“Sounds as though I should buy some more Schooner stock,” Coldwater said, rewarding Schooner with a broad smile.
“Oh, God,” Schooner moaned, “let’s not get into any insider-trading problems with the SEC. I’m already worried about the antitrust division of the Justice Department; they’re breathing down our necks on the acquisition.”
“Don’t worry, Mel, I’ll be discreet; I’ll buy through third parties, and I’ll spread the buys around — some in Texas, some in New York, some in California.”
“I’d appreciate that, sir,” Schooner said, sounding relieved.
Coldwater gazed off into the distance. The view was spectacular from so high up, and he seemed to drink it in for a full minute of silence. Then he spoke. “Mel, I’m concerned about your spiritual state.”
Schooner looked alarmed. “Oh, sir, I’m certainly working to keep straight.”
“I know you are, Mel; you always have.” He turned and looked at Schooner. “It’s what I’ve come to expect from you,” he said slowly.
Perspiration appeared on Schooner’s forehead. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
“But I want to see a manifestation of your spiritual state,” Coldwater said, keeping his eyes on Schooner’s. “I want more than words; God wants material evidence of your continuing commitment to the church.” He paused. “So do I.”
“Sir, right now ten million dollars is difficult,” Schooner said, his voice trembling.
“Ten million?” Coldwater asked, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that what Kurt has asked you for?”
“Yes, sir; that was the figure he mentioned.”
“I think, say, five million dollars would satisfactorily demonstrate your faith,” Coldwater said.
Schooner seemed almost to swoon with relief. “Oh, I can manage that, sir. I’ll have it in the church account by Monday.”
“In my own account,” Coldwater said. “The Cayman Islands account.”
“Whatever you say, sir.”
“You said you’d ship two million copies of the new WordPlay the first forty-five days?”
“That’s what we anticipate, sir.”
“Good. You can send the other five million the middle of February, to the church account.”
Schooner gulped. “I should be able to do that by then, sir.”
“You won’t disappoint me?” Coldwater asked, placing a fatherly hand on the younger man’s shoulder.
“Oh, no sir,” Schooner blurted. “Of course not.”
Coldwater clapped Schooner sharply on the back. “Good man! Your church can always depend on you!”
“Thank you, sir,” Schooner said, managing a smile.
“You have a very fine soul,” Coldwater said, his gaze boring into Schooner. “Go with God.” He stood up and walked back up the garden path.
Schooner and Ruger stood as he left.
“Mel, would you mind waiting in the car for a moment?” Ruger asked.
“Sure,” Schooner replied, and turned back toward the house.
Ruger walked up the path and rounded a curve. Coldwater was standing beside an iron deer, gazing out over the view.
“Jack Gene?”
Coldwater turned and looked at Ruger.
“There’s something I thought you’d want to know.”
“What is it?”
“Herman Muller has made Jesse Barron the assistant manager at Wood Products.”
“What?”
“I know, it’s entirely unexpected.”
“Barron hasn’t been there eight weeks yet, has he?”
“Just about that.”
“Herman has never let anybody help him manage that place.”
“It occurred to me that it might be some sort of defensive move.”
“That’s possible, I suppose. We haven’t entirely coopted Barron, yet. Maybe Herman thinks of him as an ally against us.”
“I think that must be it.”
Coldwater turned and looked out over the mountains again. “Still, eight weeks on the job, starting on the hopper like everybody else. That’s very impressive.”
“I suppose it is,” Ruger replied.
“Kurt, I think it’s about time I met Jesse Barron.”
“I’ll see to it, Jack Gene.”
“Let’s keep it subtle; I just want to get the feel of him.”
“Consider it done.”
Coldwater’s attention seemed to drift back to the landscape. “Thank you, Kurt.”
Ruger backed away, then went to join Schooner.
Chapter 22
Jesse stood by the truck and looked at the First Church of St. Clair. It was medium-sized, as churches go, prosperous looking, a Greek facade topped by a soaring steeple. The building sat on a broad lawn, now covered by snow, at the base of the mountain that loomed over the town. It was a respectable-looking church, Jesse thought.
Jenny took Carey to church faithfully, every Sunday morning, but she had never asked Jesse to come. Then, that morning, she had snuggled up to him in bed, pressed her naked breasts against his back and said, “There’s a communal Thanksgiving dinner at the church today. Carey and I would like you to come.”
“I’d like that,” he had responded, relieved that she had finally given him an excuse to see the congregation up close.
Jenny led him into the auditorium, and Jesse was stopped in his tracks at the sight of the place. It was not very different from the more prosperous churches where his father had preached, with one exception: at the rear of the church, looming over the choir loft, was a large stained-glass window depicting Jesus Christ, who was holding in his hand, not a dove, but a pair of lightning bolts. Jesse’s attention was drawn to the face; something about it was odd. As Jesse followed Jenny down a side aisle, the face seemed to change slightly, until another face was revealed. It recalled the optician’s billboard in The Great Gatsby; the eyes seemed to follow him as the face changed.
He followed Jenny down a flight of stairs, and they emerged into a large basement room with a table that stretched nearly the length of the church. There was a great bustle as women set the table and streamed from the kitchen with platters of food, while others stood to one side of the room with their children. Carey ran over to a small group and greeted two other little girls.
On the other side of the table, standing in threes and fours, the men waited, chatting idly and watching the progress of food from the kitchen.
Jenny tugged at his sleeve. “Why don’t you go over there and introduce yourself to some of the men?” she asked. Then, without waiting for a reply, she followed Carey to the clutch of women.
Feeling abandoned, Jesse walked around the long table and approached the men. He was relieved to see somebody he knew.
“Hey there, Jesse,” Pat Casey said, extending his hand. “Let me introduce you to some fellows. This is Luther Williams, that’s Paul Carter, and over there is Hank Twomy.”
Jesse shook their hands and sensed a reserve among the men. They had stopped talking as he approached.
“I’m glad to see you here,” Casey said. “We should have gotten you to church a long time ago.”
“Thanks, Pat; I’m glad to be here.”
“Congratulations on your promotion. You’re moving right up at Wood Products.”
“Thanks,” Jesse said quietly.
“Herman Muller must think highly of you.”
Jesse shrugged. “I’m glad to make a little more money. I appreciate you sending me down there. I don’t know where I’d be if you hadn’t been nice enough to do that.”
“Glad to be of help, and I’m glad to see you settling into our town so well. It’s starting to seem like you’ve always been here.”
“It seems like that to me, too,” Jesse replied, truthfully. “If you’d have told me three months ago that I’d be where I am now, I’d have thought you were crazy.” That was the truth, too. In fact, he had expected to be dead by this time.