On the opposite side of the sluice the ground sloped down and Charles could approach the level of the lagoon. From the makeshift appearance of the setup, particularly the incompetently constructed dam, Charles knew that the discarded chemicals in the lagoon continuously made their way into the river. He wanted a sample of that syrupy fluid. He bent down at the edge and, holding on to the upper lip of one of the jars, collected a pint or so of the slowly bubbling sludge. Using a bit of snow, Charles wiped off the jar, capped it, and left it to be retrieved on the way back. Meanwhile he wanted a photo of the dam, which kept this chemical cesspool from totally emptying itself into the river below.
Wally Crabb had taken an early dinner break from the rubber ovens with the two guys he played poker with: Angelo DeJesus and Giorgio Brezowski. Sitting at one of the picnic tables in the lunchroom, they’d played blackjack while they absentmindedly consumed their sandwiches. It hadn’t been a good evening for Wally. By six-twenty he was down about thirteen dollars and it didn’t seem like his luck was going to change. And to make matters worse, Brezowski was teasing him by flashing his toothless smile after every hand, silently saying “so long, sucker.” Brezo had lost his front teeth in a barroom brawl in Lowell, Massachusetts, two years ago.
Brezo dealt Wally a face card and a four of spades. When Wally asked him for a hit, Brezo socked him with another face card, sending him over twenty-one.
“Shit!” yelled Wally, slamming the cards down and swinging his massive legs from beneath the picnic table. He pushed himself to his feet and lumbered over to the cigarette machine.
“You out, big boy?” jeered Brezo, resuming play with Angelo.
Wally didn’t answer. He put his coins in the cigarette machine, punched his selection, and waited. Nothing happened. At least nothing inside the machine. Inside Wally’s brain it was like snapping a piano wire stretched to its tensile limit. With a powerful kick he jarred the machine, moving it back on its supports to thump the wall. Cocking his hand back to follow up with a right cross to the coin return, he saw a light flash outside the dark window.
To Brezo and Angelo’s disappointment—they had been hoping to watch the destruction of the cigarette machine—Wally’s cocked arm sank and he pressed his face against the window. “What the fuck, we going to have a thunderstorm now?” asked Wally. Then he saw the flash again, but this time caught a glimpse of its source. For an instant he saw a figure, arms to his face, legs slightly spread.
“It’s a goddamned camera,” said Wally, astonished. “Somebody is taking pictures of the lagoon.”
Wally reached for the phone and dialed Nat Archer’s office. He told the super what he’d seen.
“Must be that Martel nut,” said Nat Archer. “Who are you with, Wally?”
“Just Brezo and Angelo.”
“Why don’t you three go out there and see who it is. If it’s Martel, then teach him a lesson. Mr. Dawson told me that if he showed up again to make sure it was his last visit. Remember the guy is out there illegally. He’s trespassing.”
“You got it,” said Wally, hanging up the receiver. Turning to his buddies and cracking his knuckles, he said, “We’re going to have some fun. Get your coats.”
After photographing the dam, Charles worked his way over to the metal holding tanks. With the flashlight he tried to make sense out of the profusion of pipes and valves. One pipe led directly to a fenced-off area at the edge of the parking lot and obviously served as the off-load site. Another pipe coursed away from the tanks and with a T-connector joined the roof drain conduit on its way to the river bank. Using great care to keep from slipping down the embankment, Charles managed to get to the edge, which was some twenty feet above the surface of the river. The roof drain ended abruptly, spilling its contents down the embankment. The smell of benzene was intense and below the pipe was a patch of open water. The rest of the river was solidly frozen and covered with snow. After taking several pictures of the pipe, Charles leaned out with his second jar and caught some of the fluid dripping from the end. When he thought he had enough, he closed the jar and left it next to the first one. He was almost finished; his mission was more successful than he had hoped. He just wanted to photograph the T-connection between the pipe from the storage tanks and the drain conduit and the feed pipe from the storage tanks back to where it emerged from the factory.
A slight wind had come up, and the once-lazy snowflakes were now being driven into Charles’s face. Before taking the picture, he dusted the snow off the pipes, then sighed through the viewfinder. He wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to get the T-connector and the storage tanks in the same photo, so he stepped over the pipes, squatted down, and sighted again. Satisfied, he depressed the shutter mechanism but nothing happened. Looking at the camera, he realized he hadn’t turned the flash bar around. He did so quickly, then sighed again. Now he could see the storage tank, the pipe coming from the tank, and the juncture with the roof drain. It was perfect. He pushed the shutter release.
The flash of the camera was followed instantly by a sudden, powerful jerk as the Polaroid camera was torn from Charles’s fingers. He looked up from his crouching position to see three men in hooded parkas, silhouetted against the dark sky. They had him cornered against the storage tanks. Before Charles could move, the camera was tossed end over end into the center of the black lagoon.
Charles stood up, struggling to see the faces beneath the hoods. Without words, the two smaller men lunged forward and grabbed his arms. The sudden movement caught Charles off guard and he didn’t struggle. The third man, the big one, went through Charles’s coat pockets, finding the small collection of photographs. With a flick of the wrist they followed the camera into the chemical pond, appearing like white wafers on the surface.
The men let Charles go and stepped back. Charles still couldn’t see their faces, and it made their appearance that much more frightening. Charles panicked and tried to run between one of the smaller men and the storage tank. The man reacted instantly, jabbing a fist into Charles’s face and connecting with his nose. The blow stunned Charles, bringing a slight trickle of blood down his chin.
“Nice poke, Brezo,” laughed Wally.
Charles recognized the voice.
The men pushed him toward the chemical lagoon so that he stumbled over the pipes underfoot. Teasing him, they cuffed his head with open hands, slapping his ears. Charles vainly tried to parry the flutter of blows.
“Trespassing, eh?” said Brezo.
“Looking for trouble, eh?” said Angelo.
“I think he found it,” said Wally.
They crowded Charles to the very edge of the cesspool of acrid chemicals. A glancing blow knocked his hat into the fluid.
“How about a quick dip?” taunted Wally.
With one arm over his face, Charles drew out his flashlight with the other hand and lashed at his nearest assailant.
Brezo eluded the roundhouse blow easily by shifting his weight.
Expecting contact and not getting it, Charles slipped in the melted snow and fell to his hands and knees in the foul mud. The flashlight shattered.
Brezo, having eluded the blow, found himself teetering on the edge of the lagoon. To keep from falling bodily into the pool, he was forced into the ooze to mid-calf before Wally grabbed his jacket, pulling him free.
“Shit!” cried Brezo as he felt the corrosive chemical singe his skin. He knew he had to get his leg into water as soon as possible. Angelo pulled Brezo’s arm over his shoulder, supporting him and, as if in a three-legged race, the two men hurried back toward the entrance of Recycle, Ltd.