Heat (9 page)

J
esse had been at St. Clair Wood Products for nearly a month when Harley Waters approached him just as the workday began. Another man was with him.

“Hey, Jesse, Herman wants to see you in the office. This guy's going to spell you.”

“Okay, Harley,” Jesse replied. He dusted off the shavings that clung to his clothes and walked upstairs to Herman Muller's office. The secretary showed him in.

Muller stood up and shook his hand. “Morning, Jesse.”

“Morning, Mr. Muller.”

“My folks all call me Herman,” Muller said. “Have a seat.”

Jesse took a chair, wondering what was going on.

Muller leaned back in his chair. “Jesse, I'm real proud of the way you've worked on the hopper; so is Harley. I'm promoting you.”

“Well, thanks, Mr….ah, Herman.”

“No thanks due; you've earned it. I'm putting you further up the production line, on the pressing equip
ment. The pay's nine dollars an hour, and when you've learned the equipment, I'll raise it to ten. I don't think it'll take you long to get the hang of it, but remember, that machinery has to be run right, and right every time. The quality of every sheet of chipboard that comes out of this plant depends on this job being done right. You understand me?”

“Yessir, I sure do. I promise you, I'll do a good job.”

Muller stood up. “That's good enough for me, Jesse. Harley's down showing your replacement the ropes; when he's done, he'll take you up the line and get you started.”

Jesse shook the man's hand and went back to the plant floor. His replacement was stoking the hopper with a truckload of scrap timber, under the watchful eye of Harley Waters. Poor bastard, Jesse thought.

Harley waved him to follow, and Jesse bade a sweet goodbye to the hopper. He followed Harley through a door into another room of the plant, and the noise subsided a bit. Harley led him up a ladder to a glass booth ten feet above the production line. He slapped a worker on the back. “Take a break, Bob.” Harley took over operation of the machinery. “Okay, Jesse, I'm going to run a few sheets, and you follow me as I work the controls.

Jesse became aware that somebody was watching him from below. He looked down and saw Phil Partain dumping a bin of wood chips onto a conveyer belt that led to the press. Partain was spending more time watching him than doing his work.

Jesse watched Harley Waters operate the machinery for a while, then took over himself, operating under Harley's sharp eye. It was pleasant to be doing something that took some skill and coordination; he hadn't liked being a laborer. By the time the noon whistle blew, chipboard was emerging smoothly from the press, under Jesse's operation.

“Go get your lunch,” Harley said. “I'll stay on with you the rest of the day, and then I think you'll have it down pat. I've got a new job for the man you replaced.”

Jesse went back to the locker room, retrieved his lunch and walked out back of the plant. It was a clear, chilly autumn day and the aspens were a bright gold on the mountains behind the factory. Jesse sat down under a tree, ate his sandwiches and drank his soft drink. After that, he rested his head against the tree and dozed.

He was awakened suddenly as someone sharply kicked the soles of his shoes. He opened his eyes and looked up to find Phil Partain standing over him.

“Get on your feet, Barron,” Partain said.

“What do you want, Phil?” Jesse asked laconically.

“I want to kick your ass,” Partain replied, then kicked Jesse's feet again.

Jesse guessed it was time. He got slowly to his feet. “Phil, I gave you some real good advice the last time we talked. Remember that?”

“You keep your fucking advice to yourself, you bastard,” Partain said, circling Jesse to his right. “I was in line to operate that machine, but I guess you've been sucking Harley's cock real regular.”

“Phil, Phil,” Jesse said wearily, “I'm going to have to ask you to shut your mouth.”

“Shit,” Partain said, “you're going to be sucking
my
cock in just a minute.” He feinted with his right, then came around with a left hook. Jesse stepped back, and the punch grazed his cheek. He stepped into Partain and planted a short left in the man's considerable gut.

Partain grunted, but he kept coming. That gut had been pretty solid, Jesse thought. He ducked under Partain's right and landed a stiff punch in the ribs. Partain still kept coming, and now he had a knife in his right hand.

