“Yes.”
“Slimy little jerk, isn’t he?”
“Yes. What were you doing with him?”
“Getting him to agree to cut Malden off from any further credit.”
“And did he?”
“Did he ever! I was amazed at how eager he was to agree. He really seems to have it in for Malden for some reason.”
“Doesn’t his bank hold a mortgage on Malden’s farm?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Stands to reason. They hold mortgages on every other farm in the area. Did you persuade him to foreclose?”
“He can’t. Malden’s payments are all up to date. To foreclose, he has to fall behind. I gather that if he does, Barker will fall on him like a ton of bricks. We’re investigating what can be done to push Malden into debt so this will be possible. . . .”
The first time in Don’s hotel room . . . .Wilma’s hair red on the white sheets; Wilma’s mouth voracious; Wilma’s hand on Don’s naked hip, pulling him over on his side. . . . Split-second timing and sharp fingernails poised behind him and striking, plunging home to scar his pleasure with unexpected pain, tearing at the anus, drawing blood, sharp claws all the way up inside his body as if it were female at the very moment that it was being drained of its maleness. ... Then more talk....
“How have things been going with Malden, lover?”
“We’re squeezing him. I spent the day with a fellow name of Birdwell. Prissy, old-maidish sort of guy.”
“He’s a schoolteacher, isn’t he?”
“Used to be. I guess they kicked him upstairs. Typical small-town stuff, I guess. He’s an irascible old bachelor and he seems to hate kids. Kept going off on tangents about how they’ll do anything to make a teacher’s life miserable. Seemed to have a particular mad on against little girls. Kept mumbling things like ‘Seduction and then holler rape, the teacher-teasing little bitches.’ I couldn’t make much sense out of it.”
“What’s he‘ got to do with Malden?”
“Seems he’s a key man on the local school board. Whatever he recommends, the others follow. I guess because he used to be a teacher and maybe because—if what I hear is right—he’s the only one that takes any real interest in the town’s school. Anyway, he seems to call the shots for the board.”
“I still don’t see what it has to do with Malden.”
“Birdwell’s going to propose a reassessment of his property for school taxes. Also, he’s going to push for a districting bill that’ll make taxes higher the closer a man’s property is to town. These two things will hit Malden right in the pocketbook -- where it counts.”
“But the school board doesn’t assess property values.”
“True. But their recommendations are listened to. When it comes to the actual assessment, Barker over at the bank promises he can get the township to appoint someone to do it who’s friendly to our side.”
“Who?”
“I think the name he mentioned was Angus Morton. Anyway, it has to be someone outside the town-ship limits according to law. So it will be a fair appraisal.”
They both laughed. . . .
The second time in Don’s hotel room . . . rather, the private bathroom connecting to it . . . .The large, old-fashioned tub filled with hot water . . . . Don and Wilma facing each other with the steam rising around them; Wilma soaping him and rinsing him, her small, scarlet-tipped breasts bobbling on the surface; Don arching his hips and Wilma bending low, taking a deep breath, and dipping her lips beneath the water as though they were a net set to ensnare a fish. . . . The fish caught, the red hair floating to the surface, a stream of telltale bubbles, and then the translucent white geyser spouting to the surface. . . Later, playful toweling and another kind of fishing . . . .
“What did you do today?”
“Saw Joe Ambler.”
“The fellow who runs the general store?”
“That’s him. Seems he sells a lot of the farmers and workers around on credit—including Ben Malden. Doesn’t like Malden, though. Seemed positively tickled to cooperate in forcing Malden out of business. ”
“What’s he going to do?”
“First cut off his credit altogether. Second demand immediate payment of the bill Malden owes him. Malden can’t pay. We know that. He doesn’t get his check for the hogs he’s sold until the fifteenth of next month. Ambler’s going to sue him and we’re going to push the case into the courts right away. If Ambler can get a lien on Malden’s property, that entitles the bank to foreclose under the terms of the mortgage agreement.”
“It sounds like you’ve got Malden where you want him.”
“Well, we’re closing in on him . . . .”
Another time, one of many, in the hotel room. . . . Pitch black, Don’s face invisible up near the headboard, Wilma pillowed on his stomach. . . . Teeth, lips, tongue; biting, kissing, teasing; thighs trembling, stomach knotting, penis half-fleeing, half-seeking sweet torture. . . a feather transferred from slender fingers to pursed mouth. . . crazed, begging laughter ringing out; body gone mad and thrashing; no escape, except at the crucial moment reached and withheld again and again. . . pleading at the drawn-out and aborted series of sensations. . . and finally the honey-bee lips vacuuming the pollen from the ravaged flower petal. . . . It was excruciating. . . . All to lead up to. . . .
“How’s my Continental Machiavelli making out lately?”
“More Machiavellian than ever. I’ve been working in the cause of labor. Which just goes to show how a junior executive can sacrifice his Republican principles for the good of the firm.”
“Come again?”
“I’ve been helping to organize a union at the Continental Ball Bearing Company.”
“But why?”
“All part of the same thing. We want labor to side with management on this Malden affair. It’s for their own good. But to get labor to take a stand, first they have to be organized. So I’ve been talking to some of the workers who are most popular with their fellows and showing them how to go about forming a union.”
“A company union, you mean.”
“Naturally.”
“And have you been successful?”
“Very. They held their first meeting today and elected a president.”
“Who?”
“A fellow named Luke Partridge. I’ve been talking to him most of the afternoon. Seems he’s another one who has it in for Ben Malden. Used to be a friend of his, but they had a fight or something. Boy, this fellow Malden sure wouldn’t win any popularity contests in this town. Everybody seems to have it in for him.”
“Because everybody knows which side their bread is buttered on. And it isn’t the same side his is buttered on. That’s obvious. But what can this union of yours do to him?”
“Well, it’s involved. But the first thing they’re going to do is circulate a petition which Partridge assures me will get one-hundred percent signatures. This petition will be sent to the unions in the meat-packing industry. In particular, it will be sent to the locals working the plants Malden sells to. We’ve checked it out and his three main customers are all strongly unionized. These locals will be asked to cooperate with their fellow workers in Glenville by protesting to the management of their plant against the buying of hogs from Malden.”
“But will the management let themselves be intimidated that way?”
“The chances are they will for the simple reason that Malden isn’t that important to them. He’s a small supplier. They’re not going to risk a ruckus with their labor force on his account. They’re sure to take the easy way out and comply with the union’s request. That’s just good management-labor relations.”
“I see. . . .”
And the last time, the night before Don discovered the truth about who Wilma really was, the shocking truth about what was going on between Wilma and Glory in that cabin at the Morton Motor Lodge. . . . Again Don’s hotel room. . . . The buzz of an electric razor in her hand, the tickle of it on Don’s body. Wilma ran it over his flesh. She kissed the nipples of his chest, each in turn. She licked them and sucked them. When they stood out red and stiff and hard against his muscular chest, she touched them with the vibrating razor. His nipples were very sensitive and the sensation was agonizing. Wilma shaved the hair matting the aureoles around the nipples. Now the circlets stood out clean and pink and naked. She licked them. Her tongue was like sandpaper on the aroused, abraded aureoles and nipples. Sucking his tender chest-flesh, Wilma glanced down. . . .