White Hot (32 page)

Chris flushed the urinal. “In my opinion he got exactly what he deserved. How many times has he had his pay docked for being late, or not showing up, or reporting to work drunk? Dozens that I can remember. But we always gave him another chance.

“And how does he thank us for not firing him all those times? By sowing seeds of discontent. Anybody who sides with those pickets out there doesn’t get any sympathy from me, and that includes my own sister.”

Beck pulled his face from beneath the spray and poked his head around the corner of the shower stall, looking toward Chris, who was washing his hands at a sink. “Oh yes, she’s out there,” Chris said, reading the question in Beck’s bloodshot eyes. “Passing out coffee and beignets. Huff and I saw her when we drove in.”

“Shit.”

“I’m going to get some coffee,” Chris called back to him as he went out.

Beck finished showering. He had to shave with bar soap but luckily had remembered to bring toothpaste and a toothbrush in his Dopp kit. He dressed quickly and had just reached his office when the seven o’clock whistle blew.

Beck, watching from the windows in his office, waited expectantly. The shop floor cleared quickly of those whose shift had ended. But after five minutes, only a handful of men had replaced them. “Damn,” he muttered, knowing this boded ill.

He turned and was crossing his office when Chris appeared in the open doorway. He was carrying a two-way radio, which was making an awful racket. “We’ve got a problem outside,” he said.

“I guessed.”

“Fred Decluette says some of the men on his shift joined the picket line as soon as their shift ended,” Chris told him as they jogged down the hallway toward Huff’s office. “They’re recruiting men as they report to work. Clark Daly’s become their poster child.”

Beck wanted to ask about Sayre, but by then they had reached Huff’s office. Hearing them rush in, he turned away from the wall of glass overlooking the shop floor, his expression fierce. “Where the fuck is everybody?”

Chris summarized the situation for him in a couple of terse sentences.

“You two get out there,” Huff said. “I want this thing capped. Now! I’m going to call Red, then I’ll come down myself.”

“No, you stay here,” Chris said. “You had a heart attack last week. You don’t need this stress.”

“Screw that. It’s my foundry and my property,” he yelled. “I won’t cower up here like a goddamn invalid while they’re being overrun!”

“I can handle it, Huff.”

“I agree with Chris,” Beck said. “Not because I think you’re infirm, but because if you enter the fray, you appear worried about it. Stay away from it and its importance is automatically reduced.”

Huff’s expression remained truculent, but he relented. “Dammit, you make a good point, Beck. Okay, I’ll stay and run the show from here. You two go. But keep me informed.”

They left in a hurry, preferring to take the staircase rather than wait on the elevator. “Good thing he listens to you,” Chris said, breathing hard as they rounded the last landing at a run.

Beck glanced over his shoulder. “I had to say something to keep him inside.”

The metal exit door was already as hot as a griddle. Beck put his entire weight against it and pushed it open. The rising sun hit him like a spotlight. His eyes adjusted to the glare barely in time to see the beer bottle hurtling toward him.

S
ayre was standing on the hood of her rental car. From that vantage point, the exit door was in her sights when Beck barreled through it with Chris close on his heels.

Apparently others had been anticipating their appearance, because no sooner had they cleared the door than a beer bottle was thrown at them. Beck saw it coming and deflected it. He and Chris ducked behind a large Dumpster where Fred Decluette was speaking into a bullhorn.

“We want this area cleared immediately. Any employee of Hoyle Enterprises who doesn’t report to work by seven-thirty will be docked a full shift’s wages.”

This was met with jeers from the picketers sent by Nielson and those townsfolk and workers who had joined them outside the chain-link fence. The majority of Hoyle employees, who were either quitting their shift or reporting for work, loitered between the two camps, clearly weighing their decision of which to join.

One of Nielson’s paid agitators was also speaking into a bullhorn, urging the Hoyle employees not to return to work until demands were met and their workplace was brought up to OSHA’s standards.

“Is safety equipment too much to ask?”

A roared “No!” went up from those backing him.

“Hoyle Enterprises has made repairs—”

Whatever else Fred said was drowned out by boos and protests. One man grabbed a portable microphone and shouted into it, “Ask Billy Paulik about your lousy repairs.”

That generated more shouting and name-calling. When it subsided, Chris took the bullhorn from Fred. “Listen, you men, we’re compensating the Paulik family.”

“Blood money!”

Despite hoots of laughter, Chris continued. “We’re willing to work things out, to listen—”

“Like you worked things out with Clark Daly?” one of the pickets shouted. “No thank you!”

“What happened to Daly last night had nothing to do with us,” Chris shouted into the bullhorn.

“You’re a damn liar, Hoyle. Just like your old man.”

Sayre watched as the agitator with the microphone turned and opened a car door, extending his hand down to the passenger inside. Luce Daly stepped out.

“Oh, Lord,” Sayre murmured.

So far a violent outbreak had only been threatened, limited to the bottle thrown at Chris and Beck. But Luce Daly’s presence and anything she said could spark violence and bloodshed. Sayre scrambled off the hood of her car and began elbowing her way through the press, hoping to reach Clark’s wife and dissuade her from participating.

