Backward-Facing Man Page 15

  “What about the truck?” Rahim asked.

  “Take it to the Automall,” he said. “Talk to Mario.” Chuck looked around the office. He moved his hand and touched his mouth as if he was going to say something, but changed his mind. Harvey didn’t know exactly what was going on, but he felt really bad. Forty-five hundred bucks wasn’t gonna get a guy very far. “What’s with Artie?” Harvey asked. “Anybody hear from him yet?”

  Rahim cleared his throat and looked away.

  “What are you talking about?” Chuck said.

  Harvey looked at him with a sad expression. “Nothing,” he said, turning away. “Call me if you need anything, man.”

  Owing to the ease of video duplication and Coleman Porter’s ego, the interview of Arthur Puckman implicating his brother for the near-fatal injury of Ramon Gutierrez had already appeared a dozen times in at least three bars in Kensington. By Sunday, AP and Reuters had picked up the story, and pictures of EPA trucks and men in moon suits were plastered all over the Internet. A couple of environmental groups focused on the incident and issued statements critical of American business for ruining the environment.

  Chuck hadn’t heard any of this yet, but Harvey asking about his brother worried him. Chuck knew Artie would construe the Gutierrez accident as a disaster, which might easily cause him to do something stupid. Leaving Big Harvey’s, Chuck wanted to find Artie right away, warn him about the investigation, tell him to keep his mouth shut, and assure him that they would find a good lawyer soon who would make the mess disappear. He had Rahim park the Suburban on Washington Avenue and walk up Tenth Street with him to the tiny row house where, more than fifty years ago, the brothers had been born.

  Regina Puckman cracked open the door and glared at them. She had deep creases in her face and dark circles around her eyes. “Finally,” she said, when she recognized her son. “Where the fuck have you been?” Rahim and Chuck followed her up the staircase into an apartment that smelled as if a window hadn’t been opened in years. Regina took a seat in the kitchen. Steam evaporated from some kind of bubbling concoction. A fluorescent light flickered overhead. The radio was so loud the only evidence that the old woman was talking was that her lips were moving. Chuck stood in the doorway. Mother and son didn’t smile, didn’t touch, didn’t look each other in the eye. After a few seconds, Rahim slid his hand across the counter and turned the radio down.

  “Hanging around with Puerto Ricans now, are you?” the old woman said, reaching for a teabag.

  “Where is he?” Chuck asked, his voice shaking. It was the same question his mother had been asking him about Artie all his life.

  “If you’d been here Saturday when he came home, maybe he wouldn’t be missing now.”

  “What do you mean missing? Since when?”

  “He came in late Saturday night with some rough-looking character who looked like a longshoreman. Big guy—red hair, freckles, a beard, glasses. Arthur fixed me my drink and then the two of them went into his bedroom. When I woke up Sunday, he was gone.”

  “Has he called?” Chuck asked.

  “If you’d have treated him better, maybe he’d be there with you, helping you outta this mess you’re in—”

  “It’s important, Ma. It’s not just me. Artie might be in trouble.”

  “Of course he’s in trouble. The pressure he was under. And your father paid him nothing!”

  Chuck left Rahim and his mother in the kitchen. In the hallway were pen-and-ink drawings of old Italy and photographs of Regina’s family that had hung there so long the images had faded or had been covered with dust. Artie’s twin bed had a wooden headboard and a navy blue quilt with yellow muskets. There were matching lamps with soldiers at attention on a wooden night table, a brown dresser with big yellow knobs, and a small writing desk that looked as if it’d been lifted from an elementary school. The only items in plain view were a Bible and a porcelain serpent curling up from a dish, which held paper clips, cuff links, and a ring containing Artie’s office keys.

  Chuck opened the night-table drawer. There was a checkbook with detailed entries ending last week: $16.47 to a stamp collector Artie had been buying from for thirty years, $42.95 to Bell Atlantic, $10 to a coffee shop on the corner, and $50 to a company called Culver City Costumes. The dresser was empty, except for the top drawer, which had receipts going back at least a few years, and beneath them, Artie’s address book and copies of utility bills. There were no plane tickets, no scribbled notes with telephone or flight numbers. Chuck got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. No suitcase either. And the closet was empty except for two long-sleeved shirts, a pair of overalls, and a thermal undershirt. No underwear. No socks.

