Chapter 1.

(Friday, October 13th, 1978; Cleveland, Ohio)

As the traffic light turned red, catching Frank O’Brien, who had drifted into la-la land, unawares, he snapped present and slammed the brakes. The work tools in the truck’s bed thudded against the cab’s rear with a metallic crunch. Not great for his headache, he reckoned, reaching for the empty Coca-Cola can he kept in the cup holder, but so it goes. He spat a mouthful of tobacco juice into the jury-rigged spittoon before returning it, and raised his gaze to the dark, deserted downtown. Cleveland in the wee hours seemed large and vacant, a concrete canyon, with Prospect Avenue, still damp with a late-night shower, a too-straight river shimmering in the street lamps.

He snorted, shaking his head.

Canyon? A river? As if.

A memory of a vacation out west drifted to mind. Utah. The rugged, bolder-strewn canyon the Lower Provo River had carved over the centuries, snow-capped mountains in the distance, the earthy aroma of sagebrush and fish, and his son Pat wading chest-deep in the trout-infested water next to him.

Now that’s a canyon, while this empty expanse reeking of diesel exhaust, well…

Bemused, Frank drummed on the steering wheel to the Sam and Dave eight-track, the volume low, and glanced at his watch. Plenty of time to meet his boss, Howard Roark, who’d called a six-thirty meeting.

Six-thirty.

Ninety minutes early for a meeting that would take ten, fifteen to hold. Which meant Saint George Construction would pay Frank, an hourly employee, for the entire hour-and-a-half per union contract. He scoffed, thinking about Howard.

Idiot.

Tired of the music, Frank jabbed ‘EJECT’ as the light turned green and he eased the truck into gear, switching to a brash sportscaster’s rant about the World Series, predicting a Dodgers victory over the Yankees. Frank hoped the announcer was right because he despised the spoiled rotten New York golden boys, a long-time rival of his Cleveland Indians. The Yank’s reckoning would come. Perhaps the Dodgers would clobber them this year… or not. Who knew?

Time would tell true, he supposed, shifting to second.

As the truck rumbled up Prospect, the only other vehicles on the road several blocks in his rearview, Frank sensed a golden opportunity: today was payday and the opening day of the World Series. So he’d treat his wife, Maddie, and his little princess, Peggy, to dinner at Muldoon’s, a bar and grill on East 185th. The joint was family-friendly, serving decent food and cold beer. Plus, they had pinball and bowling machines to keep Peggy busy, and several TVs over the bar they’d tune to the Series for Maddie and him.

Yay Muldoon’s, go Dodgers, and fuck the Yankees.

At the worksite’s entrance, he stopped and signaled, but a pale, narrow fellow dressed in black starched slacks and topcoat, buttoned tight, jaywalked in front of Frank’s truck, with slow, deliberate movements. When smack-dab in front of Frank, the thin man halted, flashing a defiant side-eye from under the brim of his black fedora, before slithering past and disappearing into an alley. Frank sighed. The only other living human he’d had seen downtown is a rude idiot. Go figure. At the locked gate, Frank honked, hoping the encounter didn’t portend a crappy day. Unlikely, but who knew?

The security hut’s door opened, and the portly, red-cheeked night watchman Earl exited, pulling his winter jacket’s collar high against the wind, and waddled towards the entrance. The watchman waved and swung the fence open, yelling, “Wait up Frank,” as he shut the gate and, blowing warmth into his hands, walked towards Frank, who eased his truck to a stop.

Now, Frank wanted to ignore Earl, but fought the impulse. Just because he felt shitty was no reason to spoil Earl’s morning. It’s like the world-famous self-help author Dale Carnegie said in that class he’d attended, on the company’s dime, “Treating others as if they mattered matters.” So as Earl neared, Frank silenced the sportscaster and cranked down the window, a blast of frosty air burning his face and fogging the windows. He leaned out and turned away, spitting.

“Morning,” he said, facing the watchman, trying to force himself cheerful.

Earl leaned on the truck door. “Long time no see, Frank. Early day?”

Frank nodded. “Yup, meeting with Howard. Union business. Only thing besides family that’d rouse me at this ungodly hour.”

“Not even fishing?”

Frank shook his head, his chest warming. “No need. Lake Erie walleyes and perch hold tight until nine o’clock, days I fish. Have to. Union rules. It’s in the contract.”

Earl chuckled. “You’re a goof.”

Frank grinned, tapping his watch. “Gotta motor, buddy. Can’t keep the boss-man waiting. Tell the wife I said ‘Hi,’ will you?”

“Will do, you too, and good weekend.” Earl slapped the F-100’s roof and turned towards the security hut, his breath a vapor cloud trailing behind him, pushed by the steady breeze. Frank shut the window, feeling more himself, once again amazed at the ineffable wisdom of Dale Carnegie.

By helping others, you also help yourself, he mused. Something cosmic about that.

Scoffing at his granola-munching insight—the ‘cosmic’ and whatnot, not Carnegie’s correctness, which was gospel—Frank drove through the rutted gravel parking lot which ringed the unfinished, boxy glass and steel skyscraper, its top floors’ raw girders exposed to the heavens. He parked, facing a neglected turn-of-the-century brick office building across the street which his employer, Saint George Construction, would demolish next year. Frank’s crew would follow, raising a shiny-new skyscraper.

