Corpus de Crossword (3 page)

The man merely turned and peered down at him. He was far bigger than Stark, and thirty to forty years younger. His hair and face were the same color: a tawny, reddish pink. “Who the hell are you?”

“I'm the senior warden of—”

“A warden, eh? Well, we ain't got no escaped prisoners here, warden.” The man also raised his voice above the din, but it was clear from his posture that he was the one on solid ground and not his visitor. “I only hire top-notch workers. Can't afford not to. Not with the time schedule we're on, and all … You know, I would have took you to be retired there, warden—”

“No, you misunderstood. I'm—”

“You gotta speak up—”

“Of the church! I'm the warden of a church, not a prison!” Stark bellowed. “Of the church down there!” He pointed insistently. “The one your machinery is—”

“Take it easy there, mister—”

Stark's blue eyes flashed with rage. “Don't you know that this is the Sabbath day! It's Sunday!”

The foreman's face broke into an easy smile. “This could be Independence Day and New Year's rolled into one, and my crew would still be working. We've got to get these foundations dug before the November freezes set in or we're toast; and right now we're behind schedule … Architects! You gotta love 'em … They give the owner a pretty picture, and bing-bang, you've got a whole new hole to dig …” He made to move off, but Stark grabbed at his arm.

“Your machinery's damaging our church!”

The man stared hard at the hand clinging to his arm. Stark released his grasp, but maintained his confrontational stance. “Sue the owner if you want, fella, but don't go hollerin' at me. I don't make the rules. I just follow them … And that's the same thing I told all the other folks who've been barging in here with complaints. You want a stable; you want a pool, a pump house, guest house, summer kitchen, you name it … just call me up. But don't come here and start yellin' about destroying the community, or not giving local laborers a chance to work—or ruining a neighboring building. Or history—I don't know nuttin' about history.” Again, he began to walk away, then stopped himself and gazed curiously at Stark. “I never heard of a church that needed a
warden
… What kind of a place is it anyway? Like a rehab house?”

“It's an Episcopal church, a very old church, and you—”

“Yeah, I know … I know … We're wreckin' the neighborhood. Talk to the owner, if you want, fella … But right now, I'd suggest you leave before you get hurt. This here is a construction site—”

“I can see that,” Stark countered testily. “That was my line of work before—”

“Well, there you go then, pops. You know exactly what I'm up against. Winter setting in and a homeowner breathing fire … Architects! Yeesch. And there's more rocks in this ground than I got in my head for takin' on this friggin' job in the first place.” He walked off before Stark had time to respond.

It was dark by the time Milton Hoffmeyer pulled into his own narrow lane. His hands clutched and reclutched the steering wheel as he stared unhappily at his home. White shingles, a freshly swept porch, light streaming from the ground floor windows, the curtains hung just so. Milton's wife was far more fastidious than he; and he knew when he walked in the door he'd smell the familiar aroma of Sunday night supper: a soup with dumplings she'd made by hand and an apple crisp with fruit picked from their own trees. The apples would be the strongest scent, winey and redolent of autumn. The linoleum floor would be immaculate, the tea towels beside the sink pressed and clean, the countertop spotless as though no one had been chopping or peeling or slicing.

Another spasm of misery attacked him. Although he hadn't expressed the opinion as vociferously as John Stark, he was just as upset about the changes being worked on the Quigley house.
Why does “progress” need to barge in here?
Milton thought.
And why now
—
just as I'm thinking of retiring? How come we let big spenders from Boston or Newcastle buy up our land and change it? All they do is make us feel small, make us feel old and useless
.

“Is that you, hon?” he heard as the kitchen door swung open. “Whatever are you doing skulking out there in the car? Come in before you take cold.” Backlit, his wife appeared featureless, but her shortish hair fluffed around her face like a fuzzy white halo, and her entire persona seemed to emanate good.

Hoffmeyer dragged himself from the car.

“That vestry,” his wife sighed goodnaturedly. “It'll be the death of you.”

