Rivethead - Ben Hamper [105]
And goddamnit all, it did. RINNNNNNG! RINNNNNNNG! It was a Monday night. I was sitting around my apartment watching a game and eatin’ a pizza. Schobel and I had been working the scheme for a few months without the slightest hitch. The world was our Slinky. Then, the phone call. Hell's own jingle bells. RINNNNNNG! RINNNNNNNG! I got up and answered it.
It was Schobel. He was talking low and fast, “Ben, I'm sorry about this, but you have to get back to the department RIGHT NOW! I'm afraid we're in deep shit.”
All at once it hit me. Something terribly wrong had happened. This wasn't any lousy Henry Jackson headcount. This was real disaster. PAUL SCHOBEL WAS TALKING TO ME! How could Paul be talking to me and still be covering our jobs?
“Paul, where the hell are you?” I screamed.
“I'm down in the plant hospital. I told ‘em I had to call my wife. They're running me over to McLaren Hospital for surgery on my arm.”
Instead of asking Paul how he was doing or how badly he was hurt, the humanitarian in me opted to blurt: “SHIT, WHO THE FUCK IS DOING OUR JOBS?”
“Gotta go now, honey.” The meat wagon must've arrived. “Do what I asked. Love you.”
I drove with my knee and dressed like a contortionist. I blew through three red lights and screeched into the No Parking zone at the plant gate. I sprinted past the guards and time clocks and raced up the stairs to the Rivet Line. I attempted to walk leisurely to my job. I doubt I was fooling anyone.
Al and one of the spare utility men were covering our jobs. Al looked at me with what appeared to be a mixture of woesome pity and brooding contempt. The message was clear: I was a cooked rat, I was thoroughly doomed, I was popular as a leper, and I had better concoct one helluva spiel mighty quickly.
I grabbed my gun and waved them off. “Where's Gino?” I mumbled to Al.
“He's still down in the hospital,” he said.
“Has Jackson been around?”
“Haven't seen him since before lunch.”
Eddie wandered down. “Shit, Ben, I ain't ever seen so much blood in my life. It was shootin’ straight outta Paul's wrist like a gusher. They mopped most of it up but there's still some down there if you wanna check it out. Damn, blood was flyin’ everywhere. It looked like a damn shark attack. The funny part is that Paul never said as much as ouch. He just—”
Per usual, Jehan's dope had woven its way deep into Ed's skull. “Fuck all that, you weed-suckin’ ghoul. I don't want to hear about the mess. Just tell me what HAPPENED!”
“It went down fast. Paul was puttin’ a military cross member up on the frame and the bitch slipped off. Paul caught the skid right across the wrist. Took it right to the bone. When they picked up the cross member, the skid plate still had a chunk of Paul's skin hangin’ off it.”
This certainly wasn't the time to go pointin’ blame, yet I found myself steamed over the cause of the accident. From what Eddie had described, I knew exactly what had happened. Paul had been guilty of making a very stupid and dangerous blunder. I had seen him pull this stunt before and pleaded with him to knock it off. The rule was this: when a cross member begins to slip or tilt off the frame, let it fall! DO NOT TRY TO CATCH IT! Tryin’ to grab hold of a military cross member as it tumbled off the frame was as bright as reachin’ for a runnin’ chainsaw. Unfortunately, Paul couldn't help himself. It was a reflex thing. The cross member would slip and he'd play fetch. For this error in judgment, my partner was now at McLaren General Hospital having his arm reassembled.
The part I was really dreading was now on its way. Down the aisle I could