Ryan's Renovation. Marin Thomas
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the proper channels? Seconds ticked by. He had no intention of explaining his grandfather’s shenanigans, or how he’d been forced to become a garbageman in order to learn how to be brave.
After a lengthy silence, she added, “I must have been out to lunch when you were interviewed.”
Interviewed? Yeah, right. If Ryan hadn’t been ticked off at his grandfather over the whole bravery thing, he might have questioned the old man’s a-friend-who-knew-someone-who-knew-someone-who-knew-the-owner explanation. Funny how the old man had a heck of a lot of friends with their tickers still beating.
Anna shoved the forms under the stapler, then smacked the top with her palm. “Bobby phoned a few minutes ago and informed me you were starting this morning.” She motioned to the chair in front of the desk and…yep, smiled. Again.
Did she ever scowl? No normal human being was this happy all the time. Squelching the urge to say something to tick her off, he settled in the chair.
She scribbled his first name on the form, left a space, then wrote in his last name. “Middle initial?”
Although he’d been instructed not to use his real last name, Ryan hadn’t been told not to use his real middle name. “T. Thomas.”
“Social security number?”
He repeated the number, doubting she’d check its validity since he’d be employed such a short time with the company.
“Previous employment?”
Along with keeping his name confidential, he was not to mention his real occupation. His grandfather had insisted Ryan not receive special treatment because of who he was or where he worked. As if garbagemen read the business section of the Times each morning—besides, Ryan hadn’t been in the news for over three years now. “Sales,” he offered, hoping she’d skip specifics.
One light-brown eyebrow arched.
“Computer sales,” he hedged.
The eyebrow drifted back into place, and she beamed as if she’d figured out the mystery of Ryan Jones. “Best Buy? Office Max?”
“Something like that,” he muttered, wishing his grandfather was in the room so he could strangle the old man.
“Address?”
He offered one of his business P.O. box numbers and a Manhattan zip code.
If she recognized the postal code, she didn’t let on. “Emergency contact?”
Ryan recited his grandfather’s cell number—served the meddling old coot right if she called to verify Ryan’s information.
“That’s all I need.” She slipped from behind the desk. “We have time for a quick tour before the others arrive.”
Ryan beat her to the door and held it open. Her eyes rounded as if she wasn’t accustomed to small courtesies.
They entered the garage area and Ryan recognized the two dump trucks he’d spotted from the street. One vehicle was loaded with a pile of construction debris, the other empty. Saws, drills, sledgehammers and various other tools hung from hooks along the back wall.
“Parnell Brothers is best known for their demolition work. With more and more dual-income families moving into Queens, our teardown and cleanout services bring in a fair amount of money for the company.”
“Teardowns?”
The question produced another smile from the boss lady. “You’d be surprised at the number of two-family brownstones being gutted and made into single-family residences.”
“I assumed I’d be helping with garbage collection.”
“We do that, too, for private businesses. The company also volunteers once a month to assist in a community cleanup program. It saddens me that people discard old furniture, broken bottles, tires and a million other trash items in empty lots.”
If she was sad, why was she smiling? The secretary paused, as though expecting a comment. “I noticed a few bad areas when I got off the train,” he mumbled.
“We’re making progress though.” Smile. “Are you up-to-date on your tetanus shot?”
After 9/11 he’d had enough needles shoved into him to cover every disease on the planet. “I’m good.”
Opening a cupboard in the wall, she explained, “Most of the men prefer their own work gloves.” She craned her neck to the side and checked his empty butt pocket. “Feel free to grab a pair to use.”
“Dirty gloves go there.” She motioned to a white basket under the workbench. “I launder them over the weekend.” Anastazia Nowakowski was a woman of many talents—secretary, stand-in boss and mother hen.
Great. A smiling, smothering, mothering, hovering female—just what he didn’t need.
“This is the locker room.” She breezed through a door.
A sickly sweet odor tickled his nostrils. The place didn’t smell like any locker room he’d ever entered. He counted five air fresheners—Fruit Orchard, Apple Blossom, White Gardenia, Hibiscus and Fresh Meadow. How the heck did the men stand the stink?
Anna handed him a key and pointed to locker 23. “Joe Smith is next to you in 24. He’s been with Parnell Brothers for three years. Until you, he was our newest employee.”
Wondering if he could make her frown, Ryan scowled. Nope.
“Don’t worry, Joe’s a nice guy. You’ll get along fine with him.”
Huh? He’d better control his facial muscles, or he’d end up unintentionally offending everyone in the company.
“His father suffered a stroke not long ago, and Joe had to move back in with the family.” She sighed, the rush of air from her mouth feathering across his forearm. “His younger brother got mixed up with a gang. Joe’s been nagging Willie to get out. We’re all worried about the teen.”
Hoping to end Anna’s commentary on Joe’s family, Ryan remained silent. He had no intention of becoming buddy-buddy with any of his coworkers. The less familiar he was with the men, the easier to keep his distance. The trauma of 9/11 had wreaked havoc on his emotions. When the dust of destruction had cleared, a solid, frozen mass of emptiness had remained in his chest. He had nothing left to give to anyone.
“Eryk Gorski is in locker 18. He turned forty last week.” Anna winked. “Whenever anyone has a birthday, I bake a cake and we celebrate.”
Ryan’s birthday was next week. Yee-ha.
“Next is Leon Bauer. He’s forty-five and has been with Parnell Brothers the longest. Twenty years.”
A twenty-year career in garbage? Ryan had to admire the man for sticking with the job that long.
“Leon hasn’t missed more than a day or two of work in all those years.” She leaned forward and whispered, “He can’t stand staying at home. It’s not his wife, Helga, but the other relatives who drive him crazy. Last time I asked, Leon confessed to thirteen people living in the three-bedroom home.”
Her clean feminine scent messed with Ryan’s concentration. In self-defense, he retreated a step, hoping the added space would clear his senses. “When do the other guys arrive?”
“Soon. Next to Leon is Patrick Felch,” Anna said, continuing with the Parnell Brothers’ family tree. “Ask Patrick to sing for you sometime.”
Was she nuts?
“Patrick has a beautiful voice,” Anna droned. “He’s a member of St. Mary’s choir. What church do you belong to, Ryan?”
He’d gone to Sunday services once after his post–9/11 release from the hospital. Mostly to rage at God for what had happened to him. He hadn’t returned since. “Ah…”
Her face softened with understanding.