Read Online The Concrete Pearl by Vincent Zandri - Free Book Online
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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air or when it’s hurting your lungs. It’s got no odor, no taste, no feel, nothing to let you know that the air your breathing is tainted with death.”
I heard the sound of Tommy shuffling through some notes, the Lanies jukebox going in the background.
“There’s something called a latency period,” he went on. “All asbestos diseases have this latency period that’s more or less a gap between the time you suck in asbestos fibers and the time you start feeling sick …The latency period can be as short as a few months or as long as like thirty years.”
My stomach dropped.
“So there could be any number of sick PS 20 kids or faculty as we speak.”
“And here’s where it gets way worse,” Tommy added. “All asbestos cancers and diseases are not only real hard to treat, they’re near impossible to treat. They’re also impossible to cure.”
“Impossible,” I said like a question.
“You remember that song back in the seventies, ‘Werewolves in London?’”
“’ His hair was perfect ,’” I quoted.
“The guy who sang that song, Warren Zevon…he died of meso…”
“Mesothlioma,” I pronounced for him again.
“Meso-whatever-the-fuck…Anyway, Zevon dies decades after spending too much time in his grandparent’s asbestos insulation-filled attic writing songs… Steve McQueen bought the farm over it too after only a three month exposure in his old L.A. townhouse…Three freakin’ months, Spike!”
I took a moment to breathe.
I wasn’t sure if what I felt was more rage at Farrell or outright fear for those kids who attended an asbestos contaminated school all year long, never mind three months.
“What’s next, chief?”
“I’m heading to Dott’s Garage in Saratoga. I have a hunch Farrell’s Beemer was towed there over the weekend.”
“Whaddaya expect to find inside it?”
“Maybe a detailed itinerary describing the golden boy’s destination, including phone and fax numbers.”
“Very funny.”
“Can you tell I’m pretty much just making this up as I go?”
“Beats the alternative.”
“What’s that?”
“Suckin’ up the entire blame for something you didn’t do.”
Chapter 12
Driving east on my way out of the open farm country towards Saratoga Springs and Dott’s Garage. Maybe it had something to do with the rise in anxiety level. But as the surrounding green fields faded and the suburbs took over, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing Jordan, my husband of five short years. Saratoga had been one of Jordan’s favorite places, especially in August during the Thoroughbred racing season.
We’d first met at Harrison Construction ten years ago…
As the senior project manager, I’m responsible for overseeing the entire team of project managers, which at the time includes Diana Stewart. Jordan is new to the Harrison team. He’s been hired by my father as a senior supervisor. It’s his responsibility to visit every jobsite making sure that everything from excavation to framing to roofing is progressing steadily and according to schedule.
It’s not long before I learn that Jordan is not the kind of man to sit idly at a desk inside the Harrison Construction offices. When he isn’t working, he’s running cross-country. When he isn’t running, he’s lifting weights. When he isn’t lifting weights, he’s hiking or fly fishing or playing guitar.
He stands five feet eight, maybe one-hundred-seventy-five pounds. Who is taller depends upon whether or not I wear flats or heels.
But somehow, Jordan exudes confidence.
He is covered in muscle. And I do not hesitate to refer to him as “muscle head” from time to time. It’s a term of affection which always makes him stick his tongue out at me from between thick lips accented with trimmed mustache and goatee. But it’s not the muscle or the energy or the Marlboro Man image that attracts me most to Jordan.
The little things make me love him.
The way he bites his bottom lip when in deep
I heard the sound of Tommy shuffling through some notes, the Lanies jukebox going in the background.
“There’s something called a latency period,” he went on. “All asbestos diseases have this latency period that’s more or less a gap between the time you suck in asbestos fibers and the time you start feeling sick …The latency period can be as short as a few months or as long as like thirty years.”
My stomach dropped.
“So there could be any number of sick PS 20 kids or faculty as we speak.”
“And here’s where it gets way worse,” Tommy added. “All asbestos cancers and diseases are not only real hard to treat, they’re near impossible to treat. They’re also impossible to cure.”
“Impossible,” I said like a question.
“You remember that song back in the seventies, ‘Werewolves in London?’”
“’ His hair was perfect ,’” I quoted.
“The guy who sang that song, Warren Zevon…he died of meso…”
“Mesothlioma,” I pronounced for him again.
“Meso-whatever-the-fuck…Anyway, Zevon dies decades after spending too much time in his grandparent’s asbestos insulation-filled attic writing songs… Steve McQueen bought the farm over it too after only a three month exposure in his old L.A. townhouse…Three freakin’ months, Spike!”
I took a moment to breathe.
I wasn’t sure if what I felt was more rage at Farrell or outright fear for those kids who attended an asbestos contaminated school all year long, never mind three months.
“What’s next, chief?”
“I’m heading to Dott’s Garage in Saratoga. I have a hunch Farrell’s Beemer was towed there over the weekend.”
“Whaddaya expect to find inside it?”
“Maybe a detailed itinerary describing the golden boy’s destination, including phone and fax numbers.”
“Very funny.”
“Can you tell I’m pretty much just making this up as I go?”
“Beats the alternative.”
“What’s that?”
“Suckin’ up the entire blame for something you didn’t do.”
Chapter 12
Driving east on my way out of the open farm country towards Saratoga Springs and Dott’s Garage. Maybe it had something to do with the rise in anxiety level. But as the surrounding green fields faded and the suburbs took over, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing Jordan, my husband of five short years. Saratoga had been one of Jordan’s favorite places, especially in August during the Thoroughbred racing season.
We’d first met at Harrison Construction ten years ago…
As the senior project manager, I’m responsible for overseeing the entire team of project managers, which at the time includes Diana Stewart. Jordan is new to the Harrison team. He’s been hired by my father as a senior supervisor. It’s his responsibility to visit every jobsite making sure that everything from excavation to framing to roofing is progressing steadily and according to schedule.
It’s not long before I learn that Jordan is not the kind of man to sit idly at a desk inside the Harrison Construction offices. When he isn’t working, he’s running cross-country. When he isn’t running, he’s lifting weights. When he isn’t lifting weights, he’s hiking or fly fishing or playing guitar.
He stands five feet eight, maybe one-hundred-seventy-five pounds. Who is taller depends upon whether or not I wear flats or heels.
But somehow, Jordan exudes confidence.
He is covered in muscle. And I do not hesitate to refer to him as “muscle head” from time to time. It’s a term of affection which always makes him stick his tongue out at me from between thick lips accented with trimmed mustache and goatee. But it’s not the muscle or the energy or the Marlboro Man image that attracts me most to Jordan.
The little things make me love him.
The way he bites his bottom lip when in deep
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