  “Charles!” he heard his mother call from the kitchen.

  In the medicine chest were prescription bottles, tweezers, cotton swabs, and a couple of Fleet enemas. Chuck tapped a few Valium into his palm, shoved them in his pocket, and turned off the light. “Charles,” she said again as he returned to the kitchen. She touched a large brooch hanging around her neck and looked up at him sadly. “If he calls, tell him to come home,” she pleaded. There was a tiny tic in her shoulder, a shred of disingenuousness that, at the time, Chuck attributed to anger—toward him, toward his father, toward all of mankind.

  Rahim parked the Suburban on a side street. Chuck stuffed the cash in the front of his pants, put on his sunglasses, and walked to the side entrance of the factory. At the top of the stairs, he surveyed the yard. Pigeons lined the eaves. Generations of birds bred for arrogance roosted on the property. Many times, he’d imagined shooting them with a .22, then listening as their little bodies landed with thuds on the asphalt. The white vans were back, and the maroon LTD was parked next to a white Ford. Quietly, he let himself in. In the time it took him to open the freezer, empty some ice cubes into a glass, and fix himself a drink, there was a knock on the door.

  Chuck shut the freezer and leaned his forehead against a color Xerox of his daughter, Ivy, on horseback. The knocks came again. “Mr. Puckman,” a voice said. “Mr. Puckman, we know you’re in there.” Chuck thought about his fish. It had been more than twenty-four hours since he’d fed them. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” a voice said.

  Chuck tiptoed to the tank and stared at the bubbles from the aerator. Soon, it would be time to add water. He picked up the bottles one by one—dried worm casings, flecks of plankton, and dried algae—tapping them against the glass. Each one drew different fish in a specific order. It amazed him that they recognized their food from the tapping of the bottles. Chuck laid food on the surface in three separate areas. The knocking continued. He crossed the living room, took the envelope of cash from his pants, and slipped it into a corner of the elevator shaft. Then he opened the red door.

  Standing there was a smallish older man, with white hair, large glasses, and a neatly trimmed mustache. “Cyril Deacon,” he said, sticking out his hand, “regional inspector, Occupational Safety and Health.” He wore a rumpled gray suit and a crimson bow tie. Behind him was Keaton with his arms crossed. “Can we come in?”

  “No.” It was a simple expression of will.

  “We just need a few minutes of your time.” It was Keaton behind him, trying to sound collegial.

  “I don’t think so.” Chuck moved to close the door.

  “If you’d be more comfortable, we’ll wait for you downstairs,” Deacon said.

  According to Fat Eddie and every bit of legal advice Chuck had ever received, it was best to avoid talking to your adversaries without a lawyer. This particular day, however, Chuck felt it would be helpful to smoke out the government’s position as early as he could. Provided he was cagey enough, it could save him legal fees. Besides, OSHA inspectors were bureaucrats, not prosecutors. He told them he’d think about it and shut the door.

  “Take your time,” Deacon said from outside.

  From his jacket pocket, Chuck took two Valium and washed them down with his drink. Ten minutes later, he made his way slow
ly downstairs.

  The factory floor was cluttered with the remnants of jobs in process: cut angle iron and sheets of Plexiglas. The men in the moon suits had again made a huge mess, clearing a two-foot-wide strip from the tanks to the back of the plant. Overhead, lights and gas-fired heaters were full on, something neither Charlie nor Artie would have tolerated. It was a strange feeling for Chuck to walk through the shop and feel warmth in the winter. The EPA man stood in the doorway of the office watching him approach. “Last I heard,” Chuck said as he entered, “there was this thing called private property.”

  “You want to see the search warrant?” Keaton said evenly.

  “I just want to run my business….”

