Sendoff for a Snitch (4 page)

She flipped it upside down and handed it to me. I slipped one arm through each hole and pulled the cut seam together in the front. Then I put the jacket on. It was chilly, but she was right—the wetness didn’t reach my already damp shirt.

“My dad used to take me camping when I was a kid,” she said, “and he always said there was no point in hauling along a raincoat as long as we had plastic trash bags.”

She took another bag and cut a bottom corner off diagonally. “Here,” she said. “You tuck this inside your hat, and it’ll make a waterproof lining.”

She certainly had a point. The slick plastic wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it would keep my head dry.

“Nothing I know of to do for your feet,” she said, frowning down at my wet work boots.

I didn’t know of anything, either.

“You’ll just have to change into something else when you get home.”

Change into what? I didn’t own another pair of boots. Or shoes. Once again, I wasn’t going to let her know how poverty-stricken I was.

She glanced around, then pulled a few more bags off the roll. Bundling them with the one she’d cut the corner off, she handed them to me. “Here. These might come in handy. Stick them in your pocket.”

Gratefully, I took them. Maybe I could carry this concept a little further and figure out a way to keep my feet dry, too. I did have some clean, dry socks.

Opening the door, I headed out into gale-force winds. Rain pelted me from every direction. I ducked my head close to my chest. Mandy’s makeshift waterproof linings were working, though. My blue jeans clung to my legs. I wasn’t sure I could feel my feet, and my arms were getting soaked, but my head and torso were not getting any wetter, and the wool jacket and watch cap were actually holding in body heat. Assuming my body was producing any heat.

I hurried home. I’d only have time for a few hours sleep before I was supposed to report to work at midnight for a welcome Saturday shift. I took overtime shifts whenever they were offered. The time and a half pay came in handy. And if the power did go off and we couldn’t work for a few days, it would be even more important.

Water careened down the outdoor stairs that led to my apartment and gurgled down the drain set in the concrete. Thank goodness that drain was working better than the ones in the underpass by the railroad tracks.

Once inside, I striped off all my wet clothes. Even my underwear was damp. The unpredictable radiator was cranking out heat, so I hung the blue jeans and shirt over that. Moving one of my kitchen chairs close to it, I pulled out the tongues from my boots and propped them on the seat of the chair so the insides were facing the radiator. The jacket I turned inside out and hung over the back.

Shivering, I pulled on dry clothes and dumped a can of chili into my frying pan. It was either that or ramen noodles, and I was hungry enough that I wanted a filling meal. While that was heating, I made two peanut butter sandwiches for work and stuck them in my lunchbox. I filled the thermos with instant coffee and stowed it next to sandwiches. Not exactly an appetizing lunch, but come four a.m., I would be very glad I had it.

When the chili was hot, I scarfed it down, swallowed a scalding cup of instant coffee, rinsed out the pan and the bowl, set my alarm clock, and tumbled into bed. I didn’t like to go to work tired—it was too easy to do something stupid or dangerous.

The shrilling of the alarm pulled me out of a deep sleep. Tough to get going, but I didn’t mind. I’d never been able to sleep solidly like that in a prison cell, surrounded by the nighttime noises made by the mass of miserable, incarcerated humanity.

Worst was the frequent “scrape, scrape, scrape” of someone sharpening a scrap of metal on the concrete into a shank. If a CO unlocked the grid and came on the tier, that sound would cease immediately and be replaced by boot steps and jangling keys. It would begin again when the grid slammed shut behind the departing guard.

And there was always the scents—too many people in too small a space without adequate access to showers and clean clothes—that was never quite masked by the industrial strength disinfectant.

I shut the alarm off and lay there for a few seconds, appreciating my solitude and gathering my courage to get up into the cold. Of course the heat was off.

If I fell back asleep, I risked being late for work. I swung my feet out from under the pile of blankets and onto the floor.

Into several inches of icy water.

Chapter 4

T
he water soaked right through my socks, and it was freezing.

