Chaingang (3 page)

For the first years of marriage—the first decade—Mary had stayed on the Pill. They loved other people's kids but had chosen not to start their own family. For the last few years the precautions had been Sam's responsibility, on those ever-dwindling occasions when the matter came up, so to speak.

Even if their marriage had become a bit too platonic, it was a good, solid marriage. There was a wealth of love between them. Mary thought she was one of the lucky ones. She had that rarest of all rarities—a genuinely good man. They were just as hard to find as the cliché said.

She turned the pages of a mail-order catalog while he told her about his lunch date, which was to take place in neighboring Maysburg. It was with an out-of-towner named Sinclair who claimed to be looking for a land investment in the Waterton-Maysburg area. She listened to his enthusiasm with a degree of pleasure, since she knew how much it meant to him to see their little town prosper, as he told her what a good omen it was that all this speculating and entrepreneurial investing was taking place. As with many longtime marrieds, she also read his mind and knew—from nothing more than the pause in his monologue—that he thought she wasn't listening.

“I'm listening,” she started to say. “Oh, hon! Look!"

“What?"

“You like this?” She showed him what appeared to be a very plain, dark woman's suit. To him it looked like every other plain, dark woman's suit he'd ever seen.

“Yeah. Mm-hmm. Very nice."

“What!” Her pretty face contorted incredulously. “You don't mean it. They think I'm going to pay a hundred and sixty-eight dollars for that?” He'd never seen a woman like her. She never spent a dime on clothes, even though they had plenty of discretionary bucks. Yet she looked like a fashion plate.

“That's not so bad. Not if it's a really good suit.” He had no idea whether it was high or low, but if she liked it, he wanted to encourage her to get it. He loved his wife more than anything, and would have given her the world if it had been in his power to do so.

Material things meant nothing to Mary. She was such a content person. She liked being a housewife and taking care of him, or so Sam felt. She asked very little of life, enjoying people, nature, and their good health. He felt she was also a very spiritual person, but it was something she chose to keep within herself, a private and sweet core that made her what she was.

He tried to give her some money out of his wallet, but she wouldn't touch it. She could be hardheaded, too, but when she was, it was usually for the best.

He changed the subject and talked to her about fashions, which he knew interested her, because he suspected his business stuff was boring her. He knew how boring he could be, but he couldn't help himself. Sam was who he was.

The child of a couple they knew had asked him his age, and when he'd told the little boy he was in his early thirties, the kid had said, “God! I thought you were about fifty!” To the youngster fifty was obviously as old as anyone got. You turned fifty and you died. Everyone had laughed, but inside Sam knew that the boy had seen the emperor sans wardrobe. He often caught himself acting fiftyish.

In business it had been a blessing. Thinking fifty had paid for a lot of land for a street kid from a small town—a kid whose father hadn't handed him a dime. But he wondered now and then if Mary was terribly bored with their admittedly dull version of domestic bliss.

Life was funny. He looked over at his lovely wife. Her robe had fallen open slightly and he could see the swell of her breasts, and the unintentionally provocative pose as she sat with bare legs crossed, absorbed in her magazine. Her legs were as beautiful today as when she'd been a fifteen-year-old cheerleader. By anyone's standards she was an extremely attractive woman.

Any other healthy man married to this woman, sitting across from her and seeing her the way she looked at that moment, would have but one thought: he'd want to jump on her bones. Sam? He had fucking
land deals
running through his head. Life was nuts.

MAYSBURG, TENNESSEE

S
am had always wondered what Pagoda Village looked like on the inside, having passed it countless times, but he'd never had any reason to enter. Business and pleasure had brought him across the river from his hometown of Waterton often enough, but the local wisdom had it that their Chinese food was tasteless and overpriced—also it wasn't Chinese—and he was less than adventurous when it came to trying new restaurants.

What he'd always liked about it was the mock Oriental architecture. Had he not gravitated toward real estate, he'd have doubtless become an architect, draftsman, or at the very least, a contractor. Buildings intrigued him. His “edifice complex” was one of his standard business jokes.

