.”

  Corman nodded slowly. “Right.”

  He found a spot under the eave of the deserted warehouse, fifty yards away. Years of graffiti covered the bottom seven feet of the wall, archaeological layers of Krylon.

  The wind slackened, gusted, blew heavily again. The suits stood in the shed. Corman could see the VP gesturing emphatically.

  Out in the harbor, the barge seemed to be making little progress. Definite whitecaps appeared, knocking the tugboat against its tow. Bumpers absorbed the shock, but Corman heard the tug’s engines roar more loudly.

  He pulled the cell phone out from under his slicker, thinking about calling the captain.

  The barge rocked, the gondolas swaying side to side. The tug was now clearly backing away, and Corman couldn’t tell if it was paying out line or had simply cast free.

  At the shed, the VP had stopped his arm waving. All four men stared at the drama unfolding a quarter mile offshore.

  Rising waves sent the barge up, then down, then up again, even farther. The blow was modest by the standards of an open sea, but bad for an enclosed harbor. The top-heavy railcars worsened the rocking. Smoke poured from the tug’s stack as it reversed away as fast as it could.

  A wave broke over the barge’s side as it dipped into a trough. One of the gondolas lurched, and Corman thought he saw a cable snap and whip across the deck.

  The cell phone was still in his hand, but he cleared the captain’s number and dialed a different one.

  It rang once, twice, three times.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hey,” Corman said over the wind. “I’ve been thinking it over.”

  “Come to a decision?”

  The barge’s stern suddenly rose, ten or fifteen feet in the air, as the rear gondola came loose and tipped off its track. For a moment, it hung, suspended on half its wheels like a circus performer.

  Then it fell sideways, skidded briefly, and fell off the side.

  It was gone in an instant, nothing but a plume of spray and the barge heeling the other way. Two other cars broke free, sliding crazily on the deck, crashing into the third. The barge held together a moment longer, then turned all the way over.

  It was upside down, all four cars gone. Five seconds, total loss. Even Corman, who’d expected disaster, felt briefly stunned by how fast it happened.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “This seems like a good time to move on.”

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Jake.”

  “Hey, Finn. What’s up?”

  “Wanted to let you know—he’ll be joining us.”

  “Corman?”

  “Yup.”

  “Awesome.”

  “He’s in the area, too. Convenient.”

  “Fate.”

  “Coincidence.”

  “Whatever.” Jake paused to spit, and Finn wondered where he was. He hadn’t noticed any spittoons in the shop.

  “Here’s the thing. We need a driller, too.”

  “I figured.”

  “So maybe, Asher.”

  “Sure, he’s good.” Jake stopped. “No, wait a minute.”

  “He’s not good. He’s the best.”

  “No, no.” Jake made a coughing sound that Finn deciphered as a laugh. “Corman and Asher? Work together? You might as well put Peyton Manning and Tom Brady on the same team. They won’t last five minutes.”

  “They managed to get along in New Mexico.”

  “They ended up in the same prison, did you know that?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Prosecutors tried to split us all up, but I guess the state didn’t have enough pens. So Corman and Asher did their three-to-fives in the same place.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Different floors, different blocks, but you know. Apparently, it didn’t help that Corman got out early and Asher did every damn day of his sentence.”

  “Mouthed off, did he?” Finn had brought Asher into three jobs, and he’d been pain in the ass every time.

  “Of course. They probably would have extended his time, but by the end, everyone hated him too much.”

  “All right.”

  “But you’re right—he really is the best driller out there. And he probably needs the work.”

  “You’re in touch?” Finn was surprised.

  “No, no, I just mean, who else would hire him? Right side of the law or not? The only way to make Asher employable is to duct-tape his mouth shut.”

  “Okay, I take the point. But we need him anyway.”

  “If he’s even interested.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Asher rolled the tanker across the broad dirt patch next to Kiowa Oil’s temporary field office and parked right out front. He left the diesel running, because it was twenty-two degrees and he liked the cab warm and it wasn’t his tab anyway. Half-frozen slush crunched under his boots. First snow had fallen back in September, early for North Dakota, but storms had alternated with unusual warm spells since then. Now the roads were ruts of ice and muck.

&nb
sp; The office was a half-wide trailer set on unmortared cinder-block footings. The electrical connection looked dangerously jerry-rigged to Asher, and an oil tank provided fuel for the heater inside. After the porta-potty kept freezing, the Kiowa foreman had it moved up snug against the trailer, hoping to bleed some warmth through the wall.