“It's not the vestry this time, May—”

“Not one of your regular rows with John?” She stood aside to let her husband pass through the door. His long back was bent and dispirited. “I swear, I don't know why you two like bickering so much. You'd think you would have had enough of it by now. Enough of it several decades ago. Maybe enough of it when you were young—”

“It's not a disagreement with Stark this time, May. It's all that mess up at Quigley's—”

“Uh-oh … That sounds like John talking—”

“I hate to admit it, May, but I think he's right …” Hoffmeyer shook his bearlike head.

“Nothing you can do, Milton. Besides, that church has been around a mighty long time—”

“John's concerned about structural damage. He went up to the site—”

“Oh dear, I hope he doesn't get himself into mischief. You know how bullheaded he can be.” She closed the kitchen door behind them, and returned to her place at the stove. “What do they say?
If it ain't broke
…” May stirred her soup, adding a pinch of salt, a pinch of thyme, a generous pat of yellow butter. The problematic issue of the senior warden disappeared in a cloud of scented steam. “We had a call from young Milt while you were gone. He sounded real happy, real upbeat. He said his campaign's going great guns. The latest polls said he was holding his lead.” She smiled as she worked, all troubles banished. “Just think of that … a grandson who's almost in public office. Public office! I still can't believe it … Milton Hoffmeyer the Third, United States Congressman. Don't those words have the grandest ring. He said he'd see us on Election Day … Now, you go and wash up. Supper's almost ready.”

CHAPTER 4

By five past seven Sunday evening the regular customers at Eddie's Elbow Room—the nearest workingman's drinking establishment to “downtown” Taneysville—were in a jovial, almost celebratory, mood. The Patriots had just upped their record to 6 and 2 by beating the Buffalo Bills 15-14. They'd accomplished this by kicking their fifth field goal of the day with three seconds left on the game clock—a forty-seven-yarder that literally bounced on top of the crossbar before dropping to the turf on the plus side. Eddie's ten or so patrons had responded to this last-minute triumph with the expected whoops and hollers and more than a few elongated sighs of relief. A round of beers had been purchased by Big Otto Gunston, a fifty-something electrician renowned for the size of his walrus mustache, his arm-wrestler's forearms, and his equally obvious paunch—and conversation had become a boisterous analysis of the game just won.

“What we need is a quarterback who can run the damn football,” Gary Leach groaned at Eddie Apollo as the taproom's owner punched the TV remote, darkening the set and silencing the professional analyzers. “The old ticker can't take too many games like this. What are they trying to do? Murder me before Christmas?” For effect Leach pressed his cold beer to his chest, but everyone knew the gesture was purely for show. Unlike Big Otto, Gary was proud of his physique; he kept a set of dumbbells in his basement, and was always ready to try out a new high-protein or high-carb diet—as long as it didn't mean eliminating the day's closing ration of brewskis. “I mean, come on! Is this pro ball or what?”

In answer, the other patrons merely hoisted their drinks, and the taproom drifted into momentary silence.

The establishment was standard fare for rural Massachusetts: a collection of neon Budweiser, Coors, and Miller signs decorating the walls and windows; a parking lot within easy view; and queued up on the gravel, a small line of pickup trucks. The bar at Eddie's Elbow Room seated fifteen, but was never filled to capacity—except for the World Series, Super Bowl, and Stanley Cup. Beyond the bar sat eight tables with checkered plastic tablecloths and beyond that, the kitchen. Laminated menus were wedged between shakers containing salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. The menus offered up hamburgers, French fries, grilled cheese sandwiches, et cetera—all prepared and served by Eddie's wife, Tina, a woman with coal black hair and the kind of figure not normally found in Taneysville.

Nearly every man, no matter his age, upon his first visit to Eddie's would misinterpret the relationship, and make a pass at Tina. This was a great source of entertainment for the regulars, since Eddie stood well over six feet tall and was no slouch when it came to muscle. Occasionally the regulars would draw straws to determine who would get to enlighten the neophyte as to his imminent demise. And Eddie would play into the game by standing with his massive arms folded across his chest and a brutal expression on his face. In reality, he was a bit of a “gentle giant” and would enjoy the show as much as anyone.

