A neutral observer would have to say that whatever spell Sacra Silver had cast over Mary had been broken. Apparently unhappy with her lack of progress, she shifted her position, sat down, and put both her feet in the space between Carver's shoulder blades for added leverage. She was just getting ready to give the wire another, really serious tug when I stepped between Carver's flailing legs, reached forward, and grabbed her wrists.
"Whoa, sweetheart," I said. "You've got him reined in nicely here. Take it easy. Nice job, incidentally-what you did in there."
But Mary wasn't going to be mollified by any of my sweet talk. She was still tugging on the wire, at the same time pushing on Carver's back with her feet, and threatening to pull me off balance. "I'll kill him, Mongo," she said through bloodless, trembling lips. "I swear I'll kill him."
It was April who, having freed Garth and mercifully turned off the blaring tape recorder, now saved the day, along with Carver's life and my dignity. She and Garth had come out on the deck, and now April quickly stepped behind Mary and put her hands gently on Mary's shoulders, while Garth gripped my forearms to help steady me. "Let go, Mary," April said softly. "It's over now. Let go. Let Mongo and Garth handle him."
Mary gradually relaxed her grip on the wire, although her face remained clenched in rage. Carver fell over on his side, both hands covering his bloody face, and I eased myself down on the deck next to him. April helped the trembling Mary to her feet, and then Garth went to his wife and took her in his arms.
"I have to get Vicky," April continued, gently easing Mary away from Garth, cradling the other woman's bleeding hands.
"Then I'll clean up Mary's cuts. Do you want me to call the police?"
"In about ten minutes," I replied. "After you take care of Vicky and Mary. Tell them to bring a doctor. And, if you will, you can bring our friend here a wet towel."
April nodded, then led Mary, now spent and slumped, into the house. Carver had curled himself up into a fetal position. He-was staring at me with his right eye through a slit in his blood-soaked fingers. There was no hatred now in the eye, not even rage. It looked shiny but empty, like a doll's button eye.
"The man looks like he could use a drink, brother," I said to Garth. "Me too. Would you do the honors?"
Garth looked at me curiously for a few moments, then said, "Somebody call you in off the bench?"
"You did. And you'll like this play."
He shrugged slightly, then turned and walked back into the house.
"I was the one who first warned you about rebound, wasn't I?" I said to the empty, button eye. "Now you're up to your eyeballs in shit, and there's no way you're going to wade out of it. We now have your taped confession admitting complicity in the murder of Tom Blaine, and you'll be facing additional charges of kidnapping and attempted murder. So, can we talk?"
After a long hesitation, Chick Carver nodded his head slightly. Garth appeared with two glass tumblers filled with Scotch and ice. I helped Carver up to a sitting position, then eased him back against the wall behind him. He took his hands away from his face, and it was all I could do not to avert my gaze. Blood continued to ooze from the lacerations on his face. His nose was broken, and it looked like his left eye was gone. Mary had played quite a tune on him. I handed him the generous tumbler of Scotch, which he downed in three long swallows. Garth squatted down beside me, stared at Carver.
"The police are going to be here in a few minutes, Sacra, so listen up," I continued quickly. "Now, I imagine you can try to cut some kind of deal with the cops by offering to tell all you know about Carver Shipping-about how all the executives approved of the idea you put in the suggestion box, how you were taken out to dinner, paid a cash bonus, and all that. Naturally the company will deny it. You tell me if I'm wrong, but I'll bet you don't have anything in writing, and any other bonuses you received were in cash. They're just going to claim you were in league with their mythical rogue captains all along. You're overboard, Sacra, and the sharks are circling. Your ex-bosses get away with the money they made off your idea, and they'll be laughing at you while you go away to prison. There's no way in hell you can escape a long term, and I'm not going to insult your intelligence by telling you there is. But Garth and I may be in a position to help you get something that I think means a great deal to you, and that's the respect of your father. Assuming we can convince the authorities to cooperate, which shouldn't be a problem, we can help you win back that respect, while at the same time getting in some licks at the boys in the gray suits who used you. Are you interested?"
There was another long pause. Then, in a thick voice, Carver said, "Yes."
"Me too," Garth said drily.
I picked up my tumbler of Scotch, handed it to Carver. "Then drink up while you have the chance, and keep listening. I've got a proposition for you. We're going to make Sacra Silver a star."
Epilogue
I stood on a chair and watched through a square viewing portal in the projection booth as the five hundred people who had shown up for the luncheon and shareholders' meeting of Carver Shipping milled about in the grand ballroom of the Times Square hotel, waiting for the gathering to be called to order. There were an unusual number of media representatives, due not only to the notoriety of recent events involving Carver Shipping but also to the presence of the United States Secretary of the Interior-the guest of honor, main speaker, and pompous village idiot who could always be counted on to put his foot in his mouth in any speech lasting more than sixty seconds. The good Secretary was expected to rain praise on this "great American company" and then endorse what was expected to be a routine vote of confidence in the board of directors and a celebration of the company's policies.
At the moment, the Secretary was seated at the center of a flower-bedecked table set up on a stage beneath a theater-size screen. A specially produced promotional film with the title We Love the River was scheduled to be screened in, according to my watch, five minutes. The Secretary, a tall, stooped man, was engaged in animated conversation with Barry Russell, a short, rotund man with a pencil moustache who was the chairman of the board. The Secretary of the Interior was not an impressive-looking man, nor was the chairman of the board, nor, indeed, were any of the directors, men who seemed almost swallowed up in their thousand-dollar suits. I was struck once again by how much the lives of every citizen of the United States were controlled, finally, not by the Sacra Silvers of the world, but by faceless, unimpressive white men in gray suits. I thought they all looked like third-string Godfathers-but then, I was decidedly prejudiced.
At precisely twelve-thirty the chairman pounded a gavel on a lectern set up to the left of the table, and the crowd obediently quieted as people sat down in their seats. Russell motioned for the Secretary and other members of the board schmoozing at the table to take their places in a special section in the front row of seats that had been partitioned off with a thick velvet rope strung between gleaming brass stanchions. They did so, and then the chairman looked up at the booth to signal for the film to begin. As his eyes met mine, he frowned, then cocked his head to one side and squinted, as if there might be some hint of recognition. I gave him a salute and a grin, then turned and signaled Garth to start the projector as I dimmed the auditorium lights on the master control console to my right. Then I turned back to watch the show. The projector began to whir, and Garth stepped up to the viewing portal on the opposite side of the booth.
There were no opening credits at the beginning of the film, and no music-just a stark close-up of Chick Carver's ruined, stitched face. There was a sharp, collective intake of breath from the audience below, which obviously did not find this a suitable image to open a corporate promotional film.