The Concrete Pearl Read Online Free PDF Page A

rash of jobsite accidents. Which meant that if I ever hoped to pick up some of that redevelopment work, I would have to complete the PS 20 project without a single fuck up.
    But even that was no guarantee I’d suddenly be invited to the party.
    My participation in the Pearl Street Convention Center would ultimately have to be approved by Peter Marino personally (Again, go figure!). So, to let him in on my present crisis could very well mean pounding the final nail in the Harrison Construction coffin.
    Listen, maybe the final nail had already been pounded.
    If Marino had a TV in his office, he might already know about the asbestos leak at PS 20. That is, if a Johnny-on-the-spot reporter had gotten word of the disaster over the police scanner. He might know all about OSHA’s surprise inspection; about the entire adolescent-filled school being contaminated with the very asbestos fibers his son-in-law had been contracted to remove; and about General Contractor Ava “Spike” Harrison being ultimately responsible for it all.
     
    I entered Marino Construction through the front smoked glass doors.
    The empty vestibule was small, narrow. A couch was pushed up against the far wall. In front of it was a coffee table covered with old issues of National Geographic, Modern Builder, Concrete Contractor, Business Weekly. Some of the same rags I used to subscribe to back when I still had a real office. Above the couch hung a framed portrait of a far younger, thinner and apparently happier Marino than I was used to seeing on occasion now. He was standing beside his late, gray-haired father—my old man’s direct general contracting competition for many decades.
    To my right, a forty-something woman sat behind a window that had a small hole carved out of its center. The hole was for talking through.
    “Can we help you?” the woman said in a sing-song voice.
    She was a red-haired, white-faced woman. Maybe fifty pounds overweight. When she smiled her double-chin trembled like flesh-colored Jello.
    “My name is Spike Harrison,” I said.
    She just smiled at me, chins trembling, unnaturally happy for a Monday morning.
    “Spike Harrison of Harrison Construction,” I added.
    “Of course,” she said.
    Behind her reception desk I could make out the large interior office space. Two or three support staff occupied identical gray cubicles, all of them women as far as I could tell. Accounts payable and receivable for certain. Beyond the cubicles were the project manager’s offices. I knew that in all likelihood, Marino occupied one of them.
    I overheard a man talking…barking.
    The more I listened, the more I realized he was arguing with somebody. Standing behind the glass I distinctly heard, “Goddamnit, Tina, when I tell you I’m going to do something I damn well mean it and I don’t need an argument from you or anyone else.”
    I knew the whole office could hear him. The fact that they kept their heads down, noses to their computer screens told me they were more than a little used to Peter’s tantrums.
    Red the receptionist was still smiling like a chubby Joker, despite her boss’s outburst. She also held her gaze on me with wet eyes.
    I said, “Can I speak with Peter?”
    “Do we have an appointment?”
    “I don’t know about you,” I said. “But I definitely do not.”
    That’s when the death defying smile turned into a pout.
    “Mr. Marino is terribly occupied at the moment—”
    “—It concerns his son-in-law Jimmy Farrell,” I said. Then, cocking my thumb over my shoulder, “The Jimmy from next door?”
    She held that stare.
    “Jimmy’s doing a removal for me at Public School 20 and he appears to have disappeared…His whole office has been emptied out.”
    She pursed her lips.
    “Jimmy is married to Peter’s daughter Tina,” she smiled. “What a wonderful wedding they had at the country club.”
    I wanted to ball my fist through the glass and grab her by the chins. But then a head turtled itself out from the