“The Pats need a QB like that guy Philly's got,” Gary continued. “What's his name?” It was a rhetorical question; no one bothered to answer.

Like most of the customers at the bar, Gary Leach was a local craftsman—a mason—who'd been unable to secure work on the renovation of the old Quigley place. The same held true for nearly all the men at Eddie's on this particular evening, and the subject of the renovations and additions was a sore topic with every one of them—but a subject that was bound to come up sooner or later—and more often on a football night, because the Patriots' current placekicker just happened to be named Quigley as well.

“Run the ball?” Stu Farmer laughed. “I'd be happy if the bum learned how to
throw
the ball. Four intercepts? Come on, where's that come from? If it wasn't for the Toe and his three-pointers, we would a been shut out fourteen-zip.” Like Big Otto, Stu was also an electrician. He was twenty-one years old, gangly as a string bean, and had lived in the environs of Taneysville all his life. His source of pride—as well as a good deal of needling from the denizens of Eddie's Elbow Room—was a blond ponytail that fell halfway down his back. Technically, Stu was Big Otto's assistant, but that was only when work was good; when it wasn't Stu picked up what odd jobs he could—and slept in his truck when he couldn't make rent. By referring to the Patriots' placekicker as “the Toe,” rather than Quigley, he'd hoped the conversation would stay with football for a while longer. No such luck.

“Speaking of the Toe, i.e., Quigley,” Big Otto said in a tone designed to include only Stu Farmer and Gary Leach, “I understand old man Stark tromped up to the Quigley work site this afternoon and gave those scabs a piece of his mind.”

They're not exactly scabs,
Stu considered observing, but instead opted for the less inflammatory: “I thought we were talking football here.”

“Game's over, Stu. Time to stop
stewing.”

“Yuck, yuck.”

“You're the one's always yammering about his hairdo … 'Scuse me—‘hairstyle.' Maybe we can spend the next few hours talking about your ponytail?”

It was Gary who interrupted this familiar exchange. “I heard the same thing about Stark,” he grumbled while he polished off his beer. “Who woulda figured? But it's gonna take more than one creaky old man to set those bozos straight.”

“Maybe,” Gunston answered, “but don't forget he was in construction for a long time. He knows what it's like to lose a gig to out-of-town contractors.”

“Out-of-town?” Gary demanded. “How about out-of-the-damn-country? That crew is all from Italy or Germany or someplace like that.”

“That, too … but the general contractor's American. From up north somewhere. A Mainiac, or something … I tried to score the electrical on that addition after they get it up … All I got was a snooty, ‘I'll keep you in mind' …”

“Bum,” Stu and Gary groused in unison.

“You got that right, gents … But what I'm sayin' is, Stark's as steamed as we all are about this setup, and he can be a tough old dog. You guys are too young to remember him in the old days.”

“Hah, that's a laugh,” Stu countered. “All he cares about is that little church—and the fact that they're runnin' back-hoes on Sundays and that he can't hear himself sing the songs …”

“Hymns,” Big Otto said.

“Whatever.”

“Another round?” Eddie asked as he removed the three empty Miller Lite bottles.

“Yeah, sure … This one's on me.” Gary tossed a ten-dollar bill on the bar, and waited for Eddie to move off toward the other customers. “So, what are you sayin', Otto? That Stark's aimin' to throw a monkey wrench—?”

“I'm just telling you that there's a lot of folks around here that wouldn't be too heartbroken if those clowns at the Quigley place disappeared—and some locals took over their jobs.”

“Whoa … whoa … whoa,” said Stu. “What do you mean by ‘disappeared'?”

Gunston gazed at him; his bushy mustache quivered with droplets of beer. “What I'm sayin' is this: If you and me and Gary here was to decide to do something that ‘persuaded' the contractor up there that he should be hiring local folks … well, I don't suspect we'd be gettin' too many complaints from the goody-goods at the church. Don't forget that our good ‘constable' goes there, too—sometimes.”

Stu studied the bottle in his hands. “What are you thinkin' of doing?”