BACKFILL (Lexington Avenue Express Book 37)

BACKFILL (a Lexington Avenue Express short story - 1,450 words) "That's Buck Rutherford operating the excavator, I drive the dump truck, the rest of the help is temporary," the foreman shouts over the din of diesel engine clatter. Rutherford won't glance toward the visitor. The operator's eyes are dark, his gaze steady, perhaps too steady on the load suspended beneath the mechanical arm he so deftly controls. His unyielding concentration serves as a barrier between him and the young police officer, a barrier Rutherford has learned to use for protection. "How many of these tank swap-outs you do a month?" the uniformed officer asks as he jots in a small, black notebook. "We can do five, maybe six if the weather is good. Almost all the old steel tanks are gone now but the EPA says you have to cycle these new fiberglass tanks every ten years; if you don’t replace the tanks you have to sink a monitoring well. Convenience stores change hands a lot and the new owners never want to assume the liability of an old underground gasoline storage tank." "Job SECURITY, HUH," the excavator's engine unexpectedly idles down and the sudden quiet transforms the officer's comment into an odd shout. "S'cuse me for just a minute," the job foreman says with a smile. As the officer watches, the big man leaps like a pot-bellied ballerina, dancing lightly over the muddy ground. Each bounding step brings him closer to Buck Rutherford seated in the operator compartment of the hydraulic excavator. The construction site is unremarkable. The old convenience store west of Memphis is temporarily closed for a complete renovation. As the foreman climbs up on the tracks and leans inside the excavator for a brief conversation, workers on the ground use long poles to steady the eight thousand gallon fiberglass fuel tank dangling from straps on the end of the excavator boom. A moment later, the diesel engine roars back to high-idle and the foreman retraces his hard-hat pirouette to the point where the officer is standing. The policeman has moved a few steps nearer the frontage road and shades his eyes as he peers in the window of a muddy, blue pickup with the logo 'FUEL-CORP SOUTH' stenciled on the door. "How many of these dark blue pickups does the company operate?" the officer inquires as he turns toward the foreman. "Jeez, I don't know … must be at least fifteen or sixteen of ‘em here around Memphis--" "Last night in a parking lot off Beale Street," the officer interrupts, "a witness claims to have seen a screaming woman pulled into a blue pickup truck with a sign on the door. It may be nothing but we're following up …" the officer's voice trails off as he turns to watch the tank disappear below the rim of the deep, sand-filled crater.

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