I wonder, Jesse thought, how Phil feels about the sight of his own blood? As Partain swung the knife, Jesse stepped inside the swing and struck the man's wrist hard with the edge of his hand, then he knocked back Partain's head with a pair of left jabs, and the bigger man's nose started to bleed.

Partain wiped his face with his sleeve and looked at it. “You goddamned son of a bitch!” he roared.

Jesse kept his guard up. The sight of his own blood apparently made Partain steaming mad. Jesse dodged as the man rushed him and landed a hard right to a kidney as he passed. Partain went down on one knee with a cry of pain, and Jesse punched him in the side of the neck. Partain hit the ground, rolled over and got to his feet again.

Jesse began to use everything he had learned in the yard at Atlanta, kicking a shin, punching under the heart and landing teeth-rattling punches to the jaw. Partain landed a few shots, mostly on Jesse's arms and shoulders. He seemed unaccustomed to fighting somebody who knew how to fight back.

Jesse wore the big man down, hurting him, but leaving him on his feet until he seemed ready to go down. Finally, he doubled Partain over with a left to the solar plexus, then straightened him up with an uppercut. Partain's knees buckled, and he went backward like a felled tree.

There were some shouts, and Jesse looked up to find that a small crowd of workers had gathered. The whistle blew, and Jesse walked back to the plant, leaving Partain where he lay. Nobody, he noticed, went to the man's aid.

Partain didn't come back to work after lunch, and the following morning, he was replaced by a new man. Jesse heard later that Herman Muller had fired Phil Partain.

J
esse sat on the hood of his truck, which was parked in deep woods outside St. Clair, and talked to Kip Fuller on the scrambled cellular phone.

“I'm moving up in the world,” Jesse said. “Making nine bucks an hour, now, and I expect to get raised to ten any day.” He told Kip about the promotion.

“Glad to hear it, Jess.”

“Not everybody is as happy as you are about my advancement,” Jesse replied. “Fellow called Partain took exception.”

“And what did you do about it?” Kip asked, sounding worried.

“I hit him until he got over it,” Jesse replied.

“Listen, Jess, I know you're good at that sort of thing, but it can only draw attention to you. I hope you stayed away from anything they taught us at Quantico.”

“I did that; I wasn't anxious to look like a federal cop in a fight.”

“Good.”

“I think it was a setup.”

“Oh, shit.”

“It's natural that they'd be very wary. I think they wanted to see how I'd react.”

“So you reacted by beating the shit out of the guy?”

“Not at first; I let him push me some, first. From the reaction of my coworkers at the plant, I gather he wasn't the most popular guy around.”

“So you won a few admirers?”

“Maybe.”

“Has there been any reaction from the opposition since this happened?”

“Not so far; it's been a couple of weeks, so I wonder if they're going to react at all.”

“I hope you're not going to make a habit of this, Jess.”

“Depends on whether they make a habit of it.”

“You getting any ideas about where Coldwater is getting his money?”

“I gather the church has a piece of a few businesses around town. He's apparently tried to hustle Herman Muller into selling out, but so far, Herman is standing pat. I hope he goes on doing that; it's hard not to root for the guy.”

“No evidence of big money behind Coldwater, though?”

“Nope. It's hard to see how any big money could get generated around here. It's not a big place, and Muller's business has got to be the important earner in town. So far, I can't see that Coldwater is spending any big money, either.”

“Let's not make that judgment, yet,” Kip said. “You haven't really had a chance to look around, have you?”

“I've deliberately not done any looking around, just traveling where my life here leads me. Snooping could get me burnt.”

“I'm glad you see it that way; I don't want you burnt.”

“That's sweet of you, Kip; I know Dan feels that way, too.”

Kip laughed. “You always did have a sense of humor, Jess.”

“Well, I'd better get back to town. I'm supposed to be running an errand for Jenny, and I shouldn't be gone too long.”

“No need to call me too often, until something happens,” Kip said. “Next week will do.”