  The bathroom door opened, and the older man stepped into the office area. He wiped his hands on a paper towel and extended a box of doughnuts to Chuck, who declined. Cyril Deacon lifted the coffeepot and began pouring. “The floor here is rather sticky,” he said to no one in particular. Chuck was glad they weren’t upstairs, sitting knee to knee in his living room. Tropical fish had subtle sensory capabilities—they could detect changes in a room—temperature, nervous energy, a vibe. They knew when something was awry. An angelfish had died one night when a woman Chuck brought home flipped out. Besides, he didn’t need these guys poking around his prescription pill bottles and his ashtrays with little reefer stubs.

  Cyril Deacon pulled a couple of chairs from behind the desks and arranged them so that he was sitting with his back to the shop. He smiled as he did this, an old man observing some kind of etiquette that nobody practiced anymore. Then he laid a paper towel across his lap. Keaton pulled his chair a little bit back and away. The older man smiled sheepishly again and looked admiringly at his doughnut. “I’d like to start things off by saying that this is just a friendly talk, a couple of professionals trying to get to the bottom of things.” He took a bite and chewed slowly. “We look at this as an opportunity for you to help us, although you’re under no obligation to do so. All we’re asking you to do is answer our questions truthfully. The sooner you do, well, the sooner you can get back to your business.” He opened the folder in his lap and smacked his lips, as if the two men had shown up at a parent-teacher conference. “This stuff, 1,1,1 trichloroethylene. What can you tell us about it?”

  Chuck shrugged. “Nothing.”

  “1,1,1 TCE,” Deacon repeated, as if Chuck hadn’t heard him the first time.

  “I’ve never heard of it. Sorry,” Chuck said, shrugging.

  Keaton shifted in his chair. “Tell me about cleaning metal, Mr. Puckman,” Deacon said cheerfully.

  “Tell you what?”

  “Why is it necessary, how do you go about doing it, that kind of thing.” Deacon folded his arms, as if he was really pleased to be having this conversation.

  “You have to clean it before you paint it,” Chuck said, pretty sure Deacon knew exactly what was involved. “Otherwise, you get bubbles under the surface, and it looks like shit.”

  “How do you do it?”

  Chuck leaned back in his chair. Keaton had obviously briefed the OSHA inspector on the tanks and Puckman’s methods.

  “You could sandblast, etch, or dip it. Shit, you probably know better than I do, Mr., uh…”

  “Deacon,” the inspector said. “Cyril Deacon.” He pulled a business card from his front pocket.

  “Look, I’m just the sales guy,” Chuck told them. Cyril Deacon smiled again. Keaton stood up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He opened the refrigerator next to the safe, looking for milk.

  “I understand you’re primarily involved in sales,” Deacon continued. “But perhaps you know more than you realize.”

  “We used to hang the sub-assemblies from hooks on a track that lined up over the tanks. You’d press a button and the pieces dipped….” Chuck made a gesture with his hands.

  “Into the tanks,” Deacon said.

  “But we don’t do that anymore.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “So what do you do?”

  “We use chemicals.”

  “Can you tell us what kind of chemical was in tank number four?”

  “Some kind of caustic etch. Water. Alkaline. Honestly, I don’t know.”

  “What exactly is your role here at Puckman Security?”

  “Like I said, sales, pretty much.” Chuck looked around the room as Cyril Deacon shuffled his papers.

  “Who’s in charge of production?”

  “We don’t have fancy titles, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Who tells your workers what to make when?” It was Keaton again, aggressive.

  “Our guys have been with us a long time. They kind of figure things out,” Chuck said, smiling. The questions were easy. Even though he was tired, with the vodka and the Valium in him, Chuck was able to relax. He was confident he would be able to see trouble coming one or two questions ahead. “How long is this going to take, anyway? I’ve got a meeting with my lawyer.” Keaton looked up from his coffee.

  “Just a few more questions, Mr. Puckman,” Deacon said. “Can you tell us who built the tanks?” He sounded like a guy admiring his neighbor’s shed.

  Chuck laughed. “Sorry. Way before my time.”

  “Whose design are they?”

  Chuck laughed again. “They look designed to you?”

