26
The room where Wooten lay was bathed in drab television light. The only movement for the last hour had been the occasional shift of his big feet beneath the blanket. There was no longer any doubting it. After four nights away, he was back home. An hour earlier, when Truax had watched the Wootens arguing in the kitchen, he’d thought that Ardelia was once again giving the man his marching orders. This time, maybe, for good. Truax prepared himself for another night in his car, parked in the darkness beyond the motel’s Dumpsters. But Wooten had stayed put. Ardelia must have forgiven him. Swope would be disappointed. Truax’s nightly reports of a worsening situation had clearly thrilled the lawyer, bolstering his decision to turn up the heat on Wooten. Truax wondered what this homecoming might mean to the operation. Further escalation, he hoped. He was beginning to get the hang of this job.
This morning’s writing in the cement had been their most audacious move yet. It had taken Truax nearly twenty minutes to scrawl the letters, working by the light of a waning moon. He’d had to bear down hard—the concrete was almost dry by the time he got going. He worked slowly, wanting to get the letters just right. He wasn’t worried about getting caught. The odds of being nailed by some half-assed EarthWorks security guard were slim to none. Truax knew how to listen for the approach of hostile feet. And even if the impossible did happen, Swope would take care of things. After all, he was the one who’d chosen the location for this particular mission, claiming that there had been some sort of trouble between Wooten and the site foreman. Once Wooten saw the words, anything could happen.
But as Truax worked something strange happened—he experienced an unexpected hesitation, his first since Swope had hired him seven days earlier. He’d always hated the word nigger. He’d seen firsthand in the army how much damage it could do, the hurt and violence its mere utterance caused. And he could tell that Swope had felt uneasy using it as well. They’d kicked around some alternatives for a while, but in the end they knew there was only one word that was sure to provoke a showdown between Wooten and the foreman. Harsh as it was, they had a job to do. They had to push Wooten to the edge.
As usual, Swope was proven right. Wooten had exploded when he saw the message, putting actual hands on an employee in full view of two dozen witnesses. After a quick call to Swope he stuck with his man for the remainder of the day, until Wooten finally returned to Mystic Hills and reestablished himself back in his household. Once he’d settled into the room beyond the kitchen Truax knew he had to call Swope again, no matter how much he hated the idea of reporting this. It seemed like a reversal of the last four days’ hard work. But he had his job to do. Keeping Swope apprised of all developments was essential. So, once he was convinced that the Wooten house was bedded down, Truax abandoned his post to make the call.
It took him less than half an hour. He called Swope’s home from one of the space-age phone booths they’d planted around the city, Plexiglas bubbles that could not be broken or marred by graffiti. As expected, Swope seemed deeply upset by the news that Wooten was back in his house, lapsing into a minute-long brooding silence. But he overcame his disappointment, ordering Truax back to his post while he figured out a new strategy for putting pressure on the builder. They’d speak again first thing in the morning. By then Swope promised to have come up with a new plan.
Truax grabbed a large coffee from the Fogwood 7-Eleven on his way back—for some reason he was finding sleeplessness harder to deal with than he’d anticipated. Getting old, he thought. Or maybe just out of practice. He drove quickly back to Rhiannon’s Rest, parking in his usual spot and moving soundlessly through the woods to the treehouse. Woo-ten remained in the guest room, the twin mounds of his feet still lifting the covers. There were lights on upstairs as well, in Joel’s room. Truax took comfort in that last bit of illumination. Although he doubted the boy would make any attempt to get near Susan, he was particularly glad to know his whereabouts tonight, the first time his daughter had been out of the house since last Saturday. Until yesterday, Truax had no intention of letting her go anywhere until the fall. But Irma had cornered him when he came home after putting Wooten to bed at the motel. As he wolfed down a plate of bratwurst, sauerkraut and onion rings, she explained how Teddy had politely asked if he could take Susan to see Live and Let Die. Evidently he was still being quite the gentleman—he’d even offered to take Darryl along, unaware that she didn’t see films unless they had a Christian theme. Irma was clearly beside herself with joy at the prospect of her daughter dating Austin Swope’s son just days after her husband began working for the man. For the first time in ages, Truax could see that she was starting to believe she’d finally arrived in the United States of America. He hesitated for a moment, but it was just for form’s sake. After all, they were only talking about a movie.
