Violence

VIOLENCE

VIOLENCE

Timothy McDougall

Published by Timothy McDougall
First eBook Edition: February 2012
ISBN 978-0-9852152-2-4
Visit Timothy McDougall’s official website at
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Copyright © Timothy McDougall, 2012
Cover design by Richard Yoo
e-book formatting by
Guido Henkel
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Neither the Publisher nor the Author can be held liable for any third-party material referenced in this book.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.

For Maureen

I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live.
—Deuteronomy 30:19

CHAPTER 1

         A
home under construction. A townhouse to be exact. A satisfying sight these days. Noel Anderson, in a shirt, tie and hardhat, walked purposefully across a bare plywood floor scanning some specs. All of the townhouses he was working on were at the dried-in phase, the stage before finishing when they were still exposed and vulnerable. Chicago was prone to produce violent storms in the spring, and though this was a beautiful, sunny day in mid-May, Anderson wanted to get these residences tightly sealed – and done.

He was getting a jolting sensation throughout his body that told him to be extra vigilant. He hated that feeling. It had always come out of nowhere, that shudder of sudden impact. It had been awhile since he had it so pronounced. It was exhausting having to stay in a hyper state, but being attuned to that strange cue had served him well throughout the years.

“What’s going on with the windows?” Anderson shouted up to a carpenter on a portable scaffold who was applying drywall ceiling seams.

“They still haven’t been delivered.” The pony-tailed tradesman answered, and added. “We can stay on schedule as long as I get ‘em by Friday.”

“I’ll see what’s holding them up.” Anderson brusquely replied. “We’re through playing with them.”

Anderson, handsome, athletic, was at ease among men. His employees never delayed in giving him the latest news, good or bad. He took care of things and was always fair. If they had one gripe it would be that, while Anderson always appeared confident, prosperous and open, one could also sense an undercurrent of sadness about him, a wish to hold everyone at arm’s length that ultimately kept him out of step with the rest of the world.

Anderson had been hired by a bank to complete several “rowhouses,” essentially separate but connected townhouses that had similar facades but which shared common “party” walls. It was a bit of bad irony Anderson had noted. The first bank, eventually gobbled up in receivership by the current bank, had cut off funding to the previous builder just months into the work. That first bank figured they’d limit their exposure, force the builder to dip into personal funds to finish, but this time things truly were different. This was no normal business-cycle downturn. Things literally fell off a cliff. For everyone. The townhouses were left simply roughed-in. The foundation had been poured, framing erected, subfloor and roof installed but the structures were woefully unprotected.

The previous builder had cut corners and skipped some inspections before walking away from the entire project two years ago. Like the window supplier, anyone still in business in the housing industry was under enormous economic pressure since the bubble top, using deposits to plug holes, pay back bills, taking difficult jobs for less than your previous going rate. A lot less. Everyone was just trying to stay in business. Anderson’s wariness allowed him to make good money during the go-go years but never get overextended. More important it gave him a place to sit when the music stopped.

Anderson stepped outside the townhouse and paused at the bare front entrance to let a driver motor past on a Bobcat VersaHandler who was hauling tools with the machine’s telescopic forklift. Anderson flicked a look about the site, having the gift of being able to size up a situation immediately. This faculty had kept his workplace accidents to a minimum, only two that required a hospital visit in his nearly 20 years of construction. One was a broken leg from a trench collapse, the other a case of 24-hour metal fume fever for a welder who didn’t arrange for proper ventilation.

There were a thousand and one ways for someone to get hurt on a construction site. Electrical accidents, crane accidents, holes in flooring, roof collapses, fires, explosions, workers run over by equipment, falls, metal punch press injuries, and on and on. Anderson always went over and above OSHA standards. Right now everything looked okay. Normal. So why did he have that continued sense of dread? And that damned impact feeling?

Bang!

Everyone outside snapped their gaze to one of the adjacent townhouses. It was there a muscular roofer had lost his grip and dropped a large roll of tar paper onto some flooring through the open framing of a skylight. The roofer waved a sorry and everyone went back to their tasks at hand. Except Anderson. He was still struck to the core by that haunting sense of foreboding.

Anderson suddenly thought about the day last fall when he came to bid the job. This area was on one of the city’s boundaries of gentrification, abutting a deserted industrial area. The homeless were the latest of the vacant townhouse tenants, stringing tarps against the elements. The structures were fetid with the smell of feces, urine and animal carcasses floating in their flooded foundations. A rep from the current bank had not so subtly hinted to Anderson that city inspectors were under pressure to get these eyesores and public nuisances off the books. These townhouses were going to be broken down into rentals, some low-income subsidized housing, so the bank was getting good tax breaks, and likely some other breaks from certain codes, if Anderson was catching his drift. Anderson made it clear with a look that he didn’t work that way.

Anderson always bid a job correctly. He didn’t low-ball and then try to cut corners. Didn’t high-ball if he thought someone was in a jam or ripe for being taken. He did top-notch, quality construction and figured that philosophy was responsible for why he was still on his feet. He was also proud of the fact he could keep his modest crew employed and that when he was hired he always finished ahead of schedule and on budget, even if he had to work overtime or take less to deliver. It was important to keep your reputation.