I reached over and hit the light switch. The overhead light flickered, but came on. Just as I touched the switch, it occurred to me what a dumb thing that was to do. This was an older, poorly maintained building. In the best of circumstances, the wiring was questionable. By no means could this be considered “best of circumstances.”

The apartment had only two electric outlets, and both of them were situated low on the wall near the floor.

And here I was, standing in a few inches of water while I fooled around with an electric switch. Was I trying to electrocute myself?

The light steadied, and I was still alive. Water was seeping in from under the front door. Maybe the drain outside was blocked. I sloshed over and opened it to take a look. A higher wall of water surged in.

More water cascaded down the steps. Shivering, I reached through the murky, foul-smelling mess and felt for the drain covering. It not only wasn’t blocked, but water seemed to be rising out of it. I shut the door, and the surge became a seep once again.

I went to my single window and peered out. The window was only inches above ground level, and it looked out into an alley that ran beside the building. The security light over the dumpster revealed a flowing stream of water headed toward the street. If it got any deeper, it would start leaking in around the window, too.

Looking around in despair, I wondered if I was going to lose everything I owned. The apartment had come furnished, so I really didn’t have that much of my own stuff to lose, but I couldn’t afford to replace what I did own.

And if the apartment was flooded, where was I going to stay?

First things first. I went to the wobbly dresser along one wall and pulled out all the clothes I owned. I also took my small stash of cash—it was just about $100 now—and shoved that in my pocket. I also grabbed an unopened package of four tiny flashlights attached to flimsy key rings. I’d seen them at the dollar store and gotten two packages. The power in the apartment was not one hundred percent reliable. The flashlights only gave a pinprick of light, but it was a bright light and a whole lot better than total darkness.

No question I would be going to work. An overtime shift like tonight paid time and a half. No point in staying here and missing out on that. So the question was, what could I do with my stuff?

The socks I was wearing were completely soaked, and I knew working all night with wet feet would be a nightmare. I took a rolled-up pair of dry woolen socks and put them in my lunch box, next to my sandwiches. I added a clean, dry set of underwear, then folded a pair of blue jeans on top. The lunch box wouldn’t close. I set it aside for now.

Taking the rest of my clothes, I put them in one of the plastic trash bags Mandy had given me. I put the trash bag in my laundry basket and looked around at what else I had. I added some of my limited supply of food, the things that would spoil if they got wet—bread, ramen noodles, oatmeal, and the open jar of peanut butter.

The whole thing wasn’t too heavy. I stood on one of my chairs. Its seat sagged under my feet, and the whole thing swayed, but it held. I hefted the laundry basket as close to the overhead pipes as I could. Using torn bits of plastic trash bag, I tied it to the sturdiest-looking pipes. That ought to keep everything dry, even if the water rose to street level.

Unless the pipes broke.

I looked mournfully at my bed. It was lumpy and drooped, but when I snuggled down into the valley in the middle, it was much more comfortable than a prison bunk. I rolled the sheets, blankets, and pillow up into a sausage roll and tied it with more torn strips of plastic. Then I secured the whole roll to some other pipes.

I couldn’t think of any way to secure the mattress. My strips of plastic were pretty much used up. And I didn’t think they’d be strong enough to hold the mattress anyhow, even if the pipes could take the load.

When I stepped off the chair, I realized the water was creeping up my shins.

The dishes, pans, and cutlery might get dirty and need a good scrubbing, but they shouldn’t be ruined by the floodwaters. I left them in the sink.

Thank goodness I’d left the boots up on the seat of the other chair. They were damp, but they weren’t soaked. Although, they might be by the time I got to work. I got dressed, putting my warm sweater over my flannel shirt. The jeans and socks I was wearing were thoroughly wet, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. I slipped into the jacket with its plastic lining and grabbed the lunchbox.

I’d forgotten that I couldn’t get it closed, so it wasn’t latched. The contents fell out on the table and toward the edge. I caught everything just before it tumbled into the water.