  “I mean, who decided how big to make them,” Deacon asked, “where to place them, what kinds of chemicals to put in, where to put the heating elements?”

  “You’d have to ask my dad that,” Chuck said, thinking how much fun that would be—these two guys sitting on the old man’s bed watching him drool. Deacon smiled, too, now. It was a regular smile fest. Chuck’s face was beginning to hurt.

  “Yes, yes,” Deacon said, clearing his throat. “At a certain point,” he tried again, “you stopped using the tanks.”

  Chuck stared at him, waiting for the question, but none came. “Like I said, you’d have to ask my father.” Then, thinking about what motivated Charlie Puckman Sr., he said, “It probably had to do with cost.”

  “To save money?”

  “I guess.”

  “Did it work?”

  Chuck shrugged his shoulders. “Business continued. Nobody complained.”

  “So,” Keaton said, “how come in, uh…mid-November, you guys refilled tank four and started using it again?”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about it,” Chuck said, folding his arms.

  Deacon wrote something down again. “Whose idea was it?” he asked.

  “Whaddya mean, whose idea?”

  “To begin cleaning…”

  “The power goes out in your house. Who decides to light candles? You just do it.”

  For the first time, Cyril Deacon frowned, as if Chuck, by losing his patience, was being unsporting. Keaton spoke next in a voice that was barely above a whisper. “Somebody had to pick a chemical, Mr. Puckman. Somebody had to place an order. Somebody had to fill the tank.” They were both staring at him now. “Was that somebody you?” Any semblance of casualness that Cyril Deacon had tried to invoke was gone.

  “No,” he said, looking away.

  “Are you saying no to making the decision, or no to picking the chemical, or no to placing the order?” Keaton asked. Chuck had the impression that Cyril Deacon liked pretending he was a slightly senile paper pusher with no clout, and that Keaton, despite his officious manner, endless inspections, reports, and citations, was determined to trap him.

  “Anything you could tell us would be extremely helpful,” Deacon reminded him, his voice slightly higher now.

  Chuck folded his arms. “I don’t remember.”

  “If you didn’t order it, who did?”

  “I’m not going there, guys.” The old man was out of reach, but he wasn’t about to betray his own brother, especially not this early in the inquiry.

  Cyril Deacon put his hands out in front of him and leaned back. “In most businesses, purchases have to be accepted. S
omebody signs a packing slip. Sometimes there’s an invoice. In your company, who was in charge of receiving?”

  “My dad.”

  “And who decided where to put supplies?”

  “What’s to decide? You put them where there’s room.”

  “So how did this particular degreaser wind up in tank four?” Cyril Deacon was smiling again.

  “I don’t know.”

  Keaton riffled through a stack of papers until he found the one he wanted. “Is this your handwriting, Mr. Puckman?” Chuck squinted at the letters on the page. The word received was written—misspelled—in cursive; the date 11/18/98, underneath.

  “Nope.”

  Keaton thrust another piece of paper at Chuck, obscuring the top and presenting only a scrawl at the bottom. “How about this?” he asked Chuck.

  It was one of Artie’s to-do lists with the words prep tank highlighted. Chuck shook his head no. It could have been that the word prep was the first part of a compound word, a noun, or a verb.

  “It’s not my writing.”

  “Well, whoever’s it is, we’d like to talk to them,” Deacon said calmly.

  Deacon leaned forward in his chair, hovering over the paper. Keaton’s breath was sour and the veins in his neck were pulsing. Chuck could tell that the agents were pissed, but by then, the businessman had clammed up.

  Since they’d been little boys, Chuck had come to an accommodation with his older brother. As often as he sat on the sidelines, watching Artie self-destruct, Chuck assiduously avoided actually causing or facilitating it. This was, for the early part of his life anyway, his experience of love; no matter how irritated or disdainful of someone you were, family members never practiced anything worse than benign indifference. Even now, with his own ass in a sling, Chuck was unable to be the agent of his brother’s demise.

  “I gotta go,” Chuck said, standing.

  Cyril Deacon raised the index finger on his right hand. “You’re the president of Puckman Security, right?” the older man said.