Iron River

27

The seven hundredth Love 32 is finished and I sit at the bench beside Marcos and take the weapon from him and feel its wonderful weight and balance in my hand.

“The crew is tired,” he says. “Twelve hours a day, thirteen days in a row. No rest.”

“They can take a day off if they want.”

“They want the full bonus at the end. Is why they work hard.”

“Six more days should do it. Five point six, actually.”

“They have a request.”

I set the gun on the bench and look at Marcos. He’s a heavy, jug-eared Baja Californian with a family of five, all of whom were born here and are citizens. Unfortunately, Marcos and his wife are not citizens and not legal workers, though why they haven’t become naturalized, I can’t tell you. His English is good and he is more than smart enough to learn the basics of our history and constitution. Over the years I’ve told him several times that Pace would pay for his citizenship classes, and for any work he might miss in order to attend. Same for Teresa, his wife. The first time I told him this was five years ago, around the time I took over as production manager. Marcos had smiled amiably and nodded and said he would consider this, and he’s been smiling amiably and nodding ever since.

“They would like a larger bonus,” he says. “They ask you for sixty-five dollars per day if the job is finish in eighteen days or less.”

“I offered them a fifty-dollar-per-day bonus if the run is finished in twenty days or less. And they agreed.”

This is even more important now than it was when the agreement was made because Herredia wants the guns ASAP. With the National Guard stationed all along the border, and the American military itching to charge south, and the Mexican military ready to repel boarders, Herredia doesn’t like feeling outgunned by the Gulf Cartel and the Zetas. All this chaos is a handy cover for him and Benjamin Armenta to blast away at each other and the other cartels and not draw the full wrath of the Mexican government.

“Yes,” says Marcos. “But you know, the gas is very expensive for they driving to work. They cannot live in Costa Mesa, so they live in the Santa Ana and drive far. They live cheap. They have children. Jesus needs the tires for the van. Lauro he has the baby, and Juan he has the two babies. They send money home.”

“They agreed, Marcos.”

“Yes.”

I do the math in my head. A bonus of fifty bucks a day for each worker would cost me a thousand dollars per worker if the thousand-unit run is complete in the agreed-upon seven days. A bonus of sixty-five will cost me eleven hundred seventy dollars per. There are twelve gunmakers, so the total difference to me would be two thousand forty dollars. If I agree to the larger bonus, I know full well that they’ll finish within eighteen days. So my total production payroll, with the higher bonus, would be seventy-four thousand five hundred and twenty dollars, with extremely good odds of finishing up quick. My personal net from this run, after overhead, payroll, and materials, will be around seven hundred grand.

I look down at the handsome weapon that lies before me on the bench.

“Okay,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“Five more days.”

“It will be finish.”

“Three days would be better.”

“We are working very hard. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Pace.”

Marcos barrels away and I sit alone for a moment to feel good about myself. Generosity is a gift to the giver, too. In my expansiveness I reflect on how my life has changed in three short weeks. I have never really seen myself as the captain of my own destiny. This idea always struck me as specious and self-referential, what with gods and fate and governments and history and luck. I still don’t see myself that way, but I’m not about to turn away from life’s blessings no matter how mysteriously arrived they are. I’ve just blundered into things, into a fresh new business and into the chance to love the love of my life. To my small credit I have realized a few key things. I realized that I’m not as gutless and ineffectual as I thought I was. I realized that Mendez is actually Herredia, which has put me into business with one of the richest and most ruthless men in the Western hemisphere. And I’ve also realized that Bradley Smith is of course Bradley Jones, the great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandson of Joaquin Murrieta, the great and terrible El Famoso. It came to me a few nights ago just where I’d seen his face. Thirty seconds later, I’d found a short video of his mother’s funeral online and spotted Bradley prominent among the mourners. If I said that I was not personally thrilled to be marching through history beside a direct descendant of El Famoso I would certainly be lying.

Sharon and I have just made love for the third time today when there’s a ring on my security monitor near the front door. I put on my robe and go to the monitor to see Uncle Chester standing outside the lobby entrance.

“Hello, Uncle,” I say.

“I did not give you permission to change the locks,” he says.

“We had a break-in.”

