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I didn't want to ask that Guinea bastard to move his van, but my twenty-foot lengths of steel pipe weren't going to make it into the building with the entrance blocked. I'd worked on jobs with these clowns before and knew that the whole "Asbestos Abatement" scam was just another mob cover up. Come on, the men in charge of this outfit brought pans of sausage and peppers for the guys once a week and played Sinatra all day long in their break room while using their cell phones to creatively berate the less fortunate in their thick Brooklynese. And that one kid, the son of one of the owners who was younger than me and always had a toothpick in the corner of that shit-eating grin that I'd give a week's pay to slap off his face-- he was on this job too, and still walked right by me like I was nobody just because I actually get my hands dirty for a living. I didn't want to have to ask whoever it was hunched over in the side of the van to move it, but again with those Goddamn pipes...

"No problem, man," said a friendly, middle-aged I-talian who was sneaking a smoke in the back of the company vehicle since it was prohibited on school property. "Where's good for you?"

I instantly felt like an asshole. Well, a bigger one.

"Anywhere you want. Just not in front of this door."

"Hey, weren't you on that job down the road? The courthouse renovation?"

"Yeah, that was me. Working for a better outfit now."

"My old man was a plumber. He tried to teach me, but I wasn't ready to learn a trade then."

"At least you still keep it in the family."

The mafia joke didn't go over so well. He flicked his butt into the lawn, suddenly unafraid of the repercussions.

"Whattaya mean by that?"

"Isn't that kid with the toothpick your son?"

Good save, Mike.

"Ha! That brat? That's the boss' kid. I can't stand that little prick. Thinks his shit don't stink."

"Yeah, at least you wear your gold horn necklace on the inside of your shirt."

I had to. I just had to.

"It reminds me where to stop shaving," he replied. He must've heard the joke before. "Let me move this hunk'a shit outta the way before both our foremen bust our balls for bullshittin' like normal human beings."

As he stepped away from the side door of the white service van I saw two aluminum baseball bats tucked into the frame of the door, poised and ready for action.

"You guys have a company softball team?"

He looked at me and smiled.

"Ya' never know what you're going to run into..."

"You must work in some nice neighborhoods."

"This Newburgh shithole's worse than most parts of the City."

"It's not so bad. Just be sure to look 'em in the eyes."

I knew he wouldn't need any clarification.

"As long as I take a few down with me," he said with a smile boasting of its sincerity via several missing teeth.

"And Jesus, you've got two bats there..."

"One for me, one for my partner."

We both heard the door open behind us, but didn't realize who it was until after he took the toothpick out of his mouth to speak.

"You keep runnin' your mouth instead of workin' and the only partner you'll have will be your old lady sittin' next to you on the couch."

"Sorry, boss," said my newfound friend. "Just gotta move the van for the fitters real quick."

"So do it already," said our mutual arch-nemesis.

We shot each other a look that said "You take one bat, I'll take the other. We'll do this little shithead in"; but we didn't. He walked around to the driver's seat, I went to fetch my Goddamn pipes. It was a moment we'd save for another time, another life, where we'd be the ones blasting Sinatra non-stop to the chagrin of frustrated mere mortals. Nah, that's not our style.