A shame, he thought, surveying the precise masonry work, and sculpted cornices, angels, and gargoyles along the top ledge, twelve stories up. What craftsmanship. They don’t raise workaday buildings like that anymore.

And yet, graffiti defiled the statues and cornice. Frank shook his head, his heart heavy.

Damn vandals. No respect. What a waste.

A wry smile stretched his face.

Though we’ll do much worse, in the name of urban renewal with the City Council’s blessing… Life’s weird that way.

Frank reached into the glove compartment for the bottle of suntan lotion, his gaze slipping to the six-story-tall ‘ELIOT NESS FOR MAYOR OF CLEVELAND’ campaign mural on the building’s south-facing wall, a weatherbeaten advert for the former FBI director. The exact year he ran eluded Frank, some time in the ‘30s or ‘40s, but he remembered Ness got shellacked. Regardless, that mural was a piece of history he’d help destroy and replace. Fake-shooting the painted legend with his imaginary finger-gun, Frank said, “Sorry, bud, but you gotta go when you gotta go. As the good book says, ashes to ashes.”

He uncapped the sunscreen, its chemical yet fruity scent flooding his nostrils, and slathered it over his face, neck, and arms. Doctor’s orders, a prescription that worked. Before Doc ordered him to wear it, he’d had three melanomas removed within four years. Since wearing it, none in six. That egghead knew his stuff, and Frank appreciated know-how.

After returning the lotion to the glove compartment, Frank cut the engine and grabbed his lunchbox, zipping tight, pulling an emerald green Saint George skullcap from the pocket of his Carhartts.

The stench of mildew, cigarette smoke, and rotting garbage greeted Frank as he entered the deserted employee Quonset hut. He punched in, stowing the gear in his assigned locker, and passed through the small break area choc-full of aluminum benches and vending machines hoping to snag a cup of too-expensive, too-harsh, yet well-caffeinated instant, but stopped dead, groaning. Someone had unplugged the machine. He plugged in the damned thing, which took over twenty minutes to warm up. Ergo, no go-juice before Howard.

Crap.

The longer Frank wallowed in the hut’s stagnant air, the worse it stank. He considered cracking a window to air it out, but soon rejected the notion. It was colder than a witch’s left tit in a brass bra outside, so screw that. Instead, he clicked on the propane heater, rubbing his hands over it for almost a minute, absorbing the radiant heat. Hopefully, its fan would move and freshen the stale air. Sure, the muckety-mucks would grouse about the fuel bill, ninety minutes heating an unoccupied hut, and whatnot, but screw them. The guys would enjoy the heat when they trickled in, nearer eight.

He looked at his watch, and his face twisted. Pleasant as warming up was, he had a six-thirty, so he exited the employee Quonset and headed towards Howard’s office in the prefab management bunker. Halfway there, a shiver shot up his spine, and he stopped, sensing shadowy figures flitting in his periphery. Though he didn’t feel threatened, drunks and junkies haunted downtown, and a hardcore jones could make the meekest lamb a lion. So he steeled and spun, searching behind, left, and right.

Nothing.

Removing his Saint George skullcap to scratch his head, Frank examined the scene, reckoning the flitting figures he imagined were mere shadows cast by the overlapping beams of street lamps catching birds as they scavenged. Huge overreaction. He grunted, chastising himself for being a drama queen, before donning his cap and continuing towards his meeting when the distant Eliot Ness mural… tipped its hat, and nodded?

He blinked, and the hat rested again upon Eliot Ness’s unmoving head.

Of course.

Another trick the light, crows, seagulls, and shadows played on his mind, which was fuzzy and scratchy as steel wool that morning. Bottom line, murals don’t move, being pigment painted over concrete and brick… and yet it had seemed so real.

He shrugged.

Odd, him being this sluggish, but so it goes.

Frank entered the building, halting in the reception lobby outside of Howard’s office. The wall clock’s hands showed six twenty-seven. Early being on time in Frank’s book, he breathed deep. Before rapping on the office door, he fished the chaw from his cheek and pitched it into the nearby garbage can. Decades back, Saint George Construction had banned smoking in offices to avoid fire damage to expensive, often irreplaceable blueprints. Sensible. However, the putz Howard extended that ban to chewing tobacco in May, making as much sense as tits on a bull. No sparks, no matches, no ashes, and no flame means no danger, and yet… Frank suspected Howard had done it to spite him, though he lacked proof. Regardless, Howard was an asshole, so Frank wouldn’t put it past him.

He knocked.

The office door opened, and the dark-haired, puffy-eyed operations manager, Rubin, stuck his head out, thrusting his thumb towards the waiting room. “Hey Frank, would you mind? We’re on the phone with Manny and Junior.”

Frank drifted towards the lobby. “Sure thing, boss.”

He understood. Muckety-mucks always needed to control things. Howard was the firm’s youngest project manager, so his grandfather and uncle—Emmanuel ‘Manny’ St. Georges and his eldest son, Manny Junior—were keeping the whelp leashed tight.

As Rubin shut the door, Frank plopped into a cushy chair. What did he care? He was on the clock, and they’d pay him whether he twiddled his thumbs or pounded girders home, so he stretched his legs and leaned back, pulling the skullcap over his eyes.