Pagoda Village's main roof was composed of overlapping pantiles, and the dissymetrical ogee curves shimmered in the noonday sun—if one had an eye for such things. He took his dark glasses off, opened the door, and stepped into the dark interior.

It was typical for an out-of-the-way Maysburg eatery. The town was regionally famous for having forty restaurants, give or take, which seemed to exist only for tourists, persons whose taste buds had remained in embryo, and those couples who—for whatever reason—did not wish to be seen. They were usually dimly lit, chockablock with skimpy tables, plants, and gimmicky decor, and the food was, as a rule, undistinguished.

He felt very odd about this meeting with the man who had spoken with him first a week before, telling Sam he was coming to town for “another party who was interested in buying some rural land.” Nobody who bought ground, no serious buyer, that is, ever spoke that way. The choice of words was awkward, making him think that the man—identifying himself as one Christopher Sinclair—was not being especially forthright. Sam Perkins had been polite, and dismissed the call soon thereafter.

A week later his secretary told him Christopher Sinclair was on the line. He wanted to “talk turkey.” The party he represented had made up their mind what kind of package they wanted. There was “a lot of money in this deal” for Sam. But there were certain restrictions. It was all very sensitive and hush-hush. “Let's meet and I'll put my cards on the table,” Sinclair had told him, suggesting an out-of-the-way place in Maysburg, across the river in neighboring Tennessee.

Everything about Christopher Sinclair was immediately reassuring. He looked like the prototype of a Nashville con artist: big, bulky—fat, in fact—with a dimply smile and a hearty hail-fellow-well-met air about him. Not the sort to be cooking up shady real estate deals in dark beaneries. Or perhaps just that very sort. Beautiful pink skin (the color of a baby's tush, he told Mary that night), glossy, unbitten nails, good suit, and a gorgeous head of snow white, wavy hair.

He could have passed for a southern Methodist preacher on his vacation, or an insurance man from Moline—with “Chartered Investment Consultant” on his business card—until he opened his mouth to speak. As soon as he introduced himself and they started schmoozing “for serious,” all glad-hander images were quickly dispelled.

This Christopher Sinclair was one smart, tough cookie. He knew his real estate. And he smelled like Big Bucks.

“You recognize this ground?” he'd said, partially unfolding a copy of a land abstract. A circle was drawn across the squares and rectangles of property lines, a circle in red, smack dab in the middle of some of the best black-dirt cropland in all of North Waterton.

“Sure do."

“My party wants to buy it."

“I've got bad news,” Sam said, smiling. “No way.” He shook his head. “It's not available."

“Doesn't matter,” the silver-haired stranger whispered. “We're going to buy it.” He obviously hadn't understood.

“No. See this here.” Sam gestured at the parcels of land that represented maybe four thousand acres between the river and East Waterworks Road. “These are some of the biggest farms in this part of the state. You've drawn a circle through the farms of maybe a dozen big landowners. They'd never part with any portion of that land in a million years."

“Ten."

“How's that?"

“Ten big landowners. Well, ten landowners. Some are fairly big. Some aren't. My party is well aware of who owns this chunk of ground."

“No. They'd never sell these parcels. Not a one of them.” Sam had already begun to lose interest. He decided he'd see if he couldn't salvage something out of the luncheon date. “What did your party want the ground for—if you don't mind saying? I've got some mighty fine properties that would do just—"

“Hold it, Mr. Perkins.” He cut him off immediately. “Don't try to sell me. We're way ahead of you. We know precisely what holdings you have, who you represent, the real estate you're peddling, and so forth. You don't get the picture yet. We want you. We want a piece of ground. We're going to have you take serious cash offers to the ten individuals whose names appear in this summary.” He handed a thick sheaf of papers across the table. Sam was already shaking his head. The guy apparently couldn't understand English.

“You're wasting your time. You've drawn a circle that cuts off prime corners of Augie Grojean's riverfront property. That ground was part of a family dispute that took four years to settle in court. That family wouldn't sell that ground for all the money in the world. I mean—Russ Herkebauer? The Herkebauers are one of the oldest families in this county. Russell's brother owns the bank here, for God's sake. That's the Genneret Ranch you've got circled. Doyle Genneret could set fire to a wet elephant with hundred-dollar bills, Mr.—” he'd already started to forget the man's name—"Sinclair."