“I don’t have a problem with that,” he said. “As long as she comes straight home afterwards.”
And so Susan was out with Teddy. A week earlier Truax would have been suspicious of the boy’s motives, though he’d seen no sign of Teddy and Joel being together since the night he’d rescued them from that beating down at Newton Plaza. According to his wife, the two had subsequently fallen out over something. Maybe it was the fight itself. Whatever the cause, their friendship seemed a thing of the past. And even if it weren’t, there was nothing to worry about. Joel was up in his room.
It was still strange to think that Susan and Teddy really were becoming involved. Although Truax could not bring himself to actually like the boy, the fact that Irma did was enough for him. Besides, it didn’t matter what Truax thought. Any fool could have seen that Teddy was as good as you could expect. Smart and polite. A future crammed with promise. And from the best family in the whole city. He’d grow out of the other things. The years would fill in his frame and his personality. And then he’d become a man like his father. Which should be enough for anyone.
A pulse of pain rang through Truax’s hand. He removed his glove and then turned on his flashlight to have a look. Fluid had begun to leak through the bandage that he’d changed just a few hours earlier. There was no doubting it. The infection was getting worse. All that sleeplessness and hard work. He knew that he should make an appointment at Fort Meade to have it looked at. The last time he’d let it go the bacteria had entered his bloodstream, sending him into a three-day spiral of fever and delirium. But there was no way he could take that sort of time off now, especially with the operation having suffered its first setback. Once Wooten was in the bag—that was when Truax would go to the doctor. Until then there was nothing to do but carry the wound. He put the glove back on and returned his attention to the house. Wooten was out of bed. The bathroom door was closed, framed by a line of white light. Upstairs, Joel was still awake. Wooten came out of the toilet, hitching up his pajama bottoms. He stared at the TV for a moment, then switched if off, casting the room into darkness.
Truax decided to head home and change his bandage. Grab dinner from the hot plate Irma would leave him. Maybe he could even afford himself the luxury of a shower. It had been three days since he’d had one and he could tell by the looks people shot him at the 7-Eleven that it was starting to become an issue. He took one last look at the quiet house. There was definitely time for a shower and a shave. Wooten wasn’t going anywhere.
Before Truax could descend the ladder he heard the sound of running feet on Merlin’s Way. At first he thought it might be some late-night jogger. But then the runner turned abruptly into the Wooten’s circular driveway. Truax snatched the binoculars from the floor and raised them to his eyes just in time to see Joel Wooten passing through the gaslight’s pale umbrella. Truax didn’t understand. Joel was in his room. Unless he’d slipped out when Truax went to call Swope. An image flashed through his mind—Joel Wooten in his daughter’s bedroom, that Trojan’s slick pouch swinging like a miniature wrecking ball at the end of his cock.
Truax watched through the kitchen window as the boy unlocked the front door and eased it open. He
shut it carefully, then stood perfectly still in the front hall, checking to see if anyone had heard him. The master and guest bedrooms remained dark. Truax focused the nocs to get a better look at Joel’s face. He looked confused and worried. Truax’s heart began to pump; his muscle and flesh flooded with adrenaline. If he’s tried to see my daughter he will have to be punished, Truax thought. As will his father. Who gave me his word.
Realizing that he hadn’t been heard, Joel crept up the stairs. Even though he knew he should probably give the boy a few minutes to settle, Truax scrambled down the ladder and headed back to his car. He wasn’t so careful about silence this time. He had to get home to make sure that everything was all right.
