White Hot (10 page)

Beck had a similar office down the hall, as did Chris and Danny. Chris had stumbled in a short while ago. The door to Danny’s office remained closed this morning.

Beck looked at the card Huff had given him. “With deepest sympathy, Charles Nielson,” he read. Then, looking across at Huff, he laughed shortly. “He sent flowers to Danny’s funeral?”

“Can you believe the gall of that son of a bitch? Sally is going to send acknowledgments for me,” he said, referring to his executive assistant. “I wanted to go through the cards before turning them over to her. Came across this one. Can’t believe he would use my son’s death as a means of pricking with me.”

“The man has got guts. Have you had a chance to look through the file I left you?”

“I read enough to know that Nielson is only trying to build a name for himself. Those newspaper articles read like press releases he wrote.”

“I tend to agree,” Beck said. “But they’re being published. He’s a grandstander who thumps his own chest, but people are sitting up and taking notice. So far he’s targeted only smaller shops, but he’s been one hundred percent successful in bringing the union into those companies or winning extraordinary concessions from management. Now he’s feeling flush with success. What I’m afraid of is that he’s looking for a bigger bull’s-eye that would place him in the media limelight.”

“And you’re afraid Hoyle Enterprises might be that target.”

“We’d be a natural, Huff. We’re a captive shop. Our castings are our product. We don’t do castings for other manufacturers. So if only one aspect of the melting or casting process is affected—”

“Production suffers, we can’t fill orders, and our business goes to crap.”

“I’m sure Nielson realizes that. And, unfortunately, we’ve had some work-related accidents and deaths.”

Huff came out of his chair with a heartfelt “Shit!” and went to stand at the window. Looking down, he said angrily, “You know how many men have worked here who never had a serious accident or injury? Huh?”

He came back around. “Hundreds. Do they write about that? Do these labor agitators paint picket signs with that statistic on it? Hell, no. But one worker bleeds a little and it makes news.”

“Bleeds a little” was a gross understatement for the bloodletting involved when one’s leg is crushed by pipes sliding off an unguarded vibrating conveyor, or the loss of a digit in a machine without a kill switch, or a burn that literally melted flesh off the bone. But Beck kept silent. Huff was too wound up to reason with.

“
Network
news, mind you,” he ranted on. “Like somebody in New York City or Washington, D.C., knows anything about the way we do things down here. Bunch of bleeding-heart liberal, communist muckrakers.” He sneered.

“An accident on the shop floor makes news, and next thing you know, I’m up to my ass in government inspectors. They parade in here with their clipboards and their sympathetic ears, and record every little gripe of those whiners.” He waved his cigarette hand to encompass the men working below.

“When I was a kid, do you know how grateful I’d have been to have a job like theirs? Do you know how grateful my daddy would’ve been to have a regular paycheck?”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Huff,” Beck said softly. “Settle down before you stroke out.”

“Bullshit is what it is,” Huff muttered as he returned to his desk. He settled heavily into his chair. His color was high, and he was breathing hard.

“Are you taking your blood pressure medication?”

“No. I take that, my dick won’t stay stiff.”

It was no secret to anyone that at least once a week he visited a woman who lived on the outskirts of town. As far as Beck knew, Huff was her only customer, and she was probably well compensated for keeping it that way.

“Between high blood pressure and a limp dick, I’ll take high blood pressure, thank you.”

“Hear, hear,” said Chris, strolling in.

As always, he was immaculately groomed and dressed. Not a hair out of place, not a single wrinkle. Beck often wondered how he managed that when the temperature reached ninety degrees before noon.

“It sounds like I’m missing a very interesting conversation. What’s up? Pun intended.”

While Huff poured himself a glass of water from a carafe on his desk, Beck summarized for Chris their discussion about Charles Nielson.

Chris dismissed the threat he posed. “We know his type. These provocateurs come on strong and then fade into obscurity. We just have to wait him out.”

“This one is distinguishing himself. I don’t think he’ll fade that quickly.”

“You’re always the prophet of doom, Beck.”

“That’s what we pay him to be,” Huff said sharply. “Beck looks after these little problems so they don’t become big problems.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Beck said. “How do you want me to respond to Nielson?”

“What do you recommend?”

“Ignore him.”

Both Hoyles were startled by his terse suggestion. Beck gave them time to comment, but when neither did, he outlined his reasons. “Sending flowers to the funeral was a test. He knew it was in poor taste and did it only to see how you would react.