  The foreman’s Ram was the only other truck parked nearby. A quarter mile down the road, a row of plastic Quonset huts huddled against arctic winds blasting across the prairie. Asher had a room in the man camp—a bunk, actually, in a four-man unit. After twelve hours hauling frack water, he was bone tired, so tired that even sleeping in what was basically a shipping container was mighty attractive. All the more so now that he was the only one left in his unit.

  The boom felt like it was ending. Kiowa wasn’t laying off, but suddenly, the pay wasn’t quite so good, and guys had started wondering what the hell they were doing in the middle of freezing fucking nowhere. Some drifted back south, following rumors of recovery in warmer states. Others looked for jobs closer to Minot or even Williston. Especially with another winter closing in, anyone with a little cash saved up had to be thinking about opportunities elsewhere.

  “You’re late.” The foreman wasn’t much older than Asher, and he’d started out as a rigger, as dumb and tough as any of them. But the transition to management, such as it was, had erased all class sympathy. “Did you dump that last load of lease water?”

  “Didn’t have time.” Asher shrugged. “They broke a stopcock on the holding tank, and it took an hour to get it working again. I had to wait.”

  The man frowned. “So where’s the truck?”

  Asher jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get someone else to drive it to the disposal. I’ve been on the clock since five a.m.”

  “Get the fuck back out there! It’ll start to freeze, sitting out overnight.”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “DOT regulations. I’ve timed out. Fuck off.”

  A long glare, face reddening. “I told you to get out there. Finish your shift.”

  “Haul it yourself. I’m done for the day.”

  “I’ll write you up.”

  “Yeah? Do your boss a favor—when you’re done, take the report and shove it up your ass.”

  The man slapped his desk, hard enough to rattle the entire trailer. “All right, I’ve had enough. You’re fired.”

  “Fine.” Asher suddenly felt better. “That’s great.”

  “Get off the property. I’ll call the camp and tell them you’ve got an hour to clear your shit out.”

  Some extra clothing, all of it heavily insulated and permanently grimed. A broken Xbox. The bottle of Old Fitzgerald he was always too tired to drink. Asher could pack in about thirty seconds. “Fine by me. Just hand over my paycheck and you’ll never see me again.”

  A pause, and then the man kind of smiled. “Paycheck? What paycheck would that be?”

  Payday was Friday, the following afternoon. “You owe me for five days. Sixty-one, sixty-two hours, something like that.” Asher’s good feeling departed as fast as it had arrived.

  “You’re being terminated for cause. Walk out or I call the police.”

  An empty threat. They were in unincorporated territory, far from any local jurisdiction, and the highway patrol couldn’t be bothered. But Asher didn’t have much to bargain with, either.

  “You owe me my fucking pay.” Asher felt himself begin to snarl and cut it off. “And you better make it cash, now that I think about it.”

  The argument went nowhere. The foreman even started to grin, now that he could fuck Asher over.

  “Kiowa’s going to blackball you, too,” he said. “Attitude like yours. You’ll never work in the industry again.”

  Another empty threat—wildcatters didn’t give a shit and the majors were too disorganized—but Asher focused on the core issue.

  “Open the goddamned safe,” he said through clenched teeth, “and hand over my fucking money.”

  Maybe the foreman finally realized the territory their conversation was entering, because he raised his hands. “Okay, okay, don’t be an asshole. Hang on.” He put his back to Asher, warily, and bent to the black AMSEC on the floor. A half minute of dial spinning, a ratcheting click, a few seconds of paper rustling, then he slammed the safe shut again and turned back.

  “Four hundred and eighty,” he said, unable to suppress a smile. “Poor performance, insubordination, failure to follow regulations, and generally being a shithead—I’ve reduced your rate to minimum wage. Normally, you’d be able to work your way back up the scale, if you cleaned up your act and kissed my ass enough, but since you just got fired, oh well.” He proffered the thin wad of bills.

  Asher stood, boiling, for a long moment. When he abruptly stepped forward, hand swinging out, the foreman shoved his chair backward and fumbled in the desk drawer. A moment later, he had a pistol in his other hand, dead center and unwavering on Asher’s chest.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” he said.

  Asher, who’d been on the wrong side of a gun a few times, didn’t move.

  “No need for that,” he said.

