Polished (4 page)

Spencer wasn’t surprised that Jack had a swanky spot in a trendy neighborhood—a nice little pad to impress the ladies with, no doubt. Spencer glanced at Jack’s left hand. No ring. Didn’t mean he wasn’t married. He could be one of those guys who didn’t like to wear their ring on the work site. Spencer started to ask, but the question of why the hell he should care popped into his head first, so he kept his mouth shut.

He was saved from the awkward silence by an electronic chirping. Jack removed his phone from his front pocket and answered, with an apologetic glance in Spencer’s direction. Jack had been wearing a suit the first time they’d met. From the newness of his intentionally distressed dark-wash jeans, it didn’t look like he’d been on too many job sites before.

“Bullshit, that’s not what we discussed,” Jack said into his phone. “Who approved that?” He had started to lag behind and Spencer gave him his privacy. If it was anything Spencer needed to know about, Jack could brief him on it once they got to the trailer.

Spencer strode on ahead, sweat already beading at his temples. It was going to be a hot one. Something about the way the city concrete held onto summer heat made him think of it like a big kiln. It must have been weeks since it had rained. Though clouds threatened overhead, the weather girl on the news last night had promised they wouldn’t bear fruit.

All Spencer knew was that this trailer had better be air-conditioned.

“So how exactly do you figure we’ll still keep to schedule with half-grade explosives?” Jack couldn’t believe what his supplier was telling him. “I don’t give a damn what you have on your requisition form. I never approved that.” Jack swallowed hard and realized he’d been standing in the middle of the sidewalk, yelling at the top of his lungs. He took a breath and started again in a calmer voice. “Look, I know this isn’t your fault. Who signed for that change?”

The whiny voice on the other end grated on his nerves. “Says J. Rothman on the slip. Isn’t that you?”

Jack locked his jaw and blew a sigh. “Fine. Go ahead and deliver it.” Old Jackson was up to his usual tricks. He’d already made Jack cut the demolition crew and now he’d gone ahead and specified half-grade explosives at half the price. The job would require a level of precision that was almost superhuman. He hoped Spencer was up to the task.

By the time he reached the office trailer, the good mood he’d been in had fallen as flat as a pancake. Spencer was inside and checking out the site maps pinned to the wall.

“Did you meet Shirley?” Jack asked, waving to the middle-aged woman in a faded NYU sweatshirt sitting behind a small desk.

“Shuaw he did,” she said in her thick Brooklyn accent.

Jack nodded and almost got right to work with Spencer, but the sweatshirt and the big smile on Shirley’s rosy face reminded him of something. “Hey, did your granddaughter get her acceptance letter?”

Shirley beamed. “Got it on Saturday! I found this sweatshirt at the thrift shop yesterday. Some kind of luck, right? She starts in the spring. Full scholarship. The whole nine yards.”

Jack’s heart warmed and a genuine smile flooded over his face. “That’s great, Shirl. She’s a bright girl. Congratulations to her.”

Shirley nodded and resumed stamping the morning invoices. She had been with Rothman Development since Jack was a boy, getting him hot chocolates and grilled corn muffins from the corner deli when his father had brought him along to work.

Spencer echoed the congratulations. “My girlfriend is a student there,” he said.

Shirley smiled. “Sounds like a keeper. They only take the best.”

Spencer nodded politely and turned his gaze to Jack, waiting expectantly for him to begin. His eyes spoke of confidence and competence, and silently demanded the same qualities from Jack. They were piercing blue eyes that looked like they didn’t accept bullshit from anyone.

Pointing to the map, Jack walked him through the plans for joining the existing subway line to a new interchange hub station. The old line had been sealed since the sixties, and prior to that it hadn’t been used for commuters, only freight. “Here’s our entry point. We’ve already got the holes drilled to the specs we discussed on our first meeting. But there’s been a change of plans. We’re going to take this slow and steady. The TNT weight has been cut by half.” Jack paused for a response from Spencer. He only raised an eyebrow in Jack’s direction, seemingly waiting for him to explain. “We’ll blow a hole through the concrete seals and rig explosives from behind to detonate at the same time as the set in the front.”

