Thirteen Million Dollar Pop

27

The morning rose up in a hazy mass of purple sky bellied by thick rain clouds and smoke. The call from the police had come in half an hour earlier for Gantcher to get his ass out of bed and redline it down to the job site. Or what was left of it.

Three hundred and forty-two units, the town house villas in varying stages of completion, were now reduced to pockets of licking flame, glowing cinders, and smoke puffs. The beginning of the hotel tower was still standing but was now charred to a blackened cement spire.

Like my life, Lowell Gantcher almost said aloud. But it was a good thing he didn’t, considering he hadn’t noticed that a police lieutenant and a fire captain had walked up and were standing next to him.

“Heard you’re having some trouble with your contractors,” the policeman said.

“What do you mean?” Gantcher said, turning toward him. “I’m fine with those guys.”

“They say they haven’t been paid in three weeks.” Hot pockets hissed around them as a slow, insistent rain began to fall.

“Bookkeeping changeover, nothing more. Their checks are cut, probably went out yesterday before close of business,” Gantcher said, hoping it was the truth.

“Okay,” said the cop.

“Are you saying that a disgruntled worker set this off?” Gantcher said.

“We’re not saying that,” the fire captain said. “It’s too soon to say anything. Could’ve been bad luck or a colossal fuckup just as easy.”

“How do you mean?”

“Best we can tell for starters is the fire originated in those units,” the fire captain said, pointing with a stubby finger. “They were in the process of being wired for electricity. Maybe they weren’t grounded yet. A power surge could’ve taken out a panel. Then those units, which hadn’t been fully framed and insulated and fireproofed, went next. Your workers thought it’d be a good place to store the welders’ oxy fuel bottles in there. By the time the flames reached the more finished units with all the paint and lacquer cans-well, the only thing that was missing was Mrs. O’Leary’s cow …”

“Goddammit,” Gantcher said, “if these guys were negligent, I’ll sue the frigging contractor down to his last hammer and nail.” Gantcher hoped it sounded convincing, the young developer distraught over his project going up in flames. The cop and fireman had no reason to know that he hadn’t had a prayer of coming up with the funds to complete the job in the first place.

“Take it easy, Mr. Gantcher,” the fire captain said. “Just like we don’t know if it was intentionally set, we don’t know if it was negligence either. Yet. All in time.”

“Besides,” the policeman spoke up, “you were insured, right?”

Gantcher felt the man’s eyes bore holes right through him. He turned back to the smoldering flames and rubbed his eyes as if it were the smoke that was causing his tears.