“I could send him a letter of denunciation, but that would signal anger or fear, and Nielson could use either of those reactions as ammunition against us. By ignoring him we’re saying he’s not even worthy of a response. He’s insignificant. That’s the strongest message we could send.”

Huff tugged on his lips thoughtfully. “Chris?”

“I was going to suggest we burn his house down. Beck’s approach is subtler.” They all shared a laugh, then Chris asked, “Where’s he from anyway?”

“He commutes between several offices scattered all over the county. One is in New Orleans. That proximity is probably how we came to his attention.”

They mulled it over in silence for several moments. Finally Beck said, “I could draft a brief letter. Tell him—”

“No, I like the first option better,” Huff said decisively. He struck a match and stood up as he lit a cigarette. “Let’s sit back and wait, see what he does next, let the son of a bitch sweat over what we’re thinking, not the other way around.”

“Good,” Beck said.

The telephone on Huff’s desk rang. “Get that, will you, Chris? I gotta take a leak,” he said as he crossed the room toward his private toilet.

Chris went to the desk and depressed the blinking button on the phone. “Sally, it’s Chris. Did you need Huff?”

The nasally voice of Huff’s long-suffering assistant could be heard through the speakerphone. “I know y’all are in a meeting, but I thought Mr. Hoyle—well, all y’all—would want to be interrupted for this.”

“For what?”

“Your sister is downstairs, and she’s raising Cain.”

“S
ayre is here?” Chris asked in shock.

On his way to the bathroom, Huff did an about-face.

Beck launched himself off the sofa and went to the wall of windows. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary on the shop floor. Everyone was going about his business.

“She came in through the employee entrance,” Sally was saying, “not the visitors’ entrance. The guard there is relatively new. He didn’t recognize her. He’s detained her, but she’s demanding to be let inside the shop.”

“Did she say what for?” Huff asked.

Sally hesitated, then said, “She says because she owns the place. But he was afraid to let her in without getting authorization first.”

“Tell the guard to keep her there,” Chris said. “We’ll get back to him.”

“She’s giving him hell, and those are his words.”

“Tell him I’m going to give him hell if he doesn’t do his bloody job,” Chris said before disconnecting.

Huff laughed through a fog of cigarette smoke. “Well, boys, it appears that our absentee partner has taken a sudden interest in the business.”

Chris didn’t seem to think Sayre’s appearance was that funny. “I wonder why.”

“Like she said, she owns the place,” Huff said expansively. “She’s got every right to be here.”

“That’s true,” Beck said. “In every legal regard, she’s a partner. But are you even considering letting her out onto the floor?”

“Absolutely not,” Chris said.

“Why not?” Huff asked.

“For one thing it’s dangerous.”

Huff shot Beck a sly grin. “For years, we’ve been denying the potential hazards to the OSHA inspectors. If I would let my own daughter out there, I must be confident that it’s as safe as a nursery. Right?”

It was typical of Huff to find an advantage, to use even an undesirable situation to suit his purposes. Beck had to admit that the slant he was giving this one wasn’t without merit. But he still had misgivings, and apparently Chris was of the same mind.

As he moved toward the door, he said, “This is a bad idea, and I don’t mind telling her so. After all, I’m the director of operations. If I say she can’t go out there, she can’t go.”

“Wait a minute, Chris.” Huff raised his hand. “If you take that kind of stance with her, she’ll think we’ve got something to hide.”

Beck could see the wheels of Huff’s shrewd mind turning as he rolled the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. Then he looked across at Beck. “You go. Feel her out. Hear what she has to say. I trust your instincts. If you think it’s best to escort her out, do that and lock the door behind her. But if you think our purposes would be better served by letting her take a look inside, give her the nickel tour.”

Beck glanced at Chris. Operations was Chris’s department, and Chris was territorial. He didn’t look pleased, but he didn’t countermand Huff. And possibly he would just as soon not have to hassle with Sayre.

Beck didn’t particularly look forward to it.

Hoyle Enterprises had nearly six hundred employees, but only several dozen of them were women. They worked in clerical capacities in annex offices. Except for the executives’ assistants like Sally, the production area of the plant was exclusively male.

The men reported to work and punched in their time cards in what they called the Center. It was one main room about the size of a modest convention center and was distinctly unattractive. The floor was concrete, the ceiling a network of exposed air ducts, electrical wiring, and water pipes.

Rows of army-green metal lockers took up almost half the square footage. Each employee was assigned a locker with a padlock where he could store his hard hat, safety glasses, gloves, lunch box, and other personal belongings. Signs alerted the workers that Hoyle Enterprises was not responsible for theft or loss, which were frequent because among the workforce were ex-cons and parolees desperate to find a job that would keep their parole officers satisfied.

