Chapter 2 - THE HANDS UNDER THE GLOVES
By Monday morning, everyone in Kettle Hollow knew Josephine Marsh was sleeping at the Iron House.
By noon, they knew Salvatore Amato had hired her.
By supper, the story had improved itself.
She was his mistress.
Then his mechanic.
Then his witch.
Then his mechanic again.
Kettle Hollow had never allowed facts to remain lonely when rumor was available.
Josephine ignored all of it.
At 6:30 Monday morning, she stood in the Iron House boiler room wearing trousers beneath her dress, gloves off, hair pinned beneath a scarf.
Bruno had found two local laborers willing to help.
They lasted fourteen minutes.
The first saw Josephine’s hands and stared.
The second recognized her.
“You.”
Josephine kept working.
“Yes.”
“My uncle died that night.”
She looked up.
“Name?”
“Samuel Pike.”
Third name.
The fireman on the upper level.
Josephine lowered the wrench.
“I’m sorry.”
The man’s face hardened.
“My mother says you opened the wrong line.”
“No.”
“You saying she lies?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I’m saying the report did.”
He stepped closer.
Bruno moved.
Salvatore, standing by the stairs, raised one hand.
No.
Josephine did not move.
The laborer looked at her burned hands.
“You got out.”
“Yes.”
“My uncle didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Josephine swallowed.
“Because he went back for the oil-room key after my father told everyone to clear.”
The man froze.
“What?”
“Samuel believed the oil door had to be locked before evacuation.”
“That’s not what they said.”
“I know.”
“You saw?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell my mother?”
Josephine’s face changed.
“I did.”
Silence.
“She closed the door in my face.”
The man looked away.
That hurt more.
Josephine continued.
“She had just buried her brother. I was the woman the company blamed. She did not owe me belief.”
He stared at floor.
Then at Salvatore.
“I'm not working under her.”
Josephine nodded.
“All right.”
Salvatore said:
“You’ll be paid for the hour.”
The man looked surprised.
“I was here fourteen minutes.”
“Then fourteen minutes.”
Josephine turned.
“Weekly in a book.”
Salvatore looked at her.
Right.
She opened ledger.
Wrote both names and time.
The second laborer left with first.
Bruno watched them go.
“Well.”
Josephine picked up wrench.
“Now you need two more hands.”
Salvatore removed coat.
She looked at him.
“No.”
“You are out of alternatives.”
“I can wait.”
“You said daylight.”
“I said daylight and two more hands. I did not say today.”
He stepped closer to inspection plate.
“How heavy?”
“One hundred pounds.”
“Bruno?”
Bruno sighed.
“I was born betrayed.”
Josephine stared at both men.
Then:
“You do exactly what I say.”
Salvatore smiled.
“There she is.”
“What?”
“The employee giving orders.”
“You are in my boiler room.”
He looked around.
“Technically mine.”
“Then freeze in it.”
Bruno laughed.
Salvatore surrendered.
They lifted.
Josephine directed.
The rear plate came free.
Inside, fire tubes carried thick soot.
One had split near the crown.
Josephine’s face tightened.
“Do not fire this.”
Salvatore looked.
“Can it be repaired?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Depends if the tube sheet is sound.”
“And if not?”
“Your fifty-dollar woman becomes expensive.”
He looked at her.
“Good.”
Her expression sharpened.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Make that joke.”
Salvatore understood a second too late.
Fifty-dollar woman.
Public price.
He set down tool.
“You’re right.”
No excuse.
Josephine stared.
Then nodded.
Work continued.
By noon, she had a list.
Two replacement tubes.
New gauge glass.
Feed-pump packing.
Safety valve test.
Chimney sweep.
Door gaskets.
Salvatore read.
“How much?”
“Parts maybe seventy dollars.”
“Labor?”
“My wage.”
“How much is your wage?”
Josephine looked at him.
They had not set it.
“Plant steammen make four dollars and eighty cents for a ten-hour shift.”
“In 1931?”
“Before cuts.”
“What do they make now?”
“Three sixty.”
“I’ll pay five.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“Why?”
“Because then everyone says I’m paid for something else.”
Salvatore understood.
“Four eighty.”
“Four.”
“Why less?”
“I have no union card.”
“You have eleven years’ experience.”
“Eight.”
“Your father made you sweep four months. Count it.”
She almost smiled.
“Four fifty.”
“Done.”
She wrote it herself.
$4.50 / 10 HOURS.
OVERTIME BY AGREEMENT.
PAID WEEKLY.
Both signed.
Bruno looked at ledger.
“I have negotiated with gunrunners faster.”
Josephine looked at him.
Salvatore looked at him too.
Bruno sighed.
“What?”
Josephine said:
“At least one of you admits what business you’re in.”
There it was.
No one had told her.
She was not stupid.
Salvatore leaned against boiler.
“What have you heard?”
“That you control liquor coming down from Canada through three states.”
“False.”
Bruno raised eyebrow.
Salvatore continued.
“Two states.”
Josephine stared.
Then, unexpectedly, laughed.
It lasted one second.
Salvatore wanted another.
He did not chase it.
“You bought the Iron House for liquor?”
“Partly.”