Putting everything but the jeans back in, I secured the latch on the lunchbox and folded the jeans, which I tucked inside the sweater I was wearing. I picked up my boots and opened the door.

Another wall of water, higher than last time, surged through the door. It came up to my knees. In my wet sock feet, I waded out the door and into the waterfall that tumbled down the stairs toward my apartment.

When I got to the sidewalk, it was covered with an inch or so of flowing water. Glumly, I realized most of it was headed toward my stairwell.

No matter how wet it was, I couldn’t walk all the way to work without the boots on, so I stepped into the shelter of the entry to the storefront church upstairs to put on my boots. The interior was dark and silent. I debated about putting on the dry socks, too, but decided I’d be better off if I waited until I got to work to put them on. At least they wouldn’t get drenched immediately.

The steel plant was uphill from my apartment. In the streets, a few inches of water flowed relentlessly down toward the river.

I was so wet by the time I got to work that I left a stream of water behind me. The crowd gathering for the overtime shift was smaller than usual. A few other people looked damp and bedraggled, but no one else was as soaked as I was.

Of course, no one else on the shift walked to work, at least in weather like this.

A puddle formed around my feet as I punched in, and the trail of water followed me as I walked across the shop floor.

The workers on the shift that was about to end finished up their work. Sparks and the smell of hot steel and oil filled the air as they hurried to turn out a few more pieces and then double checked their quotas. The midnight shift was smaller than the other two. The operators who were shutting down their equipment put it in safety mode, while those who would be relieved momentarily made sure everything was ready for the next workers.

Everyone eyed the damp floor behind me and glanced toward the high windows, but it was dark and no one could see the rain. The pounding of the machinery masked the sound of the driving rain on the metal roof and made conversation below a shout impossible.

I went into the men’s room to change my pants and socks. It was an expansive place, all aged porcelain sinks and dented steel urinals, added when indoor plumbing for factory workers came into vogue. During WWII, when the plant ran at full capacity—three shifts, seven days a week—producing bomb casings, the restrooms underwent a huge expansion. Now, with smaller shifts, it was much bigger than we needed, and only the front section was lighted. A long bench ran under a window set high on the wall. The hexagonal white tiles had long ago turned dingy gray.

A row of hooks lined one section of the wall. I took off my jacket, turned it inside out, and hung it, hoping it would have a better chance to dry off some than if I left it on the crowded hooks next to the time clock. I sat on a bench under the hooks and pulled off my boots. Of course they were wet, but that couldn’t be helped right now. I changed to the dry jeans and socks, then hung the wet ones up on other hooks. I hoped nobody would mess with them.

Grabbing my lunchbox, I went back out to the tables sandwiched between the time clock and a row of battered vending machines that, when they were in the mood, dispensed a variety of stale snacks and a dark liquid that purported to be coffee. By some trick of technology, the coffee dispenser sometimes failed to provide a paper cup. It then became a fully automatic machine, not only dispensing the coffee, but also managing to consume it by sending it down a drain, which then overflowed onto the floor from beneath the machine.

I adjusted my hard hat and glanced around at the people assembled for the shift. Over half the shift hadn’t shown up. Since it was the sixth shift this week, overtime, no one would get written up for missing it.

Aaron was nowhere to be seen. No surprise, but I was pretty curious about where he was. Probably up to no good.

But Kelly had come. Kelly was the other forklift driver on the shift and my sometimes-girlfriend. She’d be a lot more than sometimes, if it was up to me, but she insisted on keeping it what she called “non-committed.” We both had issues, and I respected her decision not to make our relationship more permanent. Besides, what could I really offer any woman in terms of a relationship? I was on parole, with twenty years backup time if the parole was ever violated. Not exactly a stable foundation for any type of long-term arrangement.

