Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

The morning rose up in a hazy mass of purple sky bellied by thick rain clouds and smoke. The call from the police had come in half an hour earlier for Gantcher to get his ass out of bed and redline it down to the job site. Or what was left of it.

Three hundred and forty-two units, the town house villas in varying stages of completion, were now reduced to pockets of licking flame, glowing cinders, and smoke puffs. The beginning of the hotel tower was still standing but was now charred to a blackened cement spire.

Like my life, Lowell Gantcher almost said aloud. But it was a good thing he didn’t, considering he hadn’t noticed that a police lieutenant and a fire captain had walked up and were standing next to him.

“Heard you’re having some trouble with your contractors,” the policeman said.

“What do you mean?” Gantcher said, turning toward him. “I’m fine with those guys.”

“They say they haven’t been paid in three weeks.” Hot pockets hissed around them as a slow, insistent rain began to fall.

“Bookkeeping changeover, nothing more. Their checks are cut, probably went out yesterday before close of business,” Gantcher said, hoping it was the truth.

“Okay,” said the cop.

“Are you saying that a disgruntled worker set this off?” Gantcher said.

“We’re not saying that,” the fire captain said. “It’s too soon to say anything. Could’ve been bad luck or a colossal fuckup just as easy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Best we can tell for starters is the fire originated in those units,” the fire captain said, pointing with a stubby finger. “They were in the process of being wired for electricity. Maybe they weren’t grounded yet. A power surge could’ve taken out a panel. Then those units, which hadn’t been fully framed and insulated and fireproofed, went next. Your workers thought it’d be a good place to store the welders’ oxy fuel bottles in there. By the time the flames reached the more finished units with all the paint and lacquer cans-well, the only thing that was missing was Mrs. O’Leary’s cow …”

“Goddammit,” Gantcher said, “if these guys were negligent, I’ll sue the frigging contractor down to his last hammer and nail.” Gantcher hoped it sounded convincing, the young developer distraught over his project going up in flames. The cop and fireman had no reason to know that he hadn’t had a prayer of coming up with the funds to complete the job in the first place.

“Take it easy, Mr. Gantcher,” the fire captain said. “Just like we don’t know if it was intentionally set, we don’t know if it was negligence either. Yet. All in time.”

“Besides,” the policeman spoke up, “you were insured, right?”

Gantcher felt the man’s eyes bore holes right through him. He turned back to the smoldering flames and rubbed his eyes as if it were the smoke that was causing his tears.

28

Behr wanted to be the first one into the Caro Group that morning, to have a conversation with Potempa, for whatever it would yield, but he had something else he needed to do first. It was why he’d driven out to the southeast side in a gray, dripping rain and nosed his car up the dirt entry road to South County Landfill. This was a place he found himself from time to time, when he needed an answer or at least a thread to pull. Whatever was going on in town, Terry Cottrell seemed to know something about how it happened or who was involved. If he couldn’t point Behr in the right direction, Terry would break things down into a likely strategy at the very least. The only question was: Would he? There had been bad blood between them the last time they’d met, and it was Behr’s fault. He had pushed too hard on something and crossed invisible boundaries of friendship and trust. Behr had broken the unspoken code between them and had kept his distance accordingly, in order to let the wrong of it subside. But now it was time to lay it down. Which was why Behr had a large, expensive coffee table book called French New Wave resting on his passenger seat. A glamorous blonde graced the cover of the book chronicling the existential foreign films of which Terry was such a fan. It was a peace offering, just a token, but enough, hopefully, to bring about a thaw.

Behr parked by the double-wide trailer that was both office and home to Cottrell. When the weather was clear, he’d often find Terry outside, overseeing the dumping and spreading of waste at the landfill, or shooting rats with an air gun, or listening to music in the morning sun. It was usually later in the day, when the sun was ready to go down, that the Old Grand-Dad with a splash of coffee or cola would come out.

Behr rapped on the trailer door, surprised not to hear the sounds of jazz or a film bleeding through. After a moment the door opened and revealed a large gentleman fifty pounds heavier and twenty years older than Cottrell.

“Scale’s closed for a half hour yet,” the man said.

“Not here to dump,” Behr said. “I’m looking for Terry Cottrell.”

“You a friend of his?” the new man asked. Behr nodded. “He’s gone.”

“Gone? Where?” Behr wondered. But the man just shrugged.

“After the county hired me, he ran me through the workings of the place six months back. Then he packed out and left. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“He leave a number or an address?” Behr wondered. He had a cell phone number for Cottrell, but it was only good for leaving voice mails as it was rarely answered.

“Sure didn’t,” the man said. There wasn’t much left to say. “Well, we’re here if you need to do any dumping.”

Behr tucked the plastic-wrapped book under his arm and walked back to his car, feeling empty.

29

“Can I get some coffee here!” Shug Saunders said, hearing the bark in his voice but completely unable to check it.

The fried eggs and hash browns were swimming on the plate in front of him, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t due to the drinking he’d done the night before, but rather what Lowell Gantcher, the mewling son of a bitch, was telling him. Either way he had a growing suspicion he was going to retch.

Heads turned toward him at his demand. The Skillet was a small place-eight or ten seats and a counter-and the regulars there weren’t used to strangers showing up in the first place, much less snarling at their waitress.

“Thank you, dear,” Shug said, trying to put some sweetness into his voice when she finally arrived with the pot, and attempting to make it loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Uh-huh,” the waitress said, and heads turned back to newspapers and plates and Shug and Gantcher were able to resume their conversation.

“Can you talk to the guy in the middle? See if he can, I don’t know, make Dwyer back off or stand down?” Gantcher asked in a hoarse whisper, his coffee cup hovering in the air between them.

“The middle guy is running shit scared right now from this whole thing, man. I don’t think I can call him for anything or make any kind of contact right now.”

“Come on. Now’s not the time for him to go MIA on us-”

“And as for the Welshman, from what I hear, once he’s turned on, he doesn’t have an off switch,” Shug said. “Which is why you hired him in the first place, isn’t it?”

“Oh god,” Gantcher said. When he noticed his cup starting to quake in his hand he put it down on the table. “What are we going to do?”

“What did he tell you he wants?” Shug said, trying to think clearly.

“Money.”