House Revenge by Mike Lawson Page B

they walked past the sign that ­DeMarco had already seen that showed what the new high-end condos were going to look like. Boyer stopped, looked at the sign, and said, “This could be easier than I thought.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” DeMarco said.
    Boyer point at the sign and said, “Flannery.”
    The sign, in addition to showing an artist’s rendition of the completed structure and photos of model apartments, listed the name of the architectural and engineering firm responsible for the design as well as the name of the general contractor, which was Flannery Construction.
    â€œFlannery’s a shitbag,” Boyer said. “One of those guys who will cut every corner he can possibly cut, which is probably the reason Callahan hired him.”
    Boyer looked down at the footings for the new apartment complex for a moment, then started moving again, walking toward the four three-deckers that were waiting to be razed. But before they reached the houses, Boyer stopped again, this time near half a dozen industrial-sized Dumpsters where debris from the demolished buildings had been placed. He pointed at a chunk of six-inch carbon steel pipe lying on the ground near one of the Dumpsters. The pipe had a white, crusty film on it.
    â€œAsbestos,” Boyer said. “That’s probably a steam pipe that came from one of the apartment buildings they already demolished. A lot of the buildings that used to be here were constructed before World War II and they used asbestos for insulation back in those days, on the pipes and in the walls. Linoleum and floor tiles contained asbestos, too. To remove asbestos, you basically have to shrink-wrap the building, the workers gotta be in space suits with respirators, you have to dispose of the stuff at a hazardous waste site, and a whole bunch of other things to make sure the workers don’t end up breathing the shit.
    â€œI’ll bet you anything that Flannery, being the dirtbag he is, had his guys in the buildings at night when there was less chance of an OSHA inspector coming around, and they did the rip-out wearing nothing but those little paper filters over their mouths and noses. Flannery is required to have records showing what he did and how he disposed of the stuff, and knowing Flannery, he might not have ’em. Improper asbestos abatement is a showstopper.”
    â€œThat’s what I like to hear,” DeMarco said.
    â€œLet’s go look at the triple-deckers. I was raised in a place in Southie just like the ones on this block. It’s gone now, too.”
    The narrow three-story houses were nothing but shells, the exterior walls still standing, but the interiors gutted. Boyer pointed at one of the standing walls. “Bet you a nickel that’s lead-based paint. Lead paint is like asbestos. There’re a bunch of rules you gotta follow to remove it and dispose of it.”
    Boyer stopped abruptly. “Whoa! You see there, the soil around that hole in the ground, how oily and black it looks?” Boyer got down on one knee, pinched a bit of dirt between his fingers, and smelled it. “There used to be a fuel oil tank here and they yanked the tank out of the ground. But the tank leaked at one time and now the soil’s contaminated. You can’t just dump the dirt that’s here and you can’t leave it here. It’s hazardous waste now. The soil all around this area has to be tested for oil contamination, and whatever’s contaminated has to be properly disposed—which means, expensively disposed.”
    â€œOutstanding,” DeMarco said.
    â€œI’ve got enough right now to cause this guy some misery. And I know just who to call. There’s this one young lady who works for MassDEP and—”
    â€œMass dep?”
    â€œThe Massachusetts Department of Environmental Protection. Anyway, this young gal is a bear when it comes to this kind of shit, especially asbestos violations. Her dad