Free The Pacific and Other Stories by Mark Helprin

men on the same job, the shuffling was prodigious. Although clients didn’t appreciate it, it was necessary for meeting his payroll. His men often had large families. They were immigrants for the most part, but also actors, writers, and painters who painted walls by day and then returned to unheated lofts to paint their canvases by night. One of these, a hair-thin Scotsman named Starr, whose paintings had greatly increased in size after he had begun to paint walls, lived on a diet mainly of hard-boiled eggs and beer. Because he was feather-light and driven, he could feed himself on twenty dollars a week, and did, so he could pay for his share of a loft in Dumbo and spend the rest of his earnings on colors, which he needed in prodigious amounts.
    Fitch had two cell phones, and by the time he reached Eighth Avenue had already taken two calls, one in English and one in Spanish. His three best men, his foremen, were Colombians who in their country had managed large enterprises—a furniture manufacturing company, a group of restaurants, and a trucking line. They each would direct a job and sometimes two, running them with what might have been characterized as Swiss precision were it not as easygoing as they were.
    Fitch was faultlessly honest, his lieutenants were skilled and efficient, and he and they were well spoken and civilized. Because of this, the Fitch Company was backed up for two years and could have been backed up for ten. They gave reasonable estimates, did the highest-quality work, finished on time, and had the bearing of hidalgos: that is except for Fitch, who had the bearing of Fitch.
    Everything ran at a wheeled pace, and what had to be done was done with energy and rapidity. They were tired neither at the beginning nor at the end of a job, because for them it was all an even tapestry. After punch list and payment, Fitch would go right to the next site, where his crew would already have been at work. They rolled through each day at the same fast, sustainablepace, renovating and finishing interiors in every borough of the city. As Fitch sped along, his phone rang again and a dozen people looked at their purses or felt their pockets. “Ya,” he said unceremoniously, thinking that it was Gustavo, who had told him that he would call right back with a materials list for the space they were doing in the Thread Building. Clients never called before seven, and people who wanted an estimate would always call after dinner. Static on the phone as Fitch walked and changed position briefly cut out the other party, so he said, “Gustavo? Gustavo?” and then the connection was reestablished.
    “Mr. Fitch?” asked a woman’s voice.
    “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”
    “I apologize for calling so early. Is this a bad time? If you like, I can call later.”
    He stopped, to make sure the connection was pure and stayed that way. “No, this is a good time. Are you happy with the kitchen?”
    “You recognized my voice.”
    “I did.”
    “After two years? That’s amazing.”
    “I do that,” he said.
    “The kitchen’s worked out very well. We had a problem with the microwave oven, but that had nothing to do with the renovation.”
    Fitch nodded. “What can I do for you?” he asked, as the subway rushed by, pushing warm air up through the grates, and then pulling frigid air in after it as it disappeared, its noise growing fainter.
    “We redid the kitchen so we could sell the apartment, and last summer we finally did. The closing was yesterday.”
    “I hope you did well,” Fitch said.
    “Yes, and this morning I’m going to close on a duplex in Brooklyn Heights.” She told him the address.
    Because there was silence on the line, he moved around to pick up a better signal, saying, “Hello? Hello?”
    “It needs some work,” she said. “It’s unoccupied, which I suppose would make it easier than the last job.”
    Fitch was totally backed up with work, but rather than simply turningher down—if