27
Swope sat perfectly still behind the desk in his study, contemplating the meaningless figures he’d doodled on his blotter during the course of his conversation with Truax. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Woo-ten was back home. Truax had watched the man settle into the guest room for the night. This was not good. Not good at all. After four days of unbroken success, the campaign had finally experienced its first major glitch. Trouble in Wooten’s marriage had become a cornerstone of Swope’s strategy. If he wound up back in his house before the job decision had been made, then he would no longer be seen as a philandering tomcat unworthy of public service. The entire 27 affair could be dismissed as nobody’s business, especially if Ardelia went to bat for him. Once that happened, Savage would be free to nominate Wooten city manager well before Swope finished concocting the fraud case against him. And that would be that. Swope would be out of the loop, no longer able to orchestrate events. A mere spectator to Wooten’s irresistible rise.
Up until Truax’s call, Swope’s confidence that he would be able to stop Wooten’s ascent had been growing by the hour. The plan was working with grim efficiency. Maybe too efficiently—Swope had found himself wondering several times during these past few days if they were taking matters too far. That hateful word in the concrete had been an especially tough choice. But necessary, absolutely necessary. Pressure had to be kept up on the man. It was Wooten who’d set this thing in motion. They would all have to ride it as far as it went.
Besides, it was too late to stop now, even if he wanted. The poison letter to Ardelia had already paid off. Although he’d figured word of Wooten’s ejection from his home would take at least a week to filter back to Chicago through the EarthWorks grapevine, Gus Savage’s unexpected call late Monday afternoon showed that things were happening faster than Swope could have hoped.
“Austin, do you have any idea where Earl Wooten is?” Savage asked, his voice even more impatient than usual.
“I don’t know, Gus. I saw him around earlier in the day. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“No, it’s just that we were supposed to have a conversation this morning and he never called.”
“Did you try him at home?” Swope asked, his voice even.
“Ardelia said she didn’t know where he was. I’m just starting to get worried that something’s wrong.”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure I’d have heard.”
“Listen, do me a favor—see if you can track him down and tell him to get on the horn to me right away, would you?”
“Sure will.”
After hanging up Swope stared at the phone for a long while, wondering how he should play this. Clearly, Savage wanted to talk to Wooten about the manager job. Probably expecting an answer after a weekened’s deliberation. That was usually how these things worked. Only, Wooten hadn’t spent the weekend deliberating. He’d spent it cooling his heels in a cheap hotel. Although he knew this was too good an opportunity to squander, Swope also realized he’d have to tread carefully. If he seemed too eager to inform on Wooten, then the ever-vigilant Savage might suspect he’d been tipped off and was acting as a rival. But if he was too subtle then the moment to sow doubt would be lost. In the end, he decided to play the reluctant friend who puts the good of the company first. Which, after all, was exactly who he was.
He waited until late Tuesday morning to call back.
“Did Earl ever call you?” he asked.
“No,” Savage replied, sounding furious. “You talk to him?”
“I haven’t had any luck either. I even tried calling him at home late last night but Ardelia said he wasn’t there.”
“Did she say where he was?”
Swope hesitated for a beat.
“Well, that’s the thing, Gus. I pressed her a bit, you know, made it seem like an emergency. And so she gave me the name of a motel down in Cannon City. Some dive.”
“Really? You call him there?”
“No answer. Though he was registered.”
“Christ. What the hell’s going on, Austin?”
“That’s all I know.”
“I mean, has he left home?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Could you find out?”
Swope sucked air through his teeth.
“I gotta tell you, Gus, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that. I mean, these are my friends. If they’re having problems I’d rather not go prying into it.”
“No, you’re right,” Savage said. “But, listen—I do want you to find Earl. And when you do, tell him to call me right away.”
Swope looked out of his office’s tinted window at the clear morning sky.
“That I can do.”
Just after hanging up he’d learned that his plan had progressed even further when Truax called to say that Wooten had actually assaulted Vota. Unbelievable. The outraged site boss had phoned a few minutes later, demanding action. Swope promised to deal with the matter and indeed he had, writing it up in a memo which he forwarded to Chicago. Nothing terminal in itself. Just another piece in the puzzle that showed Savage his intended city manager was becoming increasingly unreliable. But now, a few short hours later, everything looked set to change. Wooten was home. He’d somehow convinced Ardelia to take him back. True, she’d exiled him to the guest room. But still. He was home. A configuration that would make it harder for the campaign of a thousand small wounds to work. A man alone was much easier prey than one in the safety of his own home.
