by Jeff Abbott
“Seriously, Jordy, you are okay, aren’t you?” His husky voice lowered and I thought: It can’t be-not genuine concern for me. I regarded him suspiciously. Maybe I’d misjudged the old toot. “Yes, I’m fine, Uncle Bid, thank you for asking.” His scrawny shoulders heaved in relief.
“Good. If you died, I don’t know who you’ve got those riverfront acres willed to-and having it tied up in probate right now could sour the deal for the rest of us.” “Your consideration for my well-being is touching. Like bad heartburn.” I glared down at him. “Why do I have the feeling you’d sell Intraglobal your land even if they were building a nuclear reactor next to the town?” “Hell, boy, money’s money. If you had one scrap of sense in that brain my brother wasted all that money eddicatin’, you’d know that.” He jabbed a finger into my chest (about as high up as he could reach). “Get some sense in you, Jordy, for once, please. Sell to these folks and don’t listen to that shell-wearin’ Austin hippie up there.” “I’ll consider that as strongly as I do all other advice you give me,” I promised. The insult went over his head, since it didn’t have far to jump. “All right, then. You got any questions on how to unload that land, you see me.” His chocolaty dark eyes squinted at me. “I might just buy your land first, you know, then sell it to Intraglobal. I’ll give you a fair price.
Think it over, nephew.” He sashayed off, greeting people who forced smiles to their faces, and sat in the back row. He must’ve thought the seating chart was by IQ. I wasn’t terribly impressed by this show of Poteet family love. If Eula Mae was right and this development had anything unsavory about it, Uncle Bid’d no doubt be nearby, adding his own unique stench to the pot. Miss Twyla called the crowd to order. I took a seat near the back. As Miss Twyla was explaining the purpose of the meeting, Candace slipped in and sat beside me. She took my hand and squeezed it. “And how was your little dinner?” I’m not one for public affection, but I kissed her-and then wondered if she could tell my lips had been kissed. “Fine. She just mostly wanted to talk business.” “I bet she did.” She gave me an enigmatic look and turned her attention to Miss Twyla. I glanced around the room again. Bob Don, to my surprise, was not present. I thought for sure he’d want to hear about a land deal that affected him personally. And I felt momentarily stung; he’d given me this land, and now the situation was getting complicated, and he wasn’t here to be with me. Maybe I didn’t matter to him as much as I thought. Wrong; he’d been at the hospital when I’d gotten hurt. I hoped our mad bomber didn’t know about the meeting; he could take out quite a few people with this gathering. Miss Twyla ran the meeting like one of her high-school classes. Quickly calling it to order, she summarized Intraglobal’s intentions-and voiced her own (and others’) opposition to the development. After this brief statement, she called Nina Hernandez to the front to tell everyone what “the battle plan” would be. I grimaced at the idea of getting myself into any mess that required a battle plan. “Ladies and gentlemen of Mirabeau,” Nina intoned with grandiose dignity, “I warn you now;
Gregory Callahan is not a man who will take no for an answer.
Intraglobal has the resources and the money to get what they want, regardless of whether or not you want this development in your backyard. They will build without regard for the sensitive ecosystem that surrounds Mirabeau”-here I distinctly heard Uncle Bid snort-“and they will despoil the river, the river that has nurtured the town of Mirabeau for over a hundred and fifty years. I’ve dealt with Intraglobal before, with their attempts to develop in other small towns, in both the South and in New England.” She paused, letting us realize that once again the battle was joined. She produced charts, bar graphs, and tables of data on an easel to show just how much the river would suffer under Intraglobal’s stewardship. She spoke with conviction and assurance-and I found myself liking her more. “They ruin towns, then move on. They don’t have to win again. You can stop them,” she concluded. “Excuse me, Mother Earth,” a voice called from the back of the room, “but why the hell should we want to?” Uncle Bid being his usual charming self. He’d risen from his customary predatory crouch to his feet. “And you are, sir?” Nina asked, obviously irritated at the interruption. One could only hope she’d sic Tiny on Uncle Bid. “Bidwell J. Poteet, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law,” Bid purred in response. “And as one of the concerned landowners, I don’t see a single reason why we shouldn’t sell. Intraglobal is offering good money for this land and the resort community could bring a lot of money into Mirabeau.” There was a buzz of general assent from one corner of the crowd. Apparently some folks supported that view, and I couldn’t blame them. Nina wasn’t fazed. “The reason, Mr. Poteet, is the way that Intraglobal does business. They probably won’t hire local contractors to build this development; they’ll bring in big-city folks. They target towns like yours that haven’t needed to have serious environmental controls yet and they get their plans approved before the voters can put any sort of ecological leash on them.
They’ll build with no regard for what pollutants they spill into the Colorado.” She slammed her hand down on the podium we’d pulled out of storage. “We can stop them. You don’t have to have this kind of development.” “We need development, missy!” Bid brayed back at her.
The Miss Twyla corps of supporters glared at him as one. “Not this way!” Miss Twyla opted to enter the fray. “I don’t necessarily think that development is wrong, Bidwell, but we want to control how it happens, not just sell our land to folks we don’t know diddly about and let them ruin it and the river.” I raised my good arm. “Excuse me, Ms. Hernandez. I had dinner with one of the Intraglobal representatives this evening. She showed me environmental impact statements that indicate the effect on the river would be minimal.”
