"Empire" by Frank Vatel

from TIGHTROPE: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series

“…for Jacob Nowak, who was given the promise of eternal life in Baptism…”

Whenever a spider-man goes home to the lord, there’s always a prayer next day. Priest comes up the main shaft about seven-thirty and we all circle around.

First time it happened, a kid named Tedesco, we paid our respects proper and solemn. Thinking it was a fluke he slipped on that scaffold. Thinking there wouldn’t be no more.

Now it’s five and counting. Ozzy says the novelty’s worn off.

As the priest talks, I see a man wandering the platform. Tall and raw-boned in fresh coveralls. The greenhorn, I think.

Sure enough. After the circle breaks, Ozzy brings him over.

“This here’s Anson,” he says. “Starrett’s people sent him. He’ll be our fourth till Carmine gets well.”

He introduces Fran, then turns to me. “This is my brother Zeke. You’ll be working with him, mostly. Don’t expect much conversation. He’s dumb as a post.”

The greenhorn stares me down. Lots of folk stare at me, but his eyes are different. Strange, unblinking. Reminds me of something unhappy, but I can’t place it.

“Where you cook before this?” Fran asks.

“My old man’s crew,” says the greenhorn. “He’s a contractor up Woodside.”

Fran trades a glance with Ozzy. “Any high steel?” he asks.

“Park Row building. Some maintenance.”

This is good enough for Ozzy, who’s under pressure and wants the greenhorn set up fast. He takes him round to the stove, leaving Fran and me with our coffee.

“What do you make of him?” Fran asks.

I purse my lips and shrug.

Fran don’t mind I’m dumb. He’s Italian, and Ozzy says nothing stops their kind from talking, least of all a fella who can’t answer.

“You know he’s lying about Park Row,” Fran says. “It ain’t had repairs since twenty-two.”

He lights a smoke and studies my chagrin, snorting in amusement.

“Don’t fret, Zeke. We all gotta start somewhere.”

***

The first one nearly clips my leg. It’s all I can do to scoop it on the bounce so it don’t burn through the platform.

Ozzy always says a real man don’t apologize. I reckon the greenhorn concurs. He’s already back at the fire, cooking the next one.

I deliver the piece, expecting Ozzy or Fran to mention what happened. But they’re busy securing the beam. Fran extracts the hot rivet from my bucket and presents it to Ozzy, who nods his approval and fires up the gun.

Maybe it’s for the best they didn’t see. No reason for a greenhorn to catch trouble for something that’s my fault. Catcher’s job is to bring the cook along, teach him to throw—slow and easy, with a nice arc. But I can’t teach nobody.

Back at the stove, it’s more of the same. The second and third ones come at me just like the first—low and fast.

The fourth one tags my shoe and skips off the platform. The stink of branded leather reaches my nose.

This time, Fran speaks up.

“What’s say we keep it waist-level, Anson? Give old Zeke a fighting chance.”

Fran whispers something to my brother, who sets down his tool and watches us for the first time. This distracts me just long enough. When I turn around, there ain’t no time to react. The incoming rivet puts me square on my ass.

Draped over a length of steel and miles of air, I freeze. The greenhorn’s stare burns through me like a flame, same as before. Only now it’s floating above a murderer’s grin.

Suddenly it all comes back to me. Ozzy and me, the farm, the bloodhounds. Daddy laying into those dumb creatures with boots and belts, wringing their necks, eyes glowing with a wicked pleasure I hoped never to see again.

But I was seeing it now.

Fran knows about my nerves. He rushes over and slaps me gentle on the face. Then he props me up northeast so I can see my favorite tower. Already I feel calmer.

The Chrysler looks nice this time of day—the crown and spire picking up the sun, winking at us from Lexington. We met Fran and Carmine on that build. Thirty-two months. No deaths.

This one’s going up a lot faster. Ozzy says it’s gotta be that way—there won’t be no tenants in thirty-two months. Just breadlines and nervous breakdowns.

***

It’s almost lunchtime, so we’re winding down. Ozzy supervises the greenhorn as he puts out the fire.

“You like this work, Anson?”

“Fourteen a day ain’t nothing to sniff at.”

“No, it ain’t,” Ozzy says, lighting a smoke and turning to admire the views. “But that ain’t the best part.”

The greenhorn sets down his tongs. “What’s the best part?”

“You got lunch?”

“I saw a commissary down there.”

Ozzy shakes his head, jabbing the cigarette toward Fran and me. “These two knuckleheads can fetch our sandwiches. Meantime, I’ll show you how we take our coffee and smokes up here. You ain’t seen nothing like it, I promise.”

He offers a cigarette. After thinking a moment, the greenhorn takes it.

Across the platform, another team is finishing up. Ozzy stuffs two bills in Fran’s pocket. “Take Freddy’s gang with you. Tell him lunch is on me.”

He pats my cheek. Fran lays an arm on my shoulder, leading me away.

***

Going down in the lift, everybody’s talking up the Canzoneri fight. Dooley says he’s got a sawbuck on Kid Chocolate, but nobody believes him.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I stick my head out the window.

There they are. Ozzy and the greenhorn, high above us on a beam. Watching the heavens. Getting smaller and smaller as we drop. A line and two dots, suspended in light.

The wind riffles my hair and I feel all my agitation leaking out. I’m sleepy now.

My eyes shut.

Then I hear it. A whistle past my ear, like God blowing out a flame.

My eyes open.

A line. One dot.

---

Frank Vatel is a writer and freelance illustrator whose work has appeared in Punk Noir Magazine, All Due Respect, Bristol Noir, and Reckon Review. He spends far too much time discussing crime fiction and old movies on social media and is currently penning a noir novel set during the Depression. He lives with his wife in a rapidly deteriorating apartment in Chicago. He can be found on X (@Vatel1675) and Bluesky (@frankvatel312.bsky.social).