Her face closed.
“What other part?”
“Rooms. Freight stop. Card room.”
“Legal card room?”
“No.”
“Of course.”
“You asked.”
She put gloves back on.
“Then understand my terms.”
He waited.
“I repair heat. I do not repair stills, hidden rooms, trucks carrying liquor, gun lockers, or any machine whose purpose is to make your other business easier.”
Bruno looked impressed.
Salvatore said:
“Agreed.”
“Written.”
He smiled.
“Of course.”
She added it to ledger.
NO ILLEGAL PLANT WORK.
NO STORAGE EQUIPMENT.
NO CONCEALED ROUTE MODIFICATIONS.
Salvatore signed.
Bruno said:
“She has better contracts than you.”
“Quiet.”
“Joke?”
Salvatore sighed.
“Yes.”
By Tuesday, replacement boiler tubes were ordered from Pittsburgh.
No local supplier would sell to Josephine directly.
They would sell to Salvatore.
She hated that.
He did not pretend otherwise.
“They know my name.”
“They know you have money.”
“Same thing often.”
“That’s the problem.”
He had no answer.
So he placed order under Iron House account and put Josephine as receiving inspector.
Small.
Not enough.
Useful.
That afternoon, she walked around exterior.
The chimney had a bird nest.
Flue cracked.
Roof flashing failed.
She wrote everything.
Salvatore followed.
“Do you write every defect?”
“Yes.”
“What if I don’t want to know?”
“Then don’t hire someone who does.”
Good.
At four, they passed old laundry shed.
Josephine stopped.
A pile of scrap metal lay beneath snow.
She crouched.
Pulled free a rusted brass tag.
KETTLE HOLLOW COAL COMPANY.
CENTRAL STEAM.
VALVE 3.
1925.
Her face went white.
Salvatore looked.
“What?”
“That tag should be in the plant.”
“Maybe replaced.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because company report said Valve Three remained in service after the accident and passed inspection.”
She turned tag over.
Stamped:
REMOVED 2/16/28.
Two days after the explosion.
Salvatore stared.
“If they removed it—”
“They knew.”
“Could have removed after failure normally.”
“Yes.”
Good.
She breathed.
“Could be.”
Not jumping.
Then she looked through scrap.
Another piece.
A broken latch arm.
Casting number.
Her scarred fingers trembled.
“This is from the West Run release.”
“The lever you held?”
“Latch.”
She turned it.
On the fracture face, an old drilled hole had been filled with a crude steel pin.
Repair.
Not original.
“This was modified.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would that cause failure?”
“It could keep latch from seating under load.”
Exactly what she reported.
Salvatore’s stomach tightened.
“Why is it at hotel?”
Josephine looked toward road.
Before Iron House closed, company maintenance crews had used laundry shed as overflow scrap storage.
Possible.
Not conspiracy.
Still.
She wrapped latch in cloth.
“Do not touch.”
He almost laughed.
“Now you sound like police.”
“I sound like someone who had evidence disappear once.”
Good.
They photographed? 1931 no easy camera maybe Salvatore has one. Bruno fetched box camera from car.
He took photographs with date written on slate beside part.
Then Josephine sealed it in a flour sack and signed across string.
Salvatore added his initials.
Chain of custody before phrase became common.
That evening, Bruno returned from town with news.
“The clerk from debt table wants to speak.”
Josephine’s face hardened.
“Harold Boone?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He says he found something.”
“What?”
“He will only show Salvatore.”
Josephine turned away.
“No.”
Salvatore looked at Bruno.
“No?”
“He either shows the person whose life the report ruined or he keeps it.”
Bruno nodded.
“I’ll tell him.”
Salvatore said nothing.
Good.
At seven, someone knocked.
Harold Boone entered Iron House carrying a tin document box.
He removed hat.
Did not look at Josephine.
“I didn’t know she’d be here.”
Josephine sat at lobby table.
“This is where I work.”
Boone looked at Salvatore.
“I need to speak private.”
Salvatore shook head.
“No.”
Boone’s mouth tightened.
“You don’t understand.”
Josephine said:
“Then leave.”
He looked at her.
For three years, Boone had drawn lines through people’s debts.
Read names.
Read punishments.
Now he looked old.
“I copied the report.”
Josephine stopped breathing.
“Which?”
“The first draft.”
Silence.
Boone placed tin box on table.
“I was clerk in plant office then.”
Josephine stared.
“You testified the maintenance records were complete.”
His face broke.
“I lied.”
No one moved.
Boone opened box.
Inside lay seven yellowing pages.
The first line of page two had been crossed through in blue pencil.
VALVE 3 LATCH REPORTED UNRELIABLE UNDER HIGH LOAD.
Above it, in black company ink:
VALVE 3 INSPECTED AND FOUND SERVICEABLE.
Josephine’s scarred hands flattened against table.
Salvatore looked at Boone.
“Who changed it?”
Boone swallowed.
“Superintendent Caleb Sutter.”
Josephine’s eyes lifted.
“Why?”
Boone looked at her.
“Because the company had received the replacement valve 11 days before your father died.”
The room went still.
May you like
“And they never installed it.”
No one needed an engineer to understand that.