Unfortunately, she saw Luce take the microphone extended to her. It was an inexpensive sound system, probably part of a child’s toy or a karaoke machine, but she made herself heard through the scratchy speakers.

“I’m here speaking for my husband. He can’t talk this morning because his mouth is full of sutures. But he wrote down a list of names he wanted me to read to you.”

She started reading from the list, and after the second name, the crowd began to react angrily. The man nearest Sayre cupped his hands around his mouth and booed loudly.

“Who are they?” Sayre asked, shouting to make herself heard above the din.

“Huff Hoyle’s attack dogs,” he shouted back.

Clark had named the men who’d beaten him. They were probably the men taking cover behind the Dumpster with Beck, Chris, and Fred. One of them snatched the bullhorn from Chris and yelled into it, “That bitch is lying!”

Sayre continued to fight her way through the mob toward Luce Daly, who was rereading the list, but workers who had previously been indecisive were now joining the throng of picketers.

It was growing into a moving mass with a will of its own, making it a struggle for Sayre to keep her footing. Surges of outraged people were pressing on her from all sides.

And then she heard someone near her shout, “You’ll get yours, too, Merchant.”

Coming up on tiptoe, she saw Beck moving through the chain-link gate that was the demarcation line between the hostile groups. He walked purposefully toward Luce, who continued to repeat the list of names in a deliberate monotone.

When Beck reached the fringe of the picketers, he stopped, looking straight into the eyes of the men forming a human barricade. The shouting was suddenly replaced by a dense silence that pressed upon the eardrums as solidly as the heat.

Beck held his ground. Gradually men began to shuffle aside. Some were more reluctant than others to yield ground, but eventually they opened up a path for him. The crowd closed behind him once he’d passed. In that eddying fashion, he made his way through the throng.

When he reached Luce Daly, she lowered her microphone and looked at him with patent animosity.

“I understand your outrage.” He spoke quietly, but the mob had remained silent and his voice carried on the heavy, humid air. “If Clark has identified these men as the ones who attacked him last night, they’ll be held accountable and dealt with legally.”

“Why should I believe you?” she asked.

“I give you my word.”

“Your word don’t count for shit,” said a voice from the crowd.

Gaining courage, another shouted, “You’re Huff Hoyle’s whore!”

“Yeah, he says bend over, you ask how far.”

Others joined in until the epithets overlapped, but the pervading message was clear: Beck was more despicable than the enemy he represented.

He turned away from Luce to address the crowd, but before he could say anything, a rock struck him in the face. Then a man jumped him from behind and pinned his arms behind his back. Another punched him in the stomach.

Sayre, knowing that help could come from only one source, looked toward the Dumpster and saw that Chris and the men with him had stepped out from behind their cover.

“Chris!” Trying to make herself heard above the noise was futile, but she shouted to him again and again, waving her arms overhead.

Then she saw Fred Decluette step forward, prepared to rush to Beck’s defense.

But her brother’s arm shot out and caught Fred in the chest, halting him. She saw Chris shake his head and say something. Fred looked anxiously toward the spot where angry men had encircled Beck, then reluctantly he returned to his place at Chris’s side.

Cursing her brother to hell, Sayre barged forward, shoving aside anyone in her path. A ring of cheering onlookers had formed around the men who now had Beck on the ground, taking turns kicking him.

“Leave him alone!” She grabbed the shirt of the man nearest her and hauled him back. He came around, hands balled into threatening fists, but when he saw her, he froze.

She fought her way forward until there were only two men standing over Beck. “Stop it!” she screamed as one pulled back his foot to deliver a vicious kick. The man halted and turned. Taking advantage of his stupefaction, she shoved him aside and knelt beside Beck.

His face was streaked with sweat and blood, but he was conscious. She looked up at Luce Daly. “Call them off. This isn’t accomplishing anything.”

“It’s making me feel better.”

Sayre sprang to her feet, bringing herself face-to-face with the other woman. “Will it make Clark feel better?” Seeing a flicker of uncertainty in Luce’s eyes, she said, “Beck carried him to the hospital last night.”

“He’s still one of them.”

“I’m not.”

Scornfully Luce said, “The hell you’re not.”

“Only by birth, Luce, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I’m not one of them, and I don’t think you really believe that I am.” When the other woman didn’t dispute it, Sayre continued. “I know why you don’t like me. I even understand it. But I swear to you that I am not your rival. Clark is your husband. He loves you, and I know you love him.

“Make the attack on him count for something, Luce. Something bigger than retribution for what happened last night. Something bigger than retribution for what happened a long time ago, before Clark even knew you.”

She and Luce held each other’s gaze, and Sayre detected a gradual relenting in the other woman’s eyes. Finally Luce said, “Those men who beat up Clark, am I supposed to take Merchant’s word that they’ll be punished?”

“You don’t have to take his word for it. I give you mine.”

Luce stared at her for a moment longer, then turned to the man who had given her the microphone. She nodded brusquely. With a motion from him, the men surrounding Beck withdrew.