Nina smiled nicely at me. “Those statements are prepared by Intraglobal, Jordan. They emphasize whatever Intraglobal wants them to emphasize. I’m sorry you were deceived.” Well, that shut me up. I kept my mouth open for a moment in case inspiration hit, but shut it when a sad-eyed Eula Mae shook her head at my naivete. The Lord Mayor of Mirabeau (not his official title but that’s how he fancies himself), Parker Loudermilk, rose to his feet and cleared his throat. He had plenty of Cherokee in him and his complexion was dark, his eyes brooding except when he had on his mayoral smile. His daddy had been mayor for fourteen years, and when he died, no one else ran against Parker. It just seemed natural to have a Loudermilk as mayor. Parker was not a tall man, but he had the most erect posture I’d ever seen, like someone had shoved a metal beam along his spine. And I knew from city staff meetings that special cough of his meant all us peons better grovel in the mud. “I think, Ms. Hernandez, that the fine citizens of Mirabeau can rely on their elected officials to protect their environment” “Your wife owns some of the land,” Tiny called out, then looked embarrassed. His first venture at public speaking. If I’d liked him I’d have been proud of him. Nina favored Tiny with a gracious smile and turned back toward the mayor like he was cheese on a cracker and she was starving. “That’s right, Mr. Mayor. Mrs.
Loudermilk does own some of the involved land. Do you think that you can maintain your objectivity when Greg Callahan starts throwing money at y’all?” Mayor Loudermilk huffed. His thin, politically weaselly face pinched tight. He didn’t like folks challenging him and I sometimes wondered if he didn’t have a pronounced violent streak under that suave exterior. I’d seen him break pencils with a smile in staff meetings when he thought someone was challenging his authority, and I heard he ran his construction company like a military unit. Junebug and I joked about it after the meetings, but I really didn’t care much for the man. It was a shame; his daddy had been a real fine fellow. “I don’t really need to worry about the money he might throw at me, Ms.
Hernandez, but I thank you for your concern for my moral fiber.” I saw Dee Loudermilk put a restraining hand on her husband as she rose to her feet. She was prettier than Parker Loudermilk deserved, a slight, wispy blonde beauty with eyes of fierce hazel intelligence. D
ee used to be like Candace, doing mostly volunteer work. She’d discovered art, though, a while back and had become a potter. I had one of her own pots in my backyard, an object of strength and sturdiness if not of beauty. Dee’s metaphysical stretches of the boundaries of ceramics escaped any meaningful interpretation from me. I liked her a sight better than I did her husband. “It’s my land, not Parker’s. I had that land before we married, so it’s not his concern,” Dee said. Parker didn’t look like he agreed with this economic assessment but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Dee’s voice rang out clear as a bell; I guess it was used to out-yelling her husband. “Regardless, I’m sure that Loudermilk Construction would be interested in bidding on the development work,” Eula Mae put in. She’s self-employed and got more money than God, so she doesn’t have to be cordial to our elected officials. Parker bristled. Dee smiled at Eula Mae; she was a better politician than her husband. “I won’t sell until we know more about what these Intraglobal people plan, and that’s a promise.” “I’ll be glad to answer that for you, Mrs. Loudermilk,” a man’s voice, nasal in its Northernness, called out from the back of the room. The voice belonged to a man in a tailored summer gray Italian suit, certainly the finest duds Mirabeau had seen in some time. The floral pattern on his tie would have gotten him thrown out of all the beer joints I knew of. His hair was starting to thin, with strands of blond still clinging to his freckled pate. His face was intelligent, with a rough sensuality to it that suggested he was a man who took a coarse and easy pleasure in life. Lorna stood to one side of him, looking cool but perhaps a touch uncomfortable. I saw her eyes seek me out and she stared hard at me for all of ten seconds. I glanced away and saw that if I wasn’t willing to return Lorna’s stare, plenty of other fellows were. I hoped Uncle Bid, seated right in front of her, wouldn’t drool.
The man on the other side of Lorna was someone I knew: Freddy Jacksill, a local real-estate agent. He was sticking to Lorna and the balding man like sap on bark. I saw another form move behind the three from the stairs and find a seat. A stunning young brunette I recognized as Jenny Loudermilk, the mayor and Dee’s daughter. She looked like she’d gotten her hand caught in the cookie jar- hiding cash. I didn’t miss the glances that Parker and Dee exchanged-or Miss Twyla and Eula Mae exchanged-at this latest development. “This is a private meeting, Callahan,” Nina barked. The look she gave the man was one of pure loathing. “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave.” “This is a public building,” Greg Callahan (I’d already guessed who it was) answered smoothly. “Um, he’s right, Nina,” I spoke up. “Meetings held in the library, unless previously approved, are open to the public.”
There, no one could ever say I hadn’t memorized the library’s bylaws.
“These good people aren’t interested in your lies,” Nina retorted.
Tiny bolted to his feet, presumably to play bouncer. Nina jerked a hand at him and he stayed put. “She’s got him trained like a dog,”
Candace whispered to me. “Lies, Ms. Hernandez? I’m not here to lie,”
Greg Callahan said smoothly. “My associate, Ms. Wiercinski, along with our new friend, Mr. Jacksill, thought that we ought to set the record straight.” He pointed an elegant, pale finger at Nina Hernandez. “This woman is nothing but a radical and an environmental extremist!” A murmur ran through the sparse crowd. “Wrong,” Nina snapped back. “I have no political agenda. My only desire is to protect the river-and to expose