“Right, see you then.” Jesse broke the connection and crawled under the truck to put the phone away. As he closed the safe, he heard another vehicle approaching down the dirt track. He crawled out from under the truck in time to see a police car pull to a stop and Pat Casey get out.

“Hey, Pat,” he said, brushing off his clothes.

“Howdy, Jesse.” The chief of police watched him warily. “What are you doing out here?”

“I turned down this road to take a leak, to tell you the truth, and what with the bumps, I thought my muffler was loose. I went under there to have a look at it.”

“You should have taken it down to the filling station and put it on the rack.”

“Not while I'm making nine bucks an hour, I won't,” Jesse replied.

Casey grinned. “Guess not. How's it going out at Wood Products?”

“Pretty good; I got promoted. I'm running a press, now.”

“That means Herman likes you, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“I hear you and Phil Partain had a little rumble.”

“A little one.”

“I'm impressed you came out of it with your ears on your head,” Casey said. “Partain's messed up more than one fellow around here.”

“Partain's a schoolyard bully, that's all.”

“I guess that's true, but he can be dangerous, especially if you've made a fool of him, like you have. I'd watch my back.”

“I'll keep it in mind.”

“I wouldn't take it hard if you killed the son of a bitch,” Casey said.

“I'm not out to kill anybody, but I'm not going to let him kill me,” Jesse said.

“That's a reasonable attitude,” Casey said.

“Well, I've got to go to the drugstore for my landlady,” Jesse said, digging for his keys.

“You do that; never keep a woman waiting.”

Jesse got the truck started, turned it around and headed back toward the highway. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Casey starting to look around the clearing where he'd been parked. He was going to have to find a better place to use the telephone.

 

Jesse stood at the magazine rack in the drugstore and waited for Jenny's prescription to be filled. He flipped through a home improvement magazine, taking care not to be seen reading the
New Yorker
or
Esquire
. He had been there only a moment, when a tall, thin man wearing glasses and a full beard walked into the store and past him. Jesse tensed, but tried not to show it. He knew that man, but he couldn't remember from where, and he hoped to hell the man didn't recognize him. Who was he? Jesse racked his brain.

“Jesse, your prescription is ready,” the druggist called out.

“Thanks, Mike,” Jesse called back, returning the magazine to the rack and keeping his back to the visitor. Then, as he was about to turn toward the counter, a computer magazine caught his eye; the cover photograph was of the same man who had just entered the store. Melvin Schooner, Jesse realized. Head of one of
the fastest-growing software companies in the world. Jesse had read about him half a dozen times in the business section of various newspapers. Schooner departed the prescription counter as Jesse approached, and Jesse got another good look at him. No doubt about who he was.

“There you go, Jesse,” Mike said. “I put it on Jenny's account.”

“Thanks, Mike. Say, that fellow who just left looks familiar.”

“Sure, that's Mel Schooner, the computer guy; hometown boy, he is.”

“Oh, yeah, I've seen him on TV, or somewhere.”

“Mel's done real well, but he still has time to come home and see his mother,” Mike said. “Real nice fellow; belongs to the church here. Been real generous with local contributions.”

“That's nice. Take care, Mike.”

Jesse went back to his truck with a new thought in mind. Just which contributions had Schooner been so generous with? He got into the cab, and peeked into the bag at Jenny's prescription. Was she ill? He smiled. Nope. Birth control pills. He was glad to know she was taking those.

He drove back toward the house, wondering about Melvin Schooner and his software company. The papers said he was fast gaining on Bill Gates at Microsoft. The guy wasn't forty yet, and he was supposedly a multibillionaire. He wondered if Schooner was acquainted with Jack Gene Coldwater.

As he drove toward home, it began to snow, and Jesse, who had spent nearly all of his life in the South, felt excited, like a schoolboy. The snow was one more indication of how far from Atlanta Federal Penitentiary he had come.

A
lmost as soon as Jesse had begun to operate the press, he was made foreman of his section. He was startled, and then, looking around, he realized that Herman Muller was no fool; he could look at a crew and know who the best man was. And Herman, Harley Waters explained, wasn't one to stand on any such ceremony as seniority. He was suddenly making fifteen dollars an hour, and it amused him that it seemed to be big money.

