asked Ford. He was skinny and gawky with pink cheeks, red hair, and big green eyes behind round tortoiseshell glasses. At least that was what Sadie noticed. What Ford saw was a guy with four inches on him in height but ten pounds lighter, built like a wimp, around twenty-three years old.
Ford said, “You should watch where you’re standing.” Like it was the guy’s fault Ford had walked into him. Sadie realized he was itching for a fight.
The man, looking a little dazed, blinked. “You’re right. Sorry.” He held out his hand. “I’m—”
Ford walked right by it, into the black-and-white-checked marble hall. An older man wearing jeans and an ironed plaid shirt stood leaning against a fluted wood pillar with a clipboard in his hand.
“Winter, you’re late,” he barked when he saw Ford.
“According to my watch I’m exactly on time, Mr. Harding.” Ford held up his right wrist, pointing to Mickey’s two hands on the twelve and the eight.
The foreman shook his head. “You’re all the way back, with Nix.” He poked a thumb to his right. “And no need to saunter—I want this floor picked clean as a turkey carcass by lunch.”
Ford spotted a sign in the far back corner of the once-grand lobby that read LAUNDRY ROOM, and Sadie heard him think, Nice work, Nix . But when they reached it, she couldn’t see the appeal: There were long channels ripped through the baseboards and across the ceiling and strips of floral wallpaper rolled up from the middle of the walls like chocolate curls on a wedding cake.
A compact dark-skinned kid, younger than the Chapsters Sadie had seen, leaned against one of the walls, two sledgehammers next to him. Seeing him, Ford’s mind struck a single, pleasant chord, and the feeling was apparently mutual, because when Ford walked up, the guy ground out the cigarette he’d been smoking and gave him a dazzling smile.
“Did I or did I not hook us up?” he asked. “With all the wiring and pipes in here to harvest, the scabbies’ve already done most of the work for us.”
A soft, warm sensation Sadie hadn’t felt before spread through Ford. Out of the corner of her eye she caught pinprick images of tomato soup and grilled cheese and soggy mittens as Ford started to laugh.
Amusement , she thought. Amusement felt like tomato soup after a snowball fight.
“Couldn’t have picked better myself, Nix,” Ford said, hoisting one of the sledgehammers. “Though the St. Claire was built as a hotel, so no way was this originally a laundry room. They wouldn’t have put it on the first floor off the lobby.”
“Are we betting? I say dining room.”
“Too small,” Ford said, shaking his head. “I say manager’s office or bar.”
“Loser buys lunch,” Nix said. “On your marks, get set—”
For the next hour all sound and thought was blotted out of Ford’s mind by the noise of the sledgehammer smashing through plaster and brick as they skinned the building’s carcass. The two of them worked opposite sides of the room, their hammers settling into a call and response, where one of them would do a set of strokes, and the other would match it and add one.
Ford working, Sadie discovered, was much calmer than Ford doing anything else. She was making a mental note about the importance of jobs to self-esteem when he stopped and dropped the hammer.
“Did I win?” Nix asked over his shoulder.
“Maybe,” Ford said. “It’s a dumbwaiter. It would have gone from here to the kitchens. And it works!” As he spoke he tugged a faded cord, bringing up a dusty wooden box that arrived with a clatter of clinking plates and cutlery. They were filthy and stacked haphazardly, apparently forgotten decades earlier by the last person to use the room. That is very cool , Sadie thought, and Ford gave a whooooop of joy. He was nearly dancing with happiness, shifting from one foot to the other and pointing. “Do you see that?” he asked Nix. “Someone’s last supper.”
Ford carefully
Ford said, “You should watch where you’re standing.” Like it was the guy’s fault Ford had walked into him. Sadie realized he was itching for a fight.
The man, looking a little dazed, blinked. “You’re right. Sorry.” He held out his hand. “I’m—”
Ford walked right by it, into the black-and-white-checked marble hall. An older man wearing jeans and an ironed plaid shirt stood leaning against a fluted wood pillar with a clipboard in his hand.
“Winter, you’re late,” he barked when he saw Ford.
“According to my watch I’m exactly on time, Mr. Harding.” Ford held up his right wrist, pointing to Mickey’s two hands on the twelve and the eight.
The foreman shook his head. “You’re all the way back, with Nix.” He poked a thumb to his right. “And no need to saunter—I want this floor picked clean as a turkey carcass by lunch.”
Ford spotted a sign in the far back corner of the once-grand lobby that read LAUNDRY ROOM, and Sadie heard him think, Nice work, Nix . But when they reached it, she couldn’t see the appeal: There were long channels ripped through the baseboards and across the ceiling and strips of floral wallpaper rolled up from the middle of the walls like chocolate curls on a wedding cake.
A compact dark-skinned kid, younger than the Chapsters Sadie had seen, leaned against one of the walls, two sledgehammers next to him. Seeing him, Ford’s mind struck a single, pleasant chord, and the feeling was apparently mutual, because when Ford walked up, the guy ground out the cigarette he’d been smoking and gave him a dazzling smile.
“Did I or did I not hook us up?” he asked. “With all the wiring and pipes in here to harvest, the scabbies’ve already done most of the work for us.”
A soft, warm sensation Sadie hadn’t felt before spread through Ford. Out of the corner of her eye she caught pinprick images of tomato soup and grilled cheese and soggy mittens as Ford started to laugh.
Amusement , she thought. Amusement felt like tomato soup after a snowball fight.
“Couldn’t have picked better myself, Nix,” Ford said, hoisting one of the sledgehammers. “Though the St. Claire was built as a hotel, so no way was this originally a laundry room. They wouldn’t have put it on the first floor off the lobby.”
“Are we betting? I say dining room.”
“Too small,” Ford said, shaking his head. “I say manager’s office or bar.”
“Loser buys lunch,” Nix said. “On your marks, get set—”
For the next hour all sound and thought was blotted out of Ford’s mind by the noise of the sledgehammer smashing through plaster and brick as they skinned the building’s carcass. The two of them worked opposite sides of the room, their hammers settling into a call and response, where one of them would do a set of strokes, and the other would match it and add one.
Ford working, Sadie discovered, was much calmer than Ford doing anything else. She was making a mental note about the importance of jobs to self-esteem when he stopped and dropped the hammer.
“Did I win?” Nix asked over his shoulder.
“Maybe,” Ford said. “It’s a dumbwaiter. It would have gone from here to the kitchens. And it works!” As he spoke he tugged a faded cord, bringing up a dusty wooden box that arrived with a clatter of clinking plates and cutlery. They were filthy and stacked haphazardly, apparently forgotten decades earlier by the last person to use the room. That is very cool , Sadie thought, and Ford gave a whooooop of joy. He was nearly dancing with happiness, shifting from one foot to the other and pointing. “Do you see that?” he asked Nix. “Someone’s last supper.”
Ford carefully
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