But within the next thirty seconds Sam Perkins knew that he'd misjudged Christopher Sinclair, and for the first time he began to believe in business miracles.

“I hear you, Mr. Perkins—Sam, if I may? Look here, podna.” He unfolded the sheaf of papers. “All those elements have been investigated.” He tapped the sheaf with a manicured nail. It was a blur of words about a fifteen-hundred-acre property twenty-five miles to the south. “The Grojean family has just about farmed out that ground by the river. They've got problems even making a crop on some of that ground. If they doubled their present production for the next fifty years, they couldn't touch what
this
piece of land produces annually. We own that. We'll trade it for the ground we want. The family will
fight
to sign the deal. Herkebauer would love nothing more than to take his wife and go to Florida and retire. He's holding on for his two sons. Here's the figure we'll give him, and—see—look at the payout mode. The boys will each get a settlement in managed T-bond accounts, big-time trust accounts. Mr. Herkebauer will think he's died and gone to Heaven."

Sinclair took him through the rest of the stack. Big money was behind this deal. And they'd done their homework.

“I'm not sure you need me, Mr. Sinclair."

“Chris, please."

“Chris. I mean—you've already got this all engineered."

“You know how it is, Sam. Some persons of means like to be circumspect. Careful. Keep everything nice and discreet. My party wants you to handle it because you're the known, local person to do it—you're friends with these men and women. Known most of them all your life, right?"

“Mm-hmm. That's true."

“And that's why you're getting cut in for a slice of the apple pie. We don't want a lot of talk and speculation about this—more than there's bound to be anyway. You know how everybody is all up in arms about foreign interests buying up ‘hometown America.’ And I think that goes for out-of-towners. Nobody wants people coming in and buying up three hundred acres when they don't know anything about the deal. Makes it all look suspicious. They'll get to wondering if somebody's gonna start burying toxic waste next door.” He laughed heartily.

“Are they?"

“Just the reverse. My party is into ecology. We'll clean up, not dirty up. We're going to build the most fabulous thing anybody's ever heard of.” His voice dropped even lower. A look of almost evangelical zeal crossed his face. Sam wondered if any of this was for real.

“Might I ask what that would be?"

“The largest ecological research and development center in America. Three hundred acres—now just farmland—that will be turned into the most beautiful man-made park in the United States. And the whole thing will be open to the public in time—like Disneyland or Epcot or Six Flags—a giant theme park dedicated to the science and art of preserving the environment. It's something you'll be proud to be a part of."

“Wow!” Sam tried to swallow. His throat was suddenly dry. “That's quite incredible.” He didn't know what to say.

Christopher Sinclair went on at length about some of the work that would be done at the environmental research center, and it sounded like important work. Genuinely beneficial and in fact vital research into such problems as acid rain and the greenhouse effect.

“The project has the name ECOWORLD—at least so far. That may change between now and construction time. But because we don't want any of this to leak out between now and then, we're using a code word. When we call you—or if you call us—let's always refer to the project with this word.” He showed Sam the title sheet on the thick summary. RAMPARTS.

“This is a great project. It looks like you'd want to promote it."

“And indeed we shall when the time is right. But remember—we're talking about millions of dollars being expended. Hundreds of jobs will be created. When this thing is turned over to a big agency and the PR guys start doing their thing—can you imagine what will happen to the land values?” He winked knowingly at Sam. “You of all people should be able to see the advantages of keeping this quiet for a while. And if you make a couple of extra bucks in some smart land speculation—” his big, fleshy shoulders went up “—so who's going to complain?"

“Hmm."

“You'll front the project for me, just as I'm fronting it for my party. I expect two things from you—discretion ... and competency. In turn, I promise you that when you make one of these deals for us, and we tell you our check is in the mail, why, that check
will
be in the mail overnight. And that check will float. I promise you that, too. Okay?"