Then, the week before Thanksgiving, Jesse got the shock of his life. Herman Muller summoned him to his office, sat him in a chair and regarded him solemnly.

“Jesse,” Herman said, “I'm not getting any younger.”

“I hadn't noticed, Herman,” Jesse replied.

“Oh, I'm not getting all that much older, either, I guess, but yesterday my doctor put me on some medicine for arthritis, and it kind of shook me up. I mean, in all my life I never took any medicine for something that wasn't likely to go away pretty fast.”

“Arthritis isn't all that much of a problem these days, is it?”

Muller shrugged. “I guess not; it was just the notion of having a chronic ailment that got me thinking.”

“I wouldn't worry about it, Herman; you'll bury most of us.”

“I expect to,” Herman said, allowing himself a small smile, “but I guess it wouldn't hurt for me to have some help upstairs, here.”

Jesse didn't reply, since he had no idea what Muller was talking about.

“I told you when you came here, not so very long ago, that it's my policy to promote from within.”

“That's right, you did, and I guess I've benefitted from that policy.”

“Well, this morning I sat down and I went through my list of foremen. There's six of you fellows, and you've all got different qualities to recommend you. None of you has a lot of education, but some of you are smarter than others, and I think you're the smartest of the lot.”

“Why thank you, Herman.”

“I was looking back over your employment application and remembering our first conversation, and it appears that you're the only one of my foremen who's ever run a business.”

“I am?”

“Yessir, and even though you went bust, I don't think it was your fault; it was the times, is my guess.”

“That's what I'd like to think myself,” Jesse said.

“Anyway, you've had some experience running a business, keeping costs down and volume up; you've handled men, I can tell from the way you do your present job.”

“I guess I have.”

“Well, I've decided that I need a…well, a kind of assistant manager, I guess; somebody who can learn the business from my perspective and who can keep the place going if I'm out with the flu for a few days.”

“I see,” Jesse replied.

“You're my man, Jesse; I've looked 'em all over, and even though you're the newest foreman, you're the best, and the job's yours, if you want it.”

“Herman, I sure do want it, I'll tell you that,” Jesse said, not without feeling.

“You'd have to wear a white shirt and a tie every day, like me,” Muller said.

“I guess I can handle that.”

“You'd have to learn the computer bookkeeping system.”

“I can handle that, too, even though my wife took care of that part of my old business.”

“You'll have to learn to buy materials, and I mean
negotiate
. You'll have to hire and fire—with my consent, of course—and you'll have to order machine parts and keep an eye on the salespeople. I've only got three, and they're all in the West. One of these days I'll have a shot at some Eastern markets, I guess.”

“I'll give it my best, Herman,” Jesse said.

“All right, you can start by picking out a foreman from your crew. Watch him for as long as you think necessary, and when you think he's ready, you put on that white shirt and tie and come on up here.”

Jesse stood up and stuck out his hand. “I really appreciate your confidence, Herman. I won't let you down.”

Muller shook his hand. “I don't believe you will, Jesse.”

Jesse turned to go.

“Oh, I guess we'd better talk money,” Muller said. “How's seven-fifty a week, to start?”

“That's fine with me, Herman.”

“Do a good job, and you'll get more.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Go on, get back to work. Your crew will be messing up, without you there.”

 

Jesse stopped on Main Street and bought a suit and some shirts before going home to Jenny. When he told her the news of his promotion she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the neck.

“Good Lord! You're setting records at Wood Products! Assistant manager!”

Jesse hugged her and savored the moment. He pushed away his past and tried to believe that he was just an honest working stiff who'd gotten a promotion.

“Why don't I take you and Carey out to dinner? We'll celebrate.”

“We'd love to! You wait, and I'll change my clothes and get Carey dressed up. We'll go to the Steak Shack, is that all right?”

“Fine with me,” he laughed. “I love a good steak.”

He watched her run up the stairs like a happy schoolgirl, and he felt happy himself.