“We need to talk.”

“In fact we do. Come on in.”

By now Sharon is in the living room in her indigo silk robe, glowering at me.

“You let him in.”

“He’s my uncle.”

“We didn’t change the locks to beam up Chester whenever he wants us to.”

“We need to talk. You know that. He’s coming up, Sharon. That’s what is going to happen here.”

She stares at me because she knows that she is partially responsible for my new assertiveness, and she knows she could ruin it if she wanted to. I derive a new strength from her. But I’m utterly in love with her and I tell her this often and I show it constantly in the most glaring and obvious ways: I bring flowers and gifts, I take her on short creative outings such as a day on Catalina and a pleasant lunch with Mom on the sunny lawn outside her mental hospital Victorian, and just yesterday I bought and boxed up a complete sushi and sashimi dinner, including a thermos of martinis, and we took it all to the end of the Newport pier and sat on the benches, watching the fishermen and ate and tossed balls of rice to the gulls. She knows I’m a fool for her, complete and total. I can’t fake that I’m not.

But I also can’t let my uncle stand outside in the dark. It’s time for me to tell him the new rules here at Pace. And Sharon knows this, too.

“We better get dressed,” I say.

We tour the production floor. Chester in his pale linen suit glides along ahead of me, hands behind his back, and despite the new rules here at Pace that I’m dreading telling Chet about, I can’t resist falling into his slipstream and holding my own hands behind my back and adopting his patient, noble stride. Sharon walks beside me, arms crossed. I have come to know her well enough over the years to understand that the slight tightness in her mouth and the odd flatness of her eyes and the barely detectable clenching of her jaw indicate uncut fury. You don’t mess around with Sharon when she looks like this. The gunmakers steal looks at Chester. Among them he was a man to be feared, and he still cultivates and enjoys their fear immensely.

The shift is almost over and the eight hundred thirty-seventh gun has just come off. Chester lifts it in his hand, aims up at the lights, and dry-fires. When Pace Arms was still in full production, Chester was known to fire men and women who dry-fired a Pace weapon. It’s hard on a semi.

“You would have fired you for that two years ago,” I say.

“The pull is too heavy.”

“Four and a half pounds.”

“That’s easily four and three-quarters. Consistency is everything, Ron. Consistency is the physical manifestation of trust. Sloppy workmanship will doom us and I cannot allow it. It’s time for us to talk.”

“Okay.”

He sets the gun on the bench and looks down on me and Sharon. The lights shine off his bald dome of a head, and his cheeks are flushed pink. He lifts his nose very slightly, then lowers it, and I guess he’s picked up the smell of our sex. He smells of baby powder. He gives Sharon a small-toothed smile but says nothing.

In my office, Chet sits in my chair behind my desk. Sharon and I sit before him like a couple consulting a doctor. I can feel the anger coming off her.

“What is the renegotiated price for the first one thousand Love 32s?” asks Chet.

“I haven’t renegotiated,” I say. “I made a deal and I will honor it.”

He cocks his head and leans forward. “Again?”

I repeat myself.

“Certainly you’ve renegotiated the price of the sound suppressors.”

“No, sir. The whole deal stands. One thousand units, complete, at nine hundred dollars each.”

“Then you insist on giving our product away.”

“I’ve never seen nine hundred grand in one place in my whole life.”

Chester leans back, and my executive chair wheezes. The headrest doesn’t even come up to the tops of his shoulders. “And the incentive discount on a cash commitment for the next thousand from Favier and Winling? I remember us agreeing on a discount of three percent off the new per-unit price of twelve hundred fifty dollars.”

“It’s three percent off the current price of nine hundred per gun, Uncle Chet. You and I agreed to nothing. I haven’t heard back yet.”

Chester studies Sharon. “Have you had any success finding us some customers?”

“I have a list of possibilities. At nine hundred dollars per unit, the Love 32 is going to sell briskly at the very least.”

“CC me on the list, please. Sooner than later.”

Sharon says nothing.

“Ron, is the crew on a twice-monthly payroll cycle as before?”

I nod.

“So they’ve been paid for just three days’ work so far?”

