Free Backward-Facing Man by Don Silver Page B

stuff?”
    â€œThe degreaser.”
    â€œWhy’s that?” Porter said.
    â€œTCE is toxic,” the fat man said, arching his eyebrows. “It’s against the r-r-regs.” Arthur Puckman wiped his face with the handkerchief.
    â€œSo who told him to do it?” Coleman asked warily.
    â€œSame guy who makes all the d-d-decisions around here.”
    â€œWho’s that?” Porter kept the camera trained on him.
    â€œMy b-b-brother.”
    Coleman Porter confirmed that the record light was still on, and he moved the camera to be sure the fat man was in the viewfinder. “You’re saying your brother knew he was breaking the rules?” he asked.
    â€œHe didn’t p-p-post MSDS sheets, or use respirators, or b-b-buy safety gloves,” the fat man said, raising his voice now. “I kept t-t-telling him this kind of thing would happen someday.” Arthur Puckman wiped his mouth with a handkerchief.
    â€œWhy didn’t he do something about it?”
    With weariness akin to remorse, Arthur Puckman answered into the camera. “He’s the o-o-o-one who makes the decisions. He’s the one who writes the checks—the b-b-big shot—the one who always h-has to be in charge, the one my father trusts. Over the years, I told him a l-l-lot of things. But he ignored me.”
    The fat man kept talking, dragging his brother down, blaming him for everything bad that happened, but by then, Coleman Porter had stopped listening. He’d gotten everything he needed for a scoop—a little local color from the neighbors, footage of the victim being carried on a stretcher, and this special bonus—one brother ratting out the other. This story would run locally, no question, but it might also get picked up. It would be worth a grand, easy, maybe two. It could even lead, which would bring him more work, possibly even reinstatement by the bureau chief who’d sworn never to put a press pass in the hands of Coleman Porter again. A moment later, the ambulance backed out of the plant, its lights flashing on the walls, its siren drowning out Arthur Puckman’s words.
    Â 
    From the phone in his truck, Coleman called Billy Patrick. “You hear about the Puckman factory?”
    â€œWhat about it?”
    â€œOne of the workers went down. They’re taking him away in an ambulance.”
    â€œSo what?” Patrick was on his way home, eating a pretzel with his free hand.
    â€œHe sucked in fumes.”
    â€œThat’s too bad, Porter.”
    â€œYeah, very bad. The guy could be dead.”
    â€œWhat are you calling me for?” Patrick said, swallowing.
    â€œI got a crooner,” Coleman Porter told the cop.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Patrick asked, taking another bite.
    â€œI got a guy on video,” Porter said, smiling, “saying it was his brother’s fault.”
    â€œWhat do you want, a medal?”
    Porter had expected a more favorable response than this. “I got the factory owner admitting safety violations,” Porter said. “This is a fucking homicide, man.”
    â€œIs that your theory?” Patrick was sneering.
    â€œYou want to ignore it, fine. I’ll take it to the media and tell them Philly cops aren’t interested in protecting minority workers.”
    Billy Patrick had just worked a double shift, and he was only a couple miles from home. The notion of Coleman Porter telling the public anything was almost absurd. Now and then, the freelance photographer came up with something good, but most of the time, he was full of shit. He’d give you something that sounded interesting on the surface, but it almost always turned out to be bogus. You had to vet everything or risk making a fool out of yourself. “I’ve been on the street for twelve hours, and I’m heading home—”
    â€œI’m giving you a fucking tip, man. That’s what you pretend to pay me for, isn’t it?