Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 124, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 757 & 758, September/October 2004

Actually, there were lots of problems, but Guyton’s granddad wasn’t one of them. With the extended shifts, we finished off the carpentry on the first floor a week later. It still needed carpeting and whatever customizing the tenants required, but phase one was finished, and the crews moved completely up to the second floor.

Which made my temporary office almost unworkable. Between the dust and din of construction, I couldn’t hear myself think in there. Amid all this chaos, Guyton introduced his grandfather.

Nate Crowell was half of a before-and-after photo of his grandson. The “after” half. Long after. Tall, spare, stooped, and bald as a billiard, the old man had to be in his mid to late seventies. But he carried his years and his blindness well.

He shook my hand with an iron grip that could have been painful if he’d wanted it so.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Shea. My grandson tells me you’re the man gonna turn back the clock on the old Mill. Hope I can be of help.”

“Guyton says you’re a master cabinetmaker, Mr. Crowell. Are you as good as he is?”

“Even better.” The old man smiled. “The boy still gets impatient sometimes. I never do.”

“What?” I yelled, as a Sawzall’s chatter drowned him out.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Nate continued, “I’d like to do my work upstairs in the Gin Mill. I used to wait tables in the ballroom so I know my way around pretty good up there.”

“No problem, we aren’t working there yet.”

“Maybe you should be. Noisy as hell down here. Why ain’t you usin’ the main office?”

“What office?”

“In the Gin Mill. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

It was odd being led by a blind man, but Nate Crowell had no trouble navigating the hallway or the stairs. Using a cane to probe ahead, the old man moved only a step slower than normal and seemed to have an unerring sense about obstacles, circling around men and machinery without a misstep.

He paused on the fourth-floor landing. I thought he needed a breather. He didn’t.

“This is where I ended up that last night,” he said, aiming his cane at a corner. “Sixteen years old. Got a snoot full of joy juice, fell down these stairs, busted an arm and a leg, lost my sight. Damn.”

“Sixteen was a little young to be drinking, wasn’t it?”

“It was closing night for the place, everybody was doin’ their best to drink up the last of the stock, even me. Only I didn’t have no belly for it, had a bad fall. God’s punishment for a drunkard, I guess. Ain’t had a taste since. C’mon.”

He trotted up the final flight, stepped into the ballroom, and stopped, his face wreathed with a wide smile.

“Man, it’s like comin’ home,” he breathed. “Even after all these years. That was my section over there, from the dance floor to the far wall. Runnin’ my ass off every night from six until midnight. Mr. Cy always closed at twelve sharp, didn’t want nobody to be too hung over to work in the mill the next day. His office is over there by the bandstand. See that big mirror with the table beside it?” He aimed at it with his cane. “That’s Mr. Cy’s table. Sit there every night, tryin’ to look hard. Wasn’t much more than a boy hisself in them days.”

“How do you... remember all this? Where everything is, I mean?”

“The Gin Mill was my first job.” Nate shrugged. “And except for them stairs I fell down, this ballroom was the last place I ever saw.”

He showed me Cy’s old office, concealed behind another nearly invisible sliding door. A perfect setup, insulated from the noise below, a desk big enough for blueprints, even a cot in the corner for catnaps. I moved my gear into it the same day.

Nate set up shop beside the dance floor, pushed four tables together to make a workbench, and began trimming out the cabinetry for the apartments below. His work was impeccable. The problem was, he kept scaring the hell out of me.

I’d find him up there working with no lights. Darkness didn’t bother Nate, of course, but it startled me to step into the ink-black ballroom, switch on the lights, and — whoops! Hello, there.

Mafe Rochon was more trouble than Guyton’s grandad. He’s always had a problem with booze, but as long as he doesn’t drink on the job I ignore his morning-after surlies. But with the longer working hours, he didn’t have time to sober up entirely before work. A risky situation.

Puck warned me Mafe was sliding out of control but I was too busy with our new schedule to worry about it. Mafe was still carrying his weight, so I let it pass.

And that was a mistake.

Romanik and his two goons showed up at the site one morning, taking pictures of the crew as they arrived for work, jotting down the license-plate numbers of their vehicles. Intimidation, pure and simple.

And I wasn’t in the mood.

I went storming out. Romanik saw me coming, waved his two buddies away, but stood his ground.

“Mr. Daniel Shea, just the man I want to see.”

“You’ve seen me. Now take a hike.”

“Don’t push it, Shea, it’s a public sidewalk. And I’m just here to deliver a message.”

“Messenger boy is about your speed. Say it.”