Heat

Chapter 18

Jesse had been at St. Clair Wood Products for nearly a month when Harley Waters approached him just as the workday began. Another man was with him.

“Hey, Jesse, Herman wants to see you in the office. This guy’s going to spell you.”

“Okay, Harley,” Jesse replied. He dusted off the shavings that clung to his clothes and walked upstairs to Herman Muller’s office. The secretary showed him in.

Muller stood up and shook his hand. “Morning, Jesse.”

“Morning, Mr. Muller.”

“My folks all call me Herman,” Muller said. “Have a seat.”

Jesse took a chair, wondering what was going on.

Muller leaned back in his chair. “Jesse, I’m real proud of the way you’ve worked on the hopper; so is Harley. I’m promoting you.”

“Well, thanks, Mr... ah, Herman.”

“No thanks due; you’ve earned it. I’m putting you further up the production line, on the pressing equipment. The pay’s nine dollars an hour, and when you’ve learned the equipment, I’ll raise it to ten. I don’t think it’ll take you long to get the hang of it, but remember, that machinery has to be run right, and right every time. The quality of every sheet of chipboard that comes out of this plant depends on this job being done right. You understand me?”

“Yessir, I sure do. I promise you, I’ll do a good job.”

Muller stood up. “That’s good enough for me, Jesse. Harley’s down showing your replacement the ropes; when he’s done, he’ll take you up the line and get you started.”

Jesse shook the man’s hand and went back to the plant floor. His replacement was stoking the hopper with a truckload of scrap timber, under the watchful eye of Harley Waters. Poor bastard, Jesse thought.

Harley waved him to follow, and Jesse bade a sweet goodbye to the hopper. He followed Harley through a door into another room of the plant, and the noise subsided a bit. Harley led him up a ladder to a glass booth ten feet above the production line. He slapped a worker on the back. “Take a break, Bob.” Harley took over operation of the machinery. “Okay, Jesse, I’m going to run a few sheets, and you follow me as I work the controls.

Jesse became aware that somebody was watching him from below. He looked down and saw Phil Partain dumping a bin of wood chips onto a conveyer belt that led to the press. Partain was spending more time watching him than doing his work.

Jesse watched Harley Waters operate the machinery for a while, then took over himself, operating under Harley’s sharp eye. It was pleasant to be doing something that took some skill and coordination; he hadn’t liked being a laborer. By the time the noon whistle blew, chipboard was emerging smoothly from the press, under Jesse’s operation.

“Go get your lunch,” Harley said. “I’ll stay on with you the rest of the day, and then I think you’ll have it down pat. I’ve got a new job for the man you replaced.”

Jesse went back to the locker room, retrieved his lunch and walked out back of the plant. It was a clear, chilly autumn day and the aspens were a bright gold on the mountains behind the factory. Jesse sat down under a tree, ate his sandwiches and drank his soft drink. After that, he rested his head against the tree and dozed.

He was awakened suddenly as someone sharply kicked the soles of his shoes. He opened his eyes and looked up to find Phil Partain standing over him.

“Get on your feet, Barron,” Partain said.

“What do you want, Phil?” Jesse asked laconically.

“I want to kick your ass,” Partain replied, then kicked Jesse’s feet again.

Jesse guessed it was time. He got slowly to his feet. “Phil, I gave you some real good advice the last time we talked. Remember that?”

“You keep your fucking advice to yourself, you bastard,” Partain said, circling Jesse to his right. “I was in line to operate that machine, but I guess you’ve been sucking Harley’s cock real regular.”

“Phil, Phil,” Jesse said wearily, “I’m going to have to ask you to shut your mouth.”

“Shit,” Partain said, “you’re going to be sucking my cock in just a minute.” He feinted with his right, then came around with a left hook. Jesse stepped back, and the punch grazed his cheek. He stepped into Partain and planted a short left in the man’s considerable gut.

Partain grunted, but he kept coming. That gut had been pretty solid, Jesse thought. He ducked under Partain’s right and landed a stiff punch in the ribs. Partain still kept coming, and now he had a knife in his right hand.

I wonder, Jesse thought, how Phil feels about the sight of his own blood? As Partain swung the knife, Jesse stepped inside the swing and struck the man’s wrist hard with the edge of his hand, then he knocked back Partain’s head with a pair of left jabs, and the bigger man’s nose started to bleed.

Partain wiped his face with his sleeve and looked at it. “You goddamned son of a bitch!” he roared.

Jesse kept his guard up. The sight of his own blood apparently made Partain steaming mad. Jesse dodged as the man rushed him and landed a hard right to a kidney as he passed. Partain went down on one knee with a cry of pain, and Jesse punched him in the side of the neck. Partain hit the ground, rolled over and got to his feet again.

Jesse began to use everything he had learned in the yard at Atlanta, kicking a shin, punching under the heart and landing teeth-rattling punches to the jaw. Partain landed a few shots, mostly on Jesse’s arms and shoulders. He seemed unaccustomed to fighting somebody who knew how to fight back.

Jesse wore the big man down, hurting him, but leaving him on his feet until he seemed ready to go down. Finally, he doubled Partain over with a left to the solar plexus, then straightened him up with an uppercut. Partain’s knees buckled, and he went backward like a felled tree.

There were some shouts, and Jesse looked up to find that a small crowd of workers had gathered. The whistle blew, and Jesse walked back to the plant, leaving Partain where he lay. Nobody, he noticed, went to the man’s aid.

Partain didn’t come back to work after lunch, and the following morning, he was replaced by a new man. Jesse heard later that Herman Muller had fired Phil Partain.