“Yes. Their big payday will be the last day of production, if they can finish in eighteen. I’ll actually have to pay them a day early, because payday is on a Friday. They’ll be getting bonuses, too.”

“Bonuses? Oh my, Ronald. Not like the old days, is it?”

“They’ll earn them. Believe me.”

Chester eyes me with something like amusement. “Now, I’ve given some more thought to our endeavor,” he says. “One, on a go-forward, we will change the name of the gun because nobody wants to confuse love and death. Two, there is no Favier and Winling of Paris, France. I suspect these extravagant and dire events in Mexico may be linked to our order-this is merely an intuition. I expect you to tell me the true name of our customer by the end of the work shift tonight. Three, Ron, you can’t simply pocket seven hundred thousand dollars. The three of us will receive the monies, distributed per our old salaries and according to the old percentages, then share the balance, greatly increased by the reduced number of employees, according to the same established model. Of course. Ronald, as designer and production manager, you will draw a handsome salary for the time you have spent on the project. Sharon, you will continue to draw your current generous salary. I love all the new money-saving lightbulbs, by the way. I of course will be compensated as CEO and president. We will all be quite happy on payday. Now, lastly, and I think you’ll like this-on the morning of the big payday, you will call the United States Immigration and Naturalization Service and the United States Border Patrol and anonymously report the undocumented workers who will be arriving that afternoon on floor one. At that time we will be having appetizers before a king crab dinner at the Charthouse. My treat. The workers will be arrested and deported without pay and we will save the labor payroll. Don’t worry. I still have friends on the labor board. Our chances of prosecution are nil.”

It’s so quiet I can hear the tap-tap-tapping of the finish men two stories down. I look at Sharon, and her face is blank fury but somehow very specific about what it wants me to do. I sigh and stand and go to a window and look out. South Coast Plaza is sparsely lit and empty. The Christian compound is dark. Only the freeways buzz with life eternal. My heart is pounding and I feel a stiffness in my knees. My legs are weak as I return to my chair and sit down beside Sharon. I lean forward.

“Uncle Chester,” I say. My voice wavers and I clear my throat, then clear it again. “Sharon and I have put some considerable thought into this matter. When our business plan is finished, I’ll be able to be more specific. But for now…”

“Business plan?”

“Ron and I have talked about it,” snaps Sharon. “We think that after this first recovery deal puts some cash back in Ron’s pocket, we should reincorporate the old Pace Arms operation under a new name and with new investors and new directors. We’ll apply for all the necessary permits and pay the fees and taxes. We foresee a completely legitimate new firearms manufacturing company before the end of the year. You and Ron’s mother will receive ample proceeds if we make ample money. We’ve talked to our lawyers and they are drafting a buyout for the property and machinery and furnishings.”

Chester, always pale, has now lost even the pink flush of his cheeks. “We’re having a bit of a power struggle here.”

“Uncle Chester,” I say. “You brought this upon yourself. When I looked up from that desk a week ago and saw you standing here, I thought, terrific, Chester ’s back. He knows the business like nobody else. Maybe he can help. Maybe we can work together again. He is a Pace. He is my mother’s husband. Maybe, just maybe, with all of us working toward it, Pace Arms can sail the seas of commerce again, under a different flag. This is what went through my head, all when I first saw you. But instead of helping, you try to take over my work. You try to take everything I own. You try to cheat my men and rename my invention. You visit my mother a total of one time-she told me this, Chet. And you look at the woman I love as if she were a picture in a jack-off magazine. You even take my seat at my desk in my office. So, Chester, there’s no struggle here at all. This is ours now.”

To make the point more dramatic, I stand, which puts me more or less eye to eye with Chester across the desk. I think of the mastiff he crushed, which outweighed me by twenty pounds and had larger teeth. But surprisingly, or perhaps not, my knees feel fine and my balance is good and I feel a lightness and a readiness and a sense of physical and mental well-being. Chester is impossible to read now, just an immense, unmoving, pale, bald, infant Buddha with battalions of rage apes lurching around inside his head, no doubt.

“I’ll be in touch,” he says.

“I’ll be here.”

“There is no problem unsolvable by reasonable people,” says Chet.

“You have to find them,” says Sharon.