Chapter 18
Over the ensuing weeks, Righty found himself appreciating Tats more than ever. Not only had he provided him with a lucrative connection in a more valuable currency, but he had also helped reestablish order in the junkyard gang. It had not escaped Righty’s attention that not one full day had passed after Tats left for Sodorf City before Righty had to have Harold bash Chalky’s brains out in order to prevent an isolated problem from turning into a full-blown sedition.
Although he had not sensed any loyalty problems after Chalky’s elimination, and in fact he felt confident that Chalky’s removal had purchased Righty a reasonable period of peaceful governance, Tats’ presence amongst the gang gave him a peace of mind that could not be matched.
At the end of the day—boxing skills and swordsmanship skills notwithstanding—Righty was “Mr. Brass,” an outsider who had appeared out of nowhere and barely spent any time with them. They didn’t know his real name or where he lived and were too afraid to ask. Tats was David Havensford. A guy many of them had known since childhood and who was from their neighborhood. He had their respect and affection, even if they didn’t fear him.
Righty felt that with Tats there he could be reasonably sure of being apprised of any grievances amongst the gang before they blossomed into full-blown problems, but he didn’t feel completely certain of that in Tats’ absence. He considered himself lucky that Chalky had made the mistake of revealing his dissatisfaction—albeit briefly—because otherwise Righty wouldn’t have known to assign Harold the mission of snooping on him with permission to kill at his discretion.
The next discontent mighty be slyer, and without Righty even suspecting it, he could show up at the junkyard one day to face an organized mob of murderous rebels.
Yet he knew Tats yearned to become a warrior, and it was becoming increasingly hard for Righty to ignore the unparalleled opportunity that had been presented. The ranch hands were fearsomely agile with several weapons, and by living there Tats could train daily and learn a considerable amount of the fighting arts in a year or two.
But Righty needed Tats to cement the loyalty of the junkyard gang. And there was another issue. If Tats knew about the ranch, he would be privy to the details of virtually Righty’s entire enterprise. That much knowledge was dangerous to put into one man’s head, as capture and torture could extricate it even if disloyalty could not. Thus, he maintained silence on this opportunity and decided he would do so until that ranch was merely one amongst several.
Righty visited his plants daily with the diligence of a mother towards her child, and when the barren land was first pierced from underneath with thousands of tiny green spears, he nearly wept with joy. If not every day, at least every several days or so there was a notable difference in their size.
Determined to rule out the possibility it was his imagination, he began measuring them, and sure enough the plants were growing fast. He decided to be frank with the ranchers, given the devotion they also showed to the incipient crop, that he had so far only produced seedless plants with his efforts, and he promised $50,000 falons to the first person who found a plant that produced seeds.
In spite of the fact he was now making more than $200,000 per day—thanks to the weekly trip to Rucifus, who paid with velurs—every day he was becoming more and more stressed about his inability to meet his customers’ demands. Rucifus was starting to insist Righty come twice per week and that she thought it would only be a matter of time before she would be needing several times the quantity in each shipment.
Tats was having to work very hard to convince the junkyard gang that Righty was on the verge of a breakthrough, but he reminded Righty every day that the retailers were growing frustrated with the small amounts being moved.
Righty was tempted when the plants first started sprouting bulbs to start picking them right away, but he felt it would be more prudent to wait until they were ripe. He wasn’t sure if the quality would be the same otherwise.
Then, finally, it happened. About two months after he had first planted them, he found that the bulbs were as big as the ones in the garden by his house, maybe more so.
He was so elated he consciously attempted to control himself, the way a person struck with an attack of the giggles in a serious situation might pinch his finger to avoid making an utter fool of himself. But it was of no use.
“WOOOO!!!” he yelled and then began dancing a strange dance he had never seen or heard of before. Fortunately, the ranch hands were out of sight and shouting distance, so he had his moment of ecstatic insanity without being witnessed by anyone other than his birds. After several minutes of undignified, yet understandable, jubilee, he collapsed happily onto his back, tears of joy and laughter streaming down his face.