Spencer shook his head. “The only problem is we don’t know the condition of the seal on the other side. Might not be the best solution.”

“How about we blow the access hole and you and I can check out what we’re dealing with first? That sound satisfactory?”

“Yeah…OK. But I really got to question why you’d choose to go this route. Originally we were all set to blow that first seal in two days tops. Now it’s probably going to take us all week to finish that one and we still have the one on the other end of the tunnel.”

Jack shrugged. “We’ll see how it goes.” He tried to look cool about the whole thing. Inside he was burning with frustration and embarrassment. What good was it to be in charge of this project when his father was going to undercut him at every turn? When the whole thing turned out to be a disaster, it would still be Jack’s job to clean it up.

* * *

Rory turned the TV down to low and cracked her psych textbook. Somehow a bit of mindless background noise helped make everything stick when she was studying for a big exam. Sitting Indian-style on their deep, floppy couch, she took a sip of ice-cold diet soda. Without Spencer home to be an irresistible distraction, she just might ace her Psychological Perspectives on Human Sexuality final. It would be nice to have nailed her summer coursework before starting back full-time on her master’s. She resumed her reading of Kinsey’s essay on sexual orientation. Rory had selected the course for the summer because it promised to be as enlightening as any she’d had so far. It had been a good decision. She loved the rigorous reading and the challenging classroom discussions with the small group of peers. The fall and spring semester units were packed too full to be interactive.

As far as Rory was concerned, there was plenty of need for understanding in the area of human sexuality. After getting her degree, she wanted to counsel teens struggling with subjects such as self-esteem and sexual identity. If her older brother had been able to talk to someone when he was outed by one of his classmates, then maybe he’d still be in her life. She sighed heavily and tried to concentrate.

Brice had cut out of town right after high school graduation and never looked back. The last time she heard from him, he was working as a bartender somewhere in LA. That was more than three years ago. Now his cell phone number didn’t work and her e-mails went unanswered. Their parents couldn’t have been more dickheaded about it when they found out he was gay. Rory had only been ten when he left; too young to offer him any real support, and their relationship had suffered the side effects of time and distance. She needed to make a difference for someone, hoping maybe it would seal the chasm of guilt and failure that lay within her. She worked hard, aimed for perfection in everything she did. It helped to forget her guilt, most of the time.

She was deep into her interpretation of Kinsey’s findings when the sudden change in the background noise drew her interest. The five o’clock news had a breaking story. Rory was more interested in the fact that it was already five o’clock. She’d turned off her ringer and had almost missed the call Spencer promised to make at the end of his first shift.

“This evening’s top story in New York comes from downtown Manhattan where a water main break has made quite a mess of the evening commute,” the newscaster announced from her colorful set. “Let’s join Beverly King at the scene.”

Rory went back to her reading and let the noise fade to the undercurrent of her consciousness once more. She highlighted a line in the text about denial and its corrosive effects on self-esteem. Her stomach growled a little, but she ignored it. Since Spencer wasn’t coming home for dinner, she’d make an omelet or something light that her new low-carb diet approved of. But for the moment, it was all about Kinsey.

* * *

Spencer didn’t know what the fuck had happened. The blast of water swept him right off his feet and slammed him into the concrete slab that sealed off the tunnel. He’d had enough sense to hold his breath. Good thing for reflexes. But now what? The water was beating on him so hard he thought his chest was going to cave in. Jack was down there with him, somewhere. He couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t feel a thing except for the relentless assault of stinging cold water. Then he was being sucked under. As his legs found freedom from the powerful spray, a new swirling sensation surrounded him. He was being sucked into the tunnel through the hole that the crew had blasted in the concrete seal less than an hour ago. Jack had wanted to take a look at the other side of the seal together, and Spencer hadn’t minded. The whole plan sounded half-cocked to him, so it didn’t hurt to have a cosigner. Now he was being swept through the four-foot hole without recourse.

A quick two seconds had passed. Not much time to panic. Now he found himself on the other side of the seal, water pouring into the tunnel at a rate that made it impossible to get back through the hole. As far as he knew, that was the only way out. He’d landed on his ass; the water was pooling around him to his waist.

It had all happened so fast. He moved to stand and a sharp stab of pain told him his ankle had different plans.