Rest room facilities were located behind the lockers. The fixtures were the originals and looked it. Mismatched tables and chairs with chrome legs were scattered across the remainder of the open area to form the lunchroom. One wall was lined with vending machines and microwave ovens stained with the spatters of ten thousand meals.

A first-aid station had been sectioned off by a set of portable walls. It was unstaffed, leaving it up to the injured man to tend to himself with the limited inventory of medications and bandages.

The Center was where hardworking men took their breaks, swapped jokes, talked sports and women. Fifty or so were presently taking their morning break. Few of them had ever been this close to a woman of Sayre Lynch’s caste and would have been no more surprised if a unicorn had appeared in their midst.

When Beck strode in, she was attempting to converse with a group of five seated around one of the tables. It appeared she was having limited success. In spite of having dressed down in a pair of jeans and a simple cotton T-shirt, she wasn’t exactly blending into this blue-collar environment.

The men kept their heads bent and mumbled monosyllabic answers to her questions, casting furtive glaces up at her or at one another, evidently mystified by her presence and even more wary of her desire to chat.

As he approached, Beck forced himself to smile warmly and to say for the benefit of their audience, “This is an unexpected pleasure.”

Her smile was as phony as his. “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Merchant. You can explain to this gentleman that I need a hard hat for my tour of the foundry.”

The “gentleman” to whom she referred was one of the security guards who manned the employee entrance. He’d been standing apart, as though afraid to get too close to Sayre. Now he rushed forward. His face was shiny with nervous perspiration. “Mr. Merchant, I didn’t know if I should—”

“Thank you. You acted according to protocol. I’ll escort Ms. Lynch from here.” Beck gripped her elbow in a way that brooked no resistance and turned her around. “Come with me, Ms. Lynch. We keep hard hats for visitors over here.”

“It was nice speaking to you,” she said over her shoulder to the men she’d been trying to engage in conversation.

Beck propelled her through the maze of tables and chairs and into a supply room, which, fortunately, at the moment was vacant. As soon as he shut the door, she rounded on him. “They didn’t want me talking to the workers, did they? They sent you to get rid of me.”

“Not at all,” he replied evenly. “Huff and Chris are pleased by your interest. But if you want to talk to someone about our operation here, ask me, not those men out there. Even in this new bargain basement outfit, you’re too glamorous. You make them tongue-tied.”

“They’re not shy of me, they’re cowed by and suspicious of anybody named Hoyle.”

“Then why place them in such an awkward position?”

Rethinking it, she could see that he was right. “Perhaps that was unthoughtful of me. I’ll find out much more by going on the shop floor anyway,” she said. “Where’s my hard hat?”

“You can see most of it from the windows in our offices upstairs.”

“Those nice, clean, safe, air-conditioned offices? Not a fair representation at all, is it? I want to experience what the workers do.”

“That isn’t a good idea, Sayre,” he stated firmly. “Chris oversees operations. That comes directly from him.”

“Didn’t he have the courage to come and tell me himself?”

“He was relying on my diplomacy.”

“Exercise all the diplomacy you like. It won’t change my mind.”

“Then I’ll be blunt.” Placing his hands on his hips, he moved in closer. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“As you reminded me yesterday, I’m a partner of Hoyle Enterprises.”

“Why today, when you’ve never shown one iota of interest in the business before?”

Unwilling to disabuse him of the misconception, she said, “It’s time I got interested.”

“Again, why? Is it because you weren’t welcome here when you were a little girl? Chris and Danny got to spend time here, but I’ve been told it was off-limits to you. Did you resent not being one of the boys?”

Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Don’t use that penis-envy bullshit on me. I don’t have to explain my reasons to you.”

He hitched his chin toward the door behind her. “To get through that door, you damn sure do.”

“You’re an employee, Mr. Merchant. Ergo, you work for me, don’t you? I’m your boss.”

Her haughty condescension infuriated him. It also aroused him, unreasonably but urgently. He wanted very badly to kiss her, to show her that not in all aspects was she boss.

Tamping down the impulse, he asked, “What do you hope to achieve?”

“I want to see if this place is as dangerous as it’s reputed to be. Have the allegations of hazardous working conditions been exaggerated or, as I suspect, understated?”

“Of course it’s hazardous, Sayre. It’s a foundry. We melt metal. The business is rife with danger.”

“Don’t talk down to me,” she said angrily. “I know it’s inherently dangerous. All the more reason why every conceivable precaution should be taken to protect the men who do the work. I think Hoyle Enterprises has been grossly negligent in that regard.”

“Our policy is—”

“Policy? As written by Chris and Huff and executed by George Robson, the toady of all toadies? You and I both know that policy and practice are too often strangers. Unless Huff has changed his tune in the past ten years—which I seriously doubt—his motto is ‘Production at all costs.’ Nothing stops production. Proof of that was yesterday, when he didn’t even shut down for his own son’s funeral.” She paused to take a breath. “Now, please give me a hard hat.”

Her truculent expression told him that she couldn’t be talked out of this. The more he tried to dissuade her, the more determined she would become and, as Huff had surmised, the more suspicious that they had something to hide. Beck hoped, if he indulged this whim, she would have her curiosity satisfied and go on her way before causing any real damage.

Nevertheless, he gave it one last try. Pointing back toward the door, he said, “Did you see those men in there, Sayre? Did you look at them closely? Nearly all bear scars of one kind or another. The machinery can cut, burn, pinch, crush.”

“I don’t intend to get that close to any moving parts.”

“No matter how careful you are, there are a thousand ways to get hurt.”

“My point exactly.”

Acknowledging that he was being baited, he removed two hard hats from the shelves behind him and thrust one at her. “Safety glasses, too.” He passed her a pair. “Nothing I can do about your feet. Those are hardly steel-toed,” he said of her shoes.

She put on the glasses first, then set the hard hat on her head.

“Not good enough.” Before she could stop him, he removed the hard hat, gathered her hair and piled it on top of her head, then worked the hard hat down over it. The strands that escaped, he tucked beneath the hat. And not haphazardly, either. He took his time, standing close.

“Don’t bother,” she said. “I think that’s fine.”

“No loose strands, Sayre. I’d hate to see your hair singed by a flying spark or caught in a machine and ripped out by the roots. It could also be a distraction to the workers.”

She tipped her head up. He looked past the glasses into her eyes. “As long as I’ve been here, there’s never been a woman on the shop floor. There sure as hell has never been one who looked like you. They’ll be checking out your breasts and your butt. There’s nothing I can do to stop that. But I’d hate for a guy to get hurt because he was looking at your hair and imagining it sweeping across his stomach.” He held her stare for several seconds, then put on his glasses and hard hat. “Let’s go.”

He opened a trapdoor into hell.

That was Sayre’s first impression. The immensity of the heat struck her full force, like a wide hand pressing against the center of her chest and holding her on the threshold.

Beck was already several steps down the metal staircase leading to the shop floor. Sensing that she was hesitating, he looked back. “Changed your mind?” he shouted above the racket.

She shook her head and motioned for him to continue. He led her down the staircase. The treads felt so hot beneath the soles of her shoes, she was afraid the leather would dissolve.

It was a realm of noise and darkness and heat. The vastness of it amazed her. The space seemed infinite. She couldn’t see the far end of it. Only blackness and more blackness relieved by showers of sparks and bubbling vats of liquid fire. Molten metal glowed white hot in giant ladles as they rocked along the overhead monorail. Metal clanged against metal, conveyor belts rolled, machinery clanked and clattered and churned.

The racket was incessant. The darkness encompassing. But the heat was inescapable. Once inhaled, it became one with you.

The Vulcans of this underworld were men with sweating faces behind safety glasses, who regarded Beck and her with a mix of deference and wariness. They were in constant motion, some operating several machines at once. There was no sitting down on this job. One had to be always watchful for a spark, a spill, a fall, a slip, because life and limb depended on it.

“You don’t have to do this, Sayre,” Beck said, speaking directly into her ear. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

The hell I don’t.
She looked up at the row of lighted windows high above them. As expected, there was Huff, the despot of this hell, standing with his feet widely spread, puffing a cigarette, the tip of it a smoldering red.

Turning away from the smug challenge she saw in his eyes, she said to Beck, “Show me more.”

As they moved along, he said, “We cast a ferrous alloy of predominantly iron, some carbon and silicon.”

She nodded but didn’t even try to respond.

“Hoyle Enterprises collects scrap iron. We have sources in several states who ship it to us by rail. It comes in here by the ton.”

Sayre supposed that unsightly mountain of scrap iron on the back side of the foundry was a necessary evil, although she remembered her mother asking Huff if there wasn’t something he could build, a wall or fence of some sort, to conceal it from the highway.