With Truax’s call still echoing through his mind, Swope pulled a legal pad and a fresh pen from his top right drawer, then set the balls of his cradle rocking. There was only one thing to do—speed up work on the bogus paper trail. Though he’d initially allowed himself at least four weeks to construct it, he now knew he’d have just a few days to compose the counterfeit orders, invoices and bills of laden that would make it appear Wooten had been fraudulently requesting funds to replace stolen building material. Once the paperwork had been submitted, Swope would get anonymous word to Chicago, who’d run an audit to make sure they were paying for the replacement of goods that had actually been stolen. Since there were no police reports on file, Wooten’s goose would be at least temporarily cooked once the double billing came to light. By the time the mess was cleared up Swope would be in his sixth month as city manager.
Although it was a sound plan, Swope knew that it was fraught with difficulties. Which was why he’d given himself weeks to work it through. Forging documents was always a risky business. The boys in the Earth-Works legal department weren’t Ardelia Wooten. Besides, Wooten had actually been guilty of adultery. This time he would no doubt kick and scream with righteous indignation. Unless Swope worked meticulously, he knew this thing could blow up in his face at any moment. But time was no longer a luxury he could afford. He had no choice but to proceed with unseemly haste. Unsatisfactory as it was, framing Wooten quickly was the only ammunition he had left now that the man was back home. Delay would mean that he might still get the offer. After that, knocking him off his pedestal would be impossible. Swope would be out of a job—there was no way a man as scheming as Wooten would keep him around after this sort of coup.
Out of a job. Jesus, what a nightmare that would be. He might as well be sixty-four and rea
dy for the pasture. One of those sad sacks you saw hanging around Denny’s at three-thirty in the afternoon. Banging away on the public links to kill time before happy hour, which seemed to grow earlier by the day, like the advent of a permanent winter. Xeroxing out-of-town want ads in the public library. Schmucks who’d gambled and failed. The boys down at Barger, Green would love this. Don’t say we didn’t tell you so. Swope’s short cut to the inner corridors would have turned out to be a one-way ticket to nowheresville. He’d have to sell the house—the ignominy of living in the city he’d lost would be crippling.
Take work as a hired goon for slumlords or redneck developers. Florida swamp thief. Rent-control leg breaker. While Earl Wooten set himself up for that reconfigured congressional seat and slipped right into Austin Swope’s future. That bad commercial he’d first seen on his birthday began to run through his mind, the one where he stands alone on a stage, conceding defeat to a dwindling crew of supporters.
He uncapped the pen and buried himself in work to chase the image away. It was nearly eleven by the time he’d finished sketching out the scheme’s preliminary details on three tightly written sheets. Tomorrow he’d raid Accounts for blank invoices and then start forging. He unlocked the bottom left drawer of his desk to store the plan, noticing as he did the aging document he kept there as a reminder of how things could go ass-up if you didn’t keep your eyes open. It had been ages since he last read it. He took out the weathered parchment and stared at it for a long time. It was his father’s death certificate, drawn up just three years after the first Edward McDonald Swope had retired from forty-two years of busting his hump, day in and day out, as a plant electrician at River Rouge. Pouring out his vitality into those circuits and wires for an hourly wage. Even taking a bad beating when, as essential maintenance staff, he had to break a strike. At sixty-five they’d turfed him out. Just like that. The letter had been signed by McNamara himself. After that it had been a rapid decline into senility, his hard-earned pension frittered away on adult diapers and day nurses. That was the thing they didn’t tell you when you started out, how you could work sixteen hours a day, six days a week, and still wind up flushed down the American crapper. You had to watch your ass. For his troubles, old Edward wound up in a low-rent nursing home paid for out of his youngest son’s junior-partner pockets. When Swope finally buried the man, the undertaker handed him the death certificate he now studied. It listed the cause of death as “pneumonia, arterial sclerosis, etc.” Swope would always remember that. More than the clichés scrawled on the tombstone or the immediately forgotten bromides of a minister who’d never met the man, that was his father’s legacy.
The New City Page 33
