Tim Pratt - Sympathy for the Devil

Ronnie had played badly in the back room of the Red Rooster, all afternoon. He’d come out at last and lingered on the streetcorner, not wanting to have to go home and explain why he wasn’t going in to work the next day. As he’d stood there, an old man had come up and pressed a bottle of beer into his hand and walked quickly on, chuckling. Ronnie was too surprised to thank him for the gift, but he was grateful. He went off and sat on the wall behind the C-Air Motel, sipping his beer and watching the sun go down. From there he went straight into Harry’s Bar and had more, and life was good for a while.

But by the time he crawled into his truck and drove out to the old highway, he was in a bad mood again. He was in a worse mood when he climbed from his truck after it ran into the ditch. As he made his way unsteadily through the darkness, a brilliantly simple solution to his problems occurred to him. It would take care of the truck, the lost job, Peggy and the baby, everything. Even the boy. All their problems over forever, with no fights and no explanations. It seemed like the best idea he’d ever had.

He crept into the house, steadying himself by sliding along the wall. Once in the bedroom he groped around in the dresser drawer for a full two minutes before he realized his gun wasn’t in there. Peggy was deep unconscious on the bed, and didn’t hear him. He stood swaying in the darkness, uncertain what to do next. Then he got mad. All right; he’d show them, and they’d be sorry.

So he left the house, falling noisily down the front steps, but nobody heard him or came to ask if he was all right. Growling to himself he got up and staggered out to the woods, and lay down on the train tracks with a certain sense of ceremony. He passed out there, listening to the wind in the leaves and the distant roar of breakers.

The freight train came through about twenty minutes later.

“So, Mr. Sandoval-your company has won the bid for my little project. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that you had some… fierce… competition?”

The client smiles at Roy.

A smile from the Big Man is a fearsome sight. It makes Roy want to run far, far away, very fast. Fortunately for his status as low-bidder on this project, certain portions of his anatomy are not cooperating. Inside his steel-capped work boots, all ten toes have begun to gibber and moan among themselves, and to try to slither back up inside his feet. (He is aware that other parts are trying to slither up inside elsewhere.) The toes are blocked in their efforts because the feet have swiftly and silently turned to stone. Rooted to the spot, Roy decides there is nothing to do but act like the professional he is.

“Sí, and I guarantee we’ll bring this project in on time and within budget.”

“You are aware, I trust, of the… penalties… that accrue for nonperformance?”

Now the client is beaming. Fangs glint in the ruddy light.

Ice crawls up Roy ’s legs to his knees, which begin to quiver like an underdone flan. He tries to imagine a steel rebar shoring up his spine so he does not simply fall to the simmering ground and scream.

“Sí. We’ll be getting started now,” he forces himself to say. “There’s just one thing, Señor,” he adds, as the Big Man starts to turn away.

“And that is…?” The client’s tone is silky; the gaze he fixes on Roy could strip the flesh from his bones.

“You’re required to supply me with a copy of the approved Environmental Impact Statement before we can start,” Roy manages to choke out past a tongue that wants only to flap in abject terror.

“I’m required?” The Big Man is suddenly a lot bigger. A lot redder. A lot hotter. He looms over Roy like doom personified. He is almost as terrifying as Roy ’s abuela, Maria Luisa Carmina Portillo de Santiago, when she is voicing her disappointment in her grandson. Steam rises from Roy ’s sodden clothes, but he plunges ahead. “Sí. Section 47 of the contract, page 64: ‘Contractee agrees to obtain and provide contractor with certified approval of project from the Environmental Protection Agency, and any and all local approvals and licenses, before work can commence. Approved EIS must be available for public inspection at all times at the contractor’s site headquarters. Failure of the contractee to obtain such approvals shall not be counted against contractor’s performance. Failure to obtain such approvals within a timely fashion shall cause this contract to terminate without prejudice against contractor,” Roy quotes from memory. He pulls his damp copy of the contract from his jacket pocket in case the client is not convinced. The moment stretches out. The Big Man contemplates Roy, and Roy stares back, bug- and cross-eyed, unable even to wipe away the sweat that pours down his forehead. Then the client shrugs.

“I can see that you are indeed the right man for the job, Mr. Sandoval. Here is your copy of the EIS.” He snaps his fingers and a thick document materializes in his hand. He hands it to Roy; fingerprints smolder in the margins.

Roy checks the EIS carefully. It has all the correct stamps and approvals, and is signed by the commissioner of the EPA herself. Somehow Roy is not surprised to see the Big Man has that kind of pull. Appended to the document are all the necessary local approvals and waivers. He is acutely aware of the client hovering impatiently over him as he reads the papers, in part because of the overpowering reek of sulfur coming off the client’s body. For a moment he considers mentioning to the client that there are deodorants to help such a manly Big Man with body odor, then he thinks better of the idea.

“Everything appears to be in order, Señor.”

“Then you had better get started, hadn’t you?” The client points a razored talon to the sun, already well above the eastern horizon. “Tick tock, Mr. Sandoval. Sundown on the seventh day comes apace.” He vanishes in a cloud of fume and ash. Only a smoking hoofprint remains.

Roy gasps with relief and almost sags to the ground as his lower extremities unpetrify. He swings around and waves to his crew. “¡Ándale, hombres!” Dozens of diesel engines cough to life and begin to puff black exhaust into the clear morning air. The biggest ’dozer, under the command of Roy’s gang boss Felipe, spins with almost dainty grace in a half circle and charges toward the survey flags marking the beginning of the route. The blade bangs down and bites into hardpan. Behind Felipe’s ’dozer, a conga line of dump trucks, front-end loaders, spreaders, graders, and rollers forms up. Rock crushers, slurry mixers, water trucks, sprayers, asphalt cookers, and all the support vehicles-cooks’ RV, first aid RV, Roy’s office RV, and the bunk RVs needed for construction far from civilization-organize to the side. The project is underway. Roy whistles over a dump truck and swings into the cab beside the driver. He has a project, a budget, a deadline. A most inflexible deadline.

The first two days they bust rock, tons and tons of it. The demolition crews rove ahead of the ’dozers, blowing the largest boulders and rock ledges apart. The bulldozers blade the beginnings of a roadway through the rubble while front-end loaders shovel the debris into dump trucks, which take it to the crushers. More trucks bring the crushed product back to the route, where spreaders and graders form it into road base. The work proceeds with practiced smoothness.

Roy employs the best demo expert in the business. It is widely acknowledged that Kath can trim dynamite sticks to the millimeter by eye, and juggle a dozen blasting caps at once, stone sober (which everyone knows is much harder than juggling them drunk). She brings the mountains low and levels valleys, makes the rough places smooth and plain as they follow the ruler-straight line of survey flags westward.