Kelly usually worked out in shipping, loading and unloading trucks, while I handled the work in the shop and warehouse, bringing parts, removing pallets of completed products, and generally moving anything that needed to be moved. We kept an eye on the workload and helped each other out. Kelly had a problem with reading—couldn’t read at all, really, although she had learned to recognize certain words and knew what they meant—and the paperwork had recently changed. She needed help with packing lists, bills of lading, and the like.

It gave me a chance to spend some time with her at work. It wouldn’t be long, though, before she got it mostly figured out on her own.

I was willing to bet that the management staff, who stayed shut in their offices most of the time and didn’t know any of the laborers, had no idea what a problem it could be for some of us when they changed the paperwork around.

If more people didn’t show up for work, though, John, our foreman, would assign me to a production job and have Kelly handle all the forklift work. Kelly had seniority over me, so that was fair enough. But it would mean I would be tied to whatever machine I was assigned to all night and not have a chance to talk to her. And she’d be on her own with anything that needed to be read. If John realized she couldn’t read, he would likely take her off the forklift and assign someone else to “her” job.

I tried to catch her eye, but John was talking to her, giving her instructions for the shift, and she was listening intently. As soon as he dismissed her, she hurried off to the charging stations, where the electric forklifts would be plugged in to recharge their batteries. I turned to watch her go, her long dark hair pulled into a ponytail under her hard hat, the end of it brushing her ample rear.

Frowning, John came up to the rest of us and looked over the little knot of workers gathered. He then stared at his clipboard, tapping his teeth with a worn pencil stub.

“Jesse.” He gestured toward me.

I got up and made my way over next to him, where I could hear what he said if he raised his voice enough.

“Go get your lift. They’ve changed the assignments, and we have to assemble a lot of loads tonight. Get back to the dispatcher’s office and see what you need to get from the warehouse.”

“Okay.” I debated asking why we were preparing to ship so much out on a Saturday, but decided John might see that as me challenging the instructions. Workers at my level don’t ask questions. They do what they’re told.

He said, “There’s a lot of floating ice on the river. Looks like most of the bridges might have to be closed, including the new one on the interstate. A couple of the shippers dispatched extra trucks this weekend, trying to get ahead of that.”

“You want me and Kelly to work out who does what on that?” I asked.

John nodded, not particularly concerned as long as the work got done and we didn’t create any problems squabbling about who took what task. He knew we got along pretty well.

I went back to the charging stations, passing Kelly as she drove by. She waved to me and smiled. I nodded and grinned foolishly back.

A row of forklifts were plugged in to charge their batteries. Beyond that were a pair of tug mules, which are enormously strong industrial tractors designed to pull loads, and a few assorted hand lifts. I went to one of the forklifts and pulled down the clipboard with the pre-shift checklist from its nail.

Bert, one of the drivers from the four to midnight shift, eased his lift into an empty charging dock and clambered down. He plugged it in and grabbed the clipboard that hung next to it. Patting his pockets, he shook his head and turned toward me.

“Left my pencil somewhere. Can I borrow yours?”

Surprised, I made one last notation on my list and handed my pencil over to him. Most of the workers on that shift didn’t talk to me. Everyone in the factory knew I was on parole for murder. Because of some unsavory rumors that had drifted around, a fair number of them thought erroneously that I was a convicted child molester, on the sex offender registry. They figured I got off easy and didn’t deserve to be back on the street. Ever.

Not a whole lot I could do about people who were too stupid or lazy to look it up on the registry, which was online, before they would believe that about anybody.

So most of them gave me a wide berth. That was okay with me, as long as they didn’t give me grief. In the last few years, Quality Steel Fabrications had made no secret of the fact that it was taking full advantage of tax breaks available for giving jobs to convicts on parole. And with a large state prison complex just outside town, they never had a problem finding parolees to hire.

It was a huge break for me. I’d been locked up for twenty years, and I didn’t have any family or friends to help me out. This was a decent job, with good benefits, and I did my best to make sure the company never regretted having hired me. What coworkers on another shift thought about me shouldn’t matter, I tried to convince myself. I would hate to admit that it hurt.“How’s the weather out there?” Bert asked.