If not doing his own projects, Anderson would rather work with investor groups who, if they were inclined to screw you, would do it upfront. Bankers were more devious, hiding important details in mountains of paperwork. “You signed it” was the usual refrain when you discovered you had been fucked.

Anderson learned the hard way early in life that you better know how to deal with big institutions and read legal documents. And don’t trust your own lawyers who are at best indifferent, likely incompetent and who might be beholden to making some other, bigger player happy for some reason. This guardedness extended to everyone involved with the court system itself. Anderson was continually struck by the incongruity of “In God We Trust” emblazoned on courtroom walls where he deemed “Enter at Own Risk” was more appropriate. He also felt Lady Justice should be standing next to a roulette wheel (not holding the scales of truth and fairness), the image being something Anderson would always reflect on as he watched those involved in the judicial system obfuscate, prevaricate and above all – elongate. The only time the court ever got it right, he believed, was when he was seventeen and they let him enter the military as an emancipated minor, but then again that was in
their
best interest.

The Army had a strict policy, “no whining.” Fine. Anderson just wanted a chance to crawl out of the muck. His opportunity to rise came sniffing out land mines in Kuwait left by the Iraqis during the Persian Gulf War. Boom. You’re dead. Weighing the things in his life, that beat the alternative.

The banging of a tail lift, and a clipboard being offered to him brought Anderson back momentarily to the present.

A deliveryman for an electrical supply company finished securing the rear cargo door on his truck while Anderson signed for an order of conduit and wiring.

“Thanks.” Anderson said as he handed back the clipboard and pen.

The driver nodded, retrieved a cigarette tucked behind his ear, and returned to the cab of his truck.

A pair of electricians from Anderson’s crew examined the items, and quickly grabbed some spools of wiring.

Anderson watched the electricians move off with the supplies and thought about how thankful he was not to be on active duty now. Back in 1991, dealing with the unexploded ordnance of anti-personnel and anti-tank landmines was relatively straightforward. Find them. Get rid of them. Not much wiring. Now the enemy almost exclusively worked with IEDs, daisy-chaining clusters of bombs. Everything from garage door openers to toy car remotes were used to set them off. Hell, you didn’t even need line-of-sight. You could just phone it in and not even worry about your position being compromised.

Anderson’s mind just kept racing. He usually never indulged in memories. He liked pressing matters and details. The recollections rushed in on him. It was as if they were chasing him! He scanned his mental checklist as he was buffeted by a swirl of dust.

He remembered he had also recently been asked to complete a different row of abandoned townhouses by another bank. Was that the reason for the incessant sense of unease? It was a straightforward job. Aside from the usual, all it entailed was sifting through another set of documents, and some hopefully inconsequential legal fees. Is that why the image of a courtroom keep popping into his consciousness? He hated the legal system. No secret. It was clearly just a big country club of which you were not a member. That reminded him. He had that meeting tonight. Was that what was bugging him? Shouldn’t be.

The sunlight felt unusually potent. He used the back of his wrist to wipe away the beads of sweat from his brow.

“Boss?”

The word or rather entreaty broke him fully from his reverie. The delivery truck had driven off and Roman Ayala, Anderson’s middle-aged foreman, could be seen standing in the street now with a young Hispanic man and woman. The round 20-ish woman held an infant in her arms and was crying inconsolably. It was obvious the young man had been doing some crying, too.

Anderson met them at the curb.

“My nephew, his work permit expired.” Roman said in a distinguishable Spanish accent, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. “They want to send him back to Peru. He forgot to do some paperwork. Scared, you know.” Roman sighed, and continued. “I guess the lawyer who was supposed to help them just took their money and never did anything. They called his office for weeks.”

“How’d they pay him?” Anderson asked.

“Cash.” Roman replied with a roll of his eyes as he kicked at a clump of soil in the street deposited by the tread of an earthmover.

Anderson nodded, understanding. “That private eye we hired a while back to track down those punks who were stealing materials, didn’t his card say something about immigration work, too? What was his name?”

“Joyce knows.” Roman answered, referring to the business office secretary.

Anderson briefly meditated on his swirl of daydreams and pangs of anxiety. Maybe Roman’s nephew’s problem was why he, Anderson, was bouncing down memory lane?

“Tell him it’s okay, not to worry.” Anderson assured them. “We’ll fix it.”

No need to translate. The young man understood that much English. His face lit up as he stepped forward and threw his arms around Anderson. He clattered on in Spanish as Anderson stood rigid, embarrassed with the unrestrained show of emotion.

CHAPTER 2

         T
he sprawling ranch house was in a quiet subdivision at the edge of the city’s limits. It was one of the wealthier neighborhoods of Chicago that had a good deal of space between it and the nastier, higher-crime areas. There was also a bit of room between residences.

Karen Anderson, Noel’s attractive 37-year-old wife, was laying out on a chaise lounge in her swimsuit next to a just completed in-ground pool that was filling with water. A small cement-mixer sat right behind her and an uninstalled diving board leaned against a newly built BBQ pit. She had a knock-out figure and was eager to catch some of the sun’s early rays of the season. The winter had been particularly brutal.