“Jack!” he called out. He was floating now, the pain in his foot roaring like a lion. The water kept coming. “Jack!”

“Over here!” It was dark as night inside the tunnel, but unlike Spencer’s headlamp, Jack’s was still affixed to his head. Spencer could see the beacon bobbing about six feet away.

“You OK?” Spencer yelled to him.

“My fucking shoulder. I think it’s dislocated.”

“This place is filling up fast; can you swim?”

“Not through that.” The light danced in the direction of the hole. It too was underwater now, and the current was carrying them farther into the tunnel.

Spencer looked up, but it was impossible to make out how close or far they were from the ceiling. The plans in the trailer had indicated the seal at the other end was about one hundred yards away. Essentially they were in a box. Fear finally started to grip him.

“We need to get out of this water!” Jack yelled.

“No shit!” Spencer yelled back.

“Toward the back…” Jack pointed the lamplight to the place he meant. “There…in the corner, there’s some old scaffolding. Saw it when I came in.” He moaned in pain. Spencer heard some splashing. “It ought to be heavy enough to stay put. The top of it might be higher than the water level.”

Spencer didn’t pause to think about it. He pulled himself through the icy cold water, his foot flopping around with a continuous flare of agony. The damn thing felt like it had fallen off. Must have happened when he was sucked through the ragged concrete hole. With three working appendages he tugged after the light ahead of him. Suddenly a hand grabbed his forearm.

“Here. Can you make it onto the top ledge?”

Spencer grabbed desperately for the structure, but remembered that Jack was also injured. “I’ll hold on. Step on my shoulders. You won’t be able to hoist yourself up if you’ve dislocated yours.”

“Thanks.”

Spencer wrapped his arms around the metal post and braced himself. Jack was smashed against him from behind and reaching for his own piece of the post above him with his good arm. Spencer said a prayer and dunked under the water to let Jack settle his boots on either of his shoulders before tugging higher on the post. He thought for a moment about being up on the ridge, about Rory. He wasn’t going to drown in that fucking place. He wasn’t going to let Jack drown either. Gritting his teeth, Spencer pulled still higher on the post and thrust himself above the water line. Jack was able to get a foothold on the scaffolding and managed to flop onto the board, which had miraculously remained lodged at the top.

Spencer took a breath and tried to keep his ankle from moving too much as he hauled himself up to join Jack. “Fuuuuccck! Cocksucker goddamn!”

“What’s hurt?” Jack asked.

“My ankle,” he answered with chattering teeth. “Must be broken.” The searing pain was starting to recede into an endless throb. Lying on his back he raised his arms above his head and found the ceiling one arm’s length away. He closed his eyes and saw Rory, her beautiful hair floating around her as she twirled for him to show off her new dress before their date night last week. “I love you, baby.”

“Here,” Jack said. “Take the light and see where the water line is.”

Spencer took the lamp and shone it down from where they came. The water wasn’t stirring as much anymore and looked to be about four or five feet away.

Jack seemed to be struggling with pain of his own. His breathing was ragged and clipped. “Help me take off my belt and fix it to the post so you can tell if it’s still rising.”

Spencer shone the light at him. He was pulling at the buckle and grimacing with every movement. To help, Spencer took hold of the buckle and tried to slide it as gently as he could out of his belt loops. Jack groaned anyway. “Sorry, man.”

Jack huffed. “It’s OK. I’ll survive.”

Spencer nodded at his words. “Fuck yeah, you’ll survive. We both will.”

Jack raised his good arm and clapped it onto Spencer’s shoulder. It felt good there, like they’d struck a deal with each other’s destiny. Spencer steeled his jaw and put his hand on top of Jack’s for just long enough to return the sentiment.

Affixing the belt wasn’t hard. Spencer wrapped the leather around four times and pulled the buckle tight. Then it became a waiting game. Time would tell if they were in imminent danger of drowning or if they’d been spared some sliver of good fortune. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to get back into that icy water and try to swim a hundred or so yards with a broken ankle. If only they could hold tight for a while, maybe the water would drain. He could manage hobbling out on one foot. The pain he could handle; it was the idea of drowning he wasn’t too keen on.