Ian Slater - Warshot

While Lenore was trying to convey something of what it had meant to their son, Johnny recalled the time he had been pinned for hours by a fall in one of the riser tunnels that led up to the street and the manhole covers that millions of New Yorkers walked over daily without a thought of the unseen world that kept their seeing world going. He wondered, too, about his future. The question of how many of the workers would be kept on hadn’t been settled — or rather, that’s what the union had been told. Ferrago and his friends, however, believed that the city officials already knew who’d be kept on, but not wanting to precipitate any “job action” that might mar the opening celebration, hadn’t yet released the information. What they did know was that because of the war there’d been a lot of talk about cutting the completion ceremonies to a bare minimum: the mayor, a few local politicians, the police band, and that’d be it. But the mayor had overridden any such cutbacks, arguing, with unexpected support from the Post and the Times, that it was precisely because of the war that a very public celebration of America’s industrial know-how and determination, evidenced in the world’s largest tunnel, should be held. It would demonstrate once again, especially to the Siberians, that this was a “can-do” nation whose role as the “arsenal and foundry” of democracy could surmount industrial and logistical problems that would have confounded most others.

“There must be fifty people up there,” commented Lenore, indicating the dais through the thicket of heads in front of her. “There’s even an admiral. What’s he in charge of — they sail boats in the tunnel?”

“Matter of fact, they do,” Johnny answered. “Little prop-driven TV robot jobs. Push through all the crap and take pictures of any fractures ‘fore they get a chance to get any bigger and blow. Those gases build up and that baby explodes, those brokers in Wall Street are gonna get more than their ankles wet, I can tell you. Stock exchange’d be goddamned swamped.”

“Daddy, you shouldn’t say that—”

“Yeah, sorry, Lindy.”

“So what’s the admiral—” began Lenore, her voice drowned out by the throaty roar of a V formation of Harley-Davidsons, the mayor’s limo drawing to a halt in front of the dais, the serious men with the shades, despite the pale winter light, on either side of him looking hard beyond the line of uniformed policemen at the tape.

“How come you’re not up there, Daddy?” Linda called out.

“They’re VDs, stupid,” said Danny. A Sousa march crashed into the air.

“What?” said Johnny, straining down to hear Danny, and seeing Lenore laughing so hard she looked like she’d fall down.

“He means VIPs!” she explained.

“Jesus,” said Johnny. “I hope so.”

“Don’t call me stupid!” said Linda, bending toward Danny so that Johnny had to take a quick, jerking step forward to keep his balance.

Johnny saw Lenore standing on her toes, waving, calling out to someone. “Johnny — it’s Mike Ricardo. Thought they weren’t going to come… Over here, Mike!” Ricardo, a small, wiry man, made his way through the crowd, his New York Yankees cap lost from view now and then as the crowd moved forward, someone saying something about a movie star. Johnny and Lenore had got to know Mike and Betty Ricardo when both men had been working on the Bronx section of number three.

“Hiya, Johnny!” called Ricardo.

“Hey, Mike. What’s the story — thought you and the missus were gonna watch Notre Dame?”

“Nah. Betty says I got square eyes already. So what the hell? Figured I’d give her a day out.”

“Big deal,” said Lenore.

Ricardo grinned. “She’s havin’ a ball. Stuffing herself with candy floss.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the dais. “I think she’s got a thing for the mayor.”

Lenore shook her head. Mike always had an answer.

“Listen, Johnny—” Ricardo started, but had to repeat himself; the band was killing Sousa with the base drum. “You want to come over to Pete’s place after, for a few beers?”

Johnny nodded toward Lenore. “Have to check with the boss here.”

“Pete’s looking at a Camaro,” cut in Ricardo, indicating a copy of the Post classifieds. “Wants us to give it the once-over.”

“Before or after the beers?” Lenore sighed.

“Well, you know…” said Ricardo, grinning.

“Yeah,” she said resignedly, “I do. Well,” she turned to Johnny, her elbow pressing his, “be home by midnight.”

“Yeah,” he replied, but it was said as if he hadn’t really heard. The truth was, he was in shock. The ad for the Camaro was the tip-off for another ad in the Personals:

Man in early thirties desires live-in companion. Sexual preference not important. Must like cats and be prepared to share household chores. No Republicans.

He’d been waiting so long that now it was here, he suddenly felt he was no longer ready. “Yeah,” he answered. “No problem.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” began one of the politicians, a Democratic representative for New York. “It’s my pleasure and privilege to introduce you to—”

“I can’t see,” grumbled Danny.

After all the waiting — all the years — it took only three hours to answer the ad, to drive up to the Hillsview Reservoir.

When Johnny returned that evening, he was in a hell of a mood, and they were saying there’d been more power “outs” at Con Ed. So he knew everyone had been working, that the ad had been the signal for all of them.

“Danny!” yelled Johnny Ferrago, his shadow enormous in the candlelit kitchen. “Get away from there!”

Young Danny jumped back from the kitchen sink and, despite a brave effort, began crying. “I forgot.”

“Well don’t. What’d I tell you in the car?”

“I forgot,” repeated Danny, now clinging to his mother, who drew him close.

“Lay off, Johnny,” she told him. “He just forgot. What’s the big panic anyway? You said you’d turned off all the water.”

Johnny rose, picked up the cup Danny had been about to use and put it in the dishwasher. “There’s still water in the pipes.”

“I thought you said you ran it out?”

“You can’t run it all out. Besides, from what they say on che radio, one drop’d be enough to kill you.”

“How come they don’t know how to fix it quicker?” complained Lenore. “Last time some idiot poisoned the water, they—”

“Because, last time was just peanuts,” snapped Johnny, his metaphors going to hell with his temper. “Car radio says this time it’s much bigger. Poured it over the spillways, apparently. So I don’t want any of you going anywhere near taps. And Danny — stop your goddamn blubbering!”

“Why can’t we use the toilet, Daddy?” asked Linda.

“Because you can’t flush it, that’s why,” Johnny told her gruffly, pouring himself another scotch — putting in a dash of the bottled mineral water.

“I don’t like using that poopy seat,” said Linda, referring to the portable camper toilet in the basement. “It’s scary down there.”

“And how come Con Ed’s on the fritz again?” said Lenore.

Johnny ignored her, turning to Linda. “Tell Mummy when you want to go down,” he said. “You can use the big flashlight — that’s what it’s there for.” His tone continued to be gruff, angry at his own bad temper but unable to rein it in. “It won’t be for long,” he said. “You all right, Danny?”

“No. I’m thirsty.”

“Come over here,” Johnny told him, and gave him a glass of the bottled water. “There y’are.” Danny gulped the water. “Taste good?” inquired Johnny in a conciliatory tone.