The Steel Kiss

To cut the two-by-four pieces for the base of the maze, Heady got a heavy, rough-cut blade from a rack on the wall. Before removing the blade presently mounted to the Ayoni, however, and replacing it with this one, he’d have to shut the power off. The unit was hardwired into the theater’s electrical system, since its motor—running at a gutsy eight horsepower—drew 220 volts and many amps.

The manufacturer recommended that you shut off the power to the entire facility at the main circuit breaker before replacing blades, but here at the theater no workers ever did, since the breaker was in the basement. But perhaps because the Ayoni Corporation knew that purchasers might not always cut the main juice, the saw itself had two power cutoffs. One was the device’s own circuit breaker. The second was the on/off switch that started the blade spinning. It was a bit inconvenient to reach down, to the base of the machine, find the circuit breaker and click it off, but no way was Heady going to swap blades without doing so. The tool was as dangerous as a guillotine. (He’d heard about an accident in which an assistant had fallen next to an Ayoni as it ran and instinctively reached out to steady himself. His forearm hit the blade and was severed halfway between wrist and elbow in an instant. The poor man had felt not a bit of pain for a good ten seconds, so fast and clean was the cut.)

So he now reached down and popped the breaker.

Then, just to double-check, he flipped on the power switch; nothing. He returned it to the off position. Heady now gripped the blade with his left hand and held it steady while, with a socket wrench in his right, he began to loosen the nuts fixing the disk to the shaft. He was glad that he’d taken the redundant precautions; it occurred to him that should the unit happen to start, not only would he lose the fingers of his left hand but the wrench would crush his right to a pulp.

Two thousand RPM.

But in five minutes the blade was changed safely. The power was back on. And he readied the first piece to cut.

There was no doubting the saw’s efficiency; it made all the carpenters’ lives so much easier. On the other hand, Healy had to admit he wasn’t looking forward to spending the next few hours changing blades and slicing up the wood for the maze.

Fact was, the thing scared the hell out of him.

* * *

The waitress offered a flirt.

Mid-thirties, Nick guessed. With a pretty, heart-shaped face, black hair, black as oil, tied up tight, the curls just waiting to escape. Tight uniform too. Low cut. That was one thing he’d change if he became owner of the restaurant. He’d like a little more family-friendly staff. Though maybe the old farts in the neighborhood liked the view Hannah offered.

He smiled back, but a different smile from hers, polite and formal, and asked for Vittorio. She stepped away, returned and said he’d be out in a few minutes. “Have a seat, have some coffee.”

She tried another flirt.

“Black please. One ice cube.”

“Iced coffee?”

“No. A cup. Hot coffee but an ice cube in it.”

Sitting down in the window booth she took him to, Nick looked around at the place. Nice, he assessed. He liked it right away. The linoleum would have to go—too many heel marks—and he’d lose the wallpaper and paint the place. Maybe dark red. The place had plenty of windows and good lighting. The room could handle walls that color. And he’d put up some paintings. Find some of old Brooklyn, this very neighborhood if he could.

Nick loved the borough. People didn’t know that BK had been a city unto itself until 1898, when it got absorbed and became a part of New York. In fact, Brooklyn had been one of the biggest cities in the country (was still the biggest borough). He’d find some prints of the waterfront and Prospect Park. Maybe portraits of some famous Brooklynites. Walt Whitman. Sure, had to have him. “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” the poem—good, he’d get a ferry print. And Amelia’s father—also from BK—had told him that George Washington and the colonial troops had fought the British here (and lost, but retreated safely to Manhattan, thanks to a frozen river). George Gershwin. Mark Twain supposedly named his character Tom Sawyer after a heroic firefighter from Brooklyn. He’d get pictures of them all. Maybe those pen-and-ink drawings. They were cool. They were classy.

Definitely not one of native son Al Capone, though.

A shadow over him and Nick rose.

“Vittorio Gera.” A thick man, both olive-skinned and ill-colored at the same time. His suit was one size too big and Nick wondered if the reason the restaurant was on the block was his poor health. Probably. The perfect hair, gray, was a piece.

“Nick Carelli.”

“Italian. Where’s the family from?”

“Flatbush.”

“Ha!”

Nick added, “Long time ago, Bologna.”

“We’ve got Italian on the menu.”

“The lasagna’s good, I hear.”

“It is.” Gera sat. “But have you ever had bad lasagna?”

Nick smiled.

The waitress brought the coffee. “Anything for you?” she asked Gera.