He stared up at the sky and wondered how he could have ever been so lucky. Although he was now lying flat on the ground, he felt dizzy, as if he were going to fall over. He feared that at any moment he might wake up.
Richie, you’re gonna be late for work at the lumberyard.
What time is it, babe?
Almost 5.
And then he would rise from bed, head pounding from the hangover from the twenty beers he had the night before, and all of his soul tortured by the miserable prospects of what lay before him that day, the next day, the next week, the next month, and the next year until his back or legs gave out and he sat around the porch in dirty rags for the rest of his rotten life while Janie kept their family from starving through some menial job—but one that required literacy, something a big numbskull, almost champion like him didn’t have.
For a moment, the prospect of this nightmare being the case caused him to close his eyes. Surely, he was dreaming. Bitter tears of despair trickled down his face. He would kill himself if he were dreaming. Yes, he most certainly would. Not one more day at the lumberyard.
He counted down from ten very slowly in his mind, and when he got to zero he opened his eyes gingerly. The sun was warm and pleasant but not overbearing. The weather warm but not brutal. He stood up. A sea of tall green plants so tightly packed no space between them could be perceived stared at him like the at-attention faces of an army of soldiers awaiting their general’s orders.
You are my soldiers, he thought to himself, and with you at my side, nothing can stop me.
He got on his horse and rode over to where the ranch hands were and whistled loudly. He informed him there was going to be a party tonight like never recorded before in the annals of history and to not even think about working past 4 p.m. He then gave each man $10,000 a piece for the work they had done watching over the plants on occasion and told them the prize for finding a seed-producing plant had gone up to $100,000.
He then handed one of them $2,000 and told them to get a cookout ready by 6 p.m. and to kill the fattest cow.
It was only 1 p.m., but what the heck—he wasn’t waiting until 9 p.m. tonight to let Tats know the good news. He got out a couple of scales that he had had on hand waiting for this very moment and got thirty pounds together. He then jumped on Harold’s back and flew to Sivingdel.
He was elated when he found Tats at home and even more so when Tats told him how lucky he was because he was moving into a new home the next day. According to Tats’ description, it was a mansion in one of the finest neighborhoods of the city.
Righty hugged him and congratulated him warmly but also suggested he make sure to wear attire that would enable him to blend in with his new affluent surroundings. Tats pointed to a box and invited Right to open it. It was filled with fine, tailored suits.
“You’re one step ahead,” Righty said laughing.
Tats then informed Righty that while he was the first of the gang to move out of the junkyard he wouldn’t be the last and that in fact most of the gang was already getting pretty close to purchasing a house individually, and those that weren’t able to afford that yet were talking about pooling their money together to do so.
“We might ha
ve to find a new meeting spot, Mr. Brass,” Tats said.
“You’re probably right, Tats, and it’s likely long overdue. We’re as predictable as a bridge club, and yet we’re all criminals. We’ll talk more about that soon.”
Tats’ eyes nearly bulged out of his head when he saw the thirty pounds Righty had brought.
“We can move that tonight. We might even be able to move the same amount tomorrow. We’ll see. There’s been a lot of unmet demand lately. Can you provide this much and more on a regular basis?” Tats asked, his voice wavering slightly, as if he feared a negative answer.
Righty nodded slowly with a smile on his face.
Tats started counting out $600,000 falons, but Righty stopped him at $500,000.
“I’ll give you a discount due to the size.”
Tats thanked him ecstatically.
Tats gave Righty his new address, and they agreed to meet the next day at 2 p.m. They also agreed that it would probably be better not to have regular meetings with the whole gang at once, since that made them easier to spot. Righty also suggested to Tats that he consider not sharing his address with anyone except perhaps to his next in command and maybe not even with him.
“You’re becoming a major player now, Tats. That means people are going to be envious of you. Privacy and anonymity are your two of your best protections.”
Tats nodded with a serious look on his face and told him he was going to strongly consider it.
That night, as Righty celebrated with his men, he felt like a general enjoying leisure time with his troops.
And that night, as he made sweet love to his wife, he felt like king of the world.
The International Businessman Page 20