  The foreman leaned forward to drop the money on the desk, then backed up again.

  “Take it and leave.”

  Outside the trailer, Asher slammed the cheap-shit aluminum door and shoved the cash into his pocket. It was dark already, the winter night falling early, and a cold wind whistled across the empty lot. He stood for a few seconds, glaring at the tanker in front of him. It was still puffing exhaust, gleaming a bit in the trailer’s security light.

  The foreman wouldn’t emerge until he heard Asher drive away. He was probably still holding the handgun at ready, prepared to shoot if the door opened again. Asher grunted and shook his head.

  Then he studied the foreman’s trailer.

  It was a standard mobile office—boxy and flimsy, the rental company’s logo peeling off the side. Wires drooped haphazardly from a junction box at one end, with the oil tank and its fitting at the other. An unused plumbing connection projected at floor level next to the oil hose.

  Asher looked more closely at the pipe end. Out here on the prairie, there was no water supply to connect to—hence the porta-potty. The connection was a standard three-inch sewer pipe, reasonably clean because it had never been used.

  If required by local code, and the budget could afford it, Kiowa might have hooked up a sink and toilet, maybe even a shower. As it was, the pipe terminated just on the other side of the wall. Probably not even capped. Why bother?

  Asher looked at the fitting, then he looked at the tanker.

  The frack water came out a three-inch hose, too.

  Asher grinned.

  Five minutes later, he stood by the tanker’s control board, hand on the lever, and savored the moment. He had run the hose out as silently as possible, working carefully at the connection so the trailer didn’t thump—though steady gusts of wind covered up any vibration he might have caused. The tank was full, thirty-six hundred gallons of theoretically decontaminated but still filthy water that had been pumped into the shale beds and forced back out endless times. It was nasty stuff, contaminated with benzene, toluene, and more, and Asher never let it splash on his arms.

  He pulled the lever all the way open.

  A sudden noise from the trailer—a high-pressure gush, not stopping, and yells from the foreman. The trailer rocked slightly. Banging sounds. The rush of water seemed to increase in volume.

  The door slammed open, a cascade of water sheeting out and over the ramp. The foreman stood backlit in the doorway.

  “Ashhhherrrrr!” he yelled, then he lost his footing in the torrent and tumbled down the steps, yelling the whole way.

  Asher stood one more moment, etching the satisfying panorama into memory, then turned and jogged away.

&n
bsp; His own truck was parked outside his housing unit, four hundred yards down the road. A half minute to grab his phone charger and some underwear, and he’d be on his way. He had a pocketful of twenties, a tank full of gas, and a story that was sure to be good for a few free rounds in Williston.

  After that, who knew? He’d find something else. The world was full of opportunity for an enterprising man.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The rock gym was in a glazed-brick building at the edge of the East Village. Apartment block on one side, pizza shops and a Duane Reade across the avenue. Several bikes were chained to a rack out front, single-speeds and retro cruisers. Finn wasn’t sure what to expect inside—a fake concrete cliff? But it was a pleasant, well-lit space with looming synthetic walls and a rainbow of handholds bolted everywhere.

  “I go there most lunchtimes,” Emily had said. “Unless Wes has some last-minute crisis. So, like twice a week.”

  “How about I take you somewhere to eat instead?”

  “I never have lunch. That’s a waste of time.”

  She’d called him in the morning. Something she didn’t want to talk about on the phone, or maybe from her desk at the Heart Pine offices. So Finn had agreed to meet her here.

  A haze of dust in the air. A few dozen climbers, on the walls, on the mats, belaying, sitting around. All had chalk bags at their waists or sitting nearby.

  He found Emily quick enough, near the top of a steep overhang fifteen feet up. Black tights and a sleeveless top. She was midmove, swinging gently back then launching up and left. Her hand caught the hold, but momentum carried her too far and she slipped off. She hit the mat on her back.

  “Damn.”

  Finn stepped forward and offered a hand. She was already rolling to her feet but took it anyway.

  “The other climbers,” he said, gesturing to a higher wall, “use safety gear. So they don’t fall like that.”

  “No ropes for bouldering.” Emily walked off the mat. “Any trouble getting in?”

  “They seem to know you pretty well.”

  “It’s low-key here. Not crazy like at Chelsea Piers.”

  Her shoulder and arm muscles were seriously cut, veins standing out from the exertion. Finn was impressed. “You have business meetings here often?”