Sayre knelt again and slipped her hands under his arms. “Can you stand up?”

“Yeah. Just not too fast.”

She lost the argument about taking him to the hospital. “Lately I’ve been to the emergency room more times than I care to count.” He grimaced with the effort of talking.

“You’ve probably got broken ribs.”

“No, I know what that feels like. Had two. Football. This isn’t that bad. Just take me home.”

He was gritting his teeth and holding his side as she pulled off the main road onto the lane leading to his house. “When you leave, lock the gate behind you,” he said. “Media.”

She hadn’t thought about the media in relation to the events of the morning, but of course they would make news. Someone from Hoyle Enterprises would be sought for a sound bite. And no doubt Nielson, too.

She didn’t stop in front of the house but drove around to the rear.

“What are you doing?”

“No one will see my car back here.”

“Just drop me at the door, Sayre. You don’t have to walk me in.”

“No, but I may have to carry you,” she said under her breath as she got out and rushed around to the passenger side.

She helped him out, and together they limped up the back steps. “As long as you’re here, would you feed Frito before you leave?” he asked.

“Of course.”

The dog greeted them with such exuberance that Sayre had to admonish him. “Be nice,” she said sternly, remembering the command Beck had used to settle him down at the diner. The dog obeyed, but he was crestfallen.

“Sorry, boy, I’ll play with you later.”

“I’ll explain everything to him as soon as I’ve tended to you,” she said as she guided Beck toward the bedroom.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes I do. It’s my fault.”

“You didn’t throw that rock at me.” Turning his head to look at her, he said, “Did you?”

“No, but I was on the side of the individual who did. You warned me that the picket would turn violent and that people would get hurt. I didn’t listen.”

“I’ve noticed that about you. Bad habit.”

“Beck, those ribs of yours that aren’t broken?”

“Yeah?”

“I could change that.”

He grunted in pain. “Please, don’t make me laugh.”

When they got to the master bedroom, she propped him against the footboard of the sleigh bed and quickly folded down the covers. Then she came back to help him sit on the edge of the mattress.

“Can you sit up long enough for me to get some antiseptic on your cheek?”

He was clearly in pain. He’d broken out in a sweat, and his lips were rimmed with white. “First-aid stuff is in the bathroom.”

She searched the various drawers and cabinets until she located Band-Aids, cotton balls, peroxide, and ibuprofen tablets. When she returned to the bedroom, Frito was sitting at Beck’s feet, whining pitifully. Beck was stroking his head. “He’s worried about me.”

“He’s smarter than you. Besides the rock, did you receive any blows to the head?”

“No.”

“Did you ever lose consciousness? Are you dizzy? What did you have for breakfast?”

“I didn’t have breakfast.”

“Okay, dinner last night.”

“Sayre, I don’t have a concussion.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve also had that before.”

“Football?”

“Baseball. Caught one in the head.”

“Is that what made it so hard?”

“Look, I’m not dizzy. I’m not nauseous. I never lost consciousness…” He sucked in his breath as she dabbed peroxide on his cheek.

“This may need to be stitched.”

“It doesn’t.”

She wiped the blood away and saw that it was a long gash but not too deep. “I still recommend stitches.”

“I’ll live. I just need to lie down for a while.”

He unbuttoned his shirt, but when he started to take it off, he caught his breath.

“Let me help.” She eased the shirt off his shoulders. Moving slowly and gently, she helped him pull his arms from the sleeves, then stepped back to evaluate the damage. His torso was already discoloring where he’d been kicked and pummeled. His back looked equally bad.

“Oh, Beck,” she whispered. “You really should be X-rayed.”

“For this?” Groaning with the effort of moving, he lay down and settled his head into the pillow. “This is nothing.”

“Please let me call paramedics. You could be at the hospital in fifteen minutes.”

“I could be asleep in fifteen seconds if you’d shut up and get out of here. But first, could I have a few of those pills?”

She uncapped the bottle and shook three tablets into her hand. He asked for a fourth and she shook out another. Then she held his head while he swallowed them with a glass of water she brought from the bathroom.

He returned his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. “Before you leave, take the phone off the hook, please.”

“All right.”

“Pour some dry food into Frito’s bowl and make sure he has water. Let him out to do his business.”

“Don’t worry about anything.”

“The gate…”

“I’ll remember.”

She closed the shutters to dim the room and turned on the ceiling fan. Then she waited until the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest indicated that he’d fallen asleep. Moving toward the door, she motioned for Frito to follow.

Instead, the retriever lay down on the floor at the end of Beck’s bed, rested his head on his paws, and looked up at her with soulful eyes.

Quietly, she backed out of the room alone.

Midafternoon, Beck emerged from a sleep that had been restless for the last half hour. Disoriented, he focused on her. “Sayre?”

“You’ve been groaning. I think your ibuprofen has worn off.”

He glanced at the clock on his nightstand. “Why are you still here?”

“Take three more tablets.” She pushed them into his mouth and held the water glass for him.