Gregg Hurwitz: You're Next

An import from Uruguay, Andrés was finally applying for naturalization and had become a walking repository of obscure U.S. trivia.

Mike said, ‘I’ve heard they called him Martin Luther King.’

‘That what I say, matey.’

They headed up the slope into the heart of the planned community. The forty houses, framing a parklike sprawl of grass in the canyon’s dip, stretched up the slope on either side, rising in altitude and sticker price. At first glance they looked like ordinary houses, but closer inspection revealed bioswales for storm-drain runoff, roofs scaled with photovoltaic cells and breathing with vegetation, vitrified-clay pipes instead of nondegradable, toxin-leaking PVC. Even with all that, the houses had barely squeaked by to get the coveted Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design green certification. But they had, and now, aside from some final electrical and trim work and a few cosmetic flourishes, the job was done.

They crested the rise and walked down into the park. It was Mike’s favorite part of Green Valley, positioned in the center where parents could look out their kitchen windows and see their kids playing. The development was zoned for two more lots there, but he couldn’t bring himself to build over that land.

They headed for the hole at the far edge of the park, already prepped for the pouring of the fire pit’s foundation. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Mike asked.

‘That tree-hugger concrete take longer to mix,’ Andrés said. ‘But my control-freak developer boss don’t let me use the normal kind.’

This was their routine – an old couple, bitter and exasperated, but in it together to the end.

‘The LEED certification is too tight. We don’t have the wiggle room.’ Mike grimaced, ran a hand over his face. ‘Jesus, who knew what a pain this would be?’

Andrés took another pull through his bombilla. ‘What we gonna build next?’

‘A coal factory.’

Andrés snickered, poked the stainless-steel straw into the gourd. ‘I tole you, we no do this green, we could’ve pull another twenty-percent profit off the top. Then we all drive new trucks.’

As they approached, Jimmy waved and started backing up a concrete mixer to the fire-pit hole. Andrés lifted an arm in response, the bombilla flying from his gourd into the pit. He frowned down as if this were only the latest in a string of the day’s disappointments. ‘Forget it. I buy another.’

Staring at the reed-thin steel straw stuck in the mud, Mike heard Kat’s voice in his head, chattering about trash and decomposing metals. His conscience reared up annoyingly.

Jimmy was just about to tip the drum of concrete when Mike shouted to him and pointed. Jimmy rolled his eyes and stepped off for a smoke while Mike hopped down. The hole was about five feet with sheer walls; they’d gone deep for the gas lines. As Mike crouched to pluck up the straw, he spotted an elbow of drainpipe protruding from the dirt wall. The water main.

He froze.

His stomach knotted. The metal straw fell from his hand. The mossy reek of moist earth and roots pressed in on him, crowding his lungs.

At first he thought he was mistaken. Then he fingered around the crumbling dirt, and dread finally broke through the shock.

The pipe wasn’t the environmentally friendly vitrified clay he’d paid a small fortune for.

It was PVC.

‘How much was used?’ Mike stood at the edge of the hole now with Andrés, trying to keep the panic from his voice. He’d sent the other workers away.

Andrés said, ‘I don’t know.’

‘Get the van here,’ Mike said. ‘I want to run plumbing cameras through the sewage and drain lines.’

‘The day rate for that van-’

‘I don’t care.’

Mike grabbed a shovel from a nearby mound of decorative rock, jumped down into the hole, and started chiseling at the wall. He’d retained his laborer’s build – muscular forearms, strong hands, broad enough through his chest to stretch a T-shirt – and he made impressive progress, but still the packed earth didn’t give way under his shovel as it might have a few years ago. Andrés called for the van, then stood with his arms crossed, chewing his cheek, watching. Mike’s grunts carried up out of the hole.

After a few moments, Andrés picked up a second shovel and slid down there with him.

The plumbing van idled in the middle of the street, a pipe video camera snaking through the laid-open rear doors and dropping down a manhole. Despite the hour the workers, except for Jimmy, had been sent home. Aside from the occasional passing bird, a pervasive stillness lingered over the development. The community of shiny new houses, beneath the late-morning sun, seemed like a fake town awaiting an atomic test blast.

Inside the van, crammed beside the hose reel, their clothes muddy, their faces streaked with dirt, Mike and Andrés watched a live feed on a small black-and-white screen – a grainy, endoscopic view of black piping. The hose reel next to their heads turned with a low hum as the camera continued its subterranean crawl, transmitting footage so consistent it seemed looped. Meter after meter of PVC pipe, stretching out beneath the hillside, beneath the streets, beneath the concrete slabs of the houses.

Light from the screen flickered across the men’s faces. Their lifeless expressions did not change.

Jimmy crawled up from the manhole, his dark skin glistening with sweat, and peered through the open van doors. ‘We done?’

Mike nodded, his eyes distant. Barely able to register the words. ‘Thanks, Jimmy. You can go now.’

Jimmy shrugged and walked off. A moment later an engine turned over with a familiar growl, and then the men listened to Jimmy putter off in Mike’s old truck.

When Mike finally spoke, his voice was cracked. ‘PVC is the worst of all of it. The chemicals leak into the soil. The shit migrates. They find it in whale blubber. They find it in Inuit breast milk, for Christ’s sake.’

Andrés leaned back, resting his head against the wall of the van.

‘How much would it cost?’ Mike asked.

‘You kidding, no?’

‘To make it right. To replace it with vitrified clay.’

‘It’s not just under the street. It’s under the slabs. Under the houses.’

‘I know where pipes go.’

Andrés sucked his teeth and looked away.

Mike registered a dull ache at the hinge of his jaw and realized he was clenching. Tearing up the houses would be a nightmare. A lot of the families had already sold their old places. They were middle-income folks who wouldn’t have the money for a rent-back or a prolonged hotel stay. Hell, that had been a big part of this – to help families get into nice houses. Many of the properties he’d placed not with the highest bidders but with people who needed them – single mothers, working-class couples, families who needed a break.

Mike said, ‘How did you not notice this?’

‘ Me ? You choose the grading contractor. Vic Manhan. The guy roll in with thirty workers and do the whole thing over Christmas break. Remember – you were thrilled.’

Mike stared across at his Ford with resentment and enmity. A fifty-five-thousand-dollar pickup – what the hell was he thinking? Would the dealership take it back? His anger mounted, the fuse burning down. ‘You got Manhan’s number there?’ he asked.

Andrés scrolled through his cell phone, hit ‘send,’ and handed it off to Mike.

As it rang, Mike ran a dirty hand through his sweaty hair, tried to slow his breathing. ‘This prick better carry a hefty insurance policy. Because I don’t care what it costs. I’m gonna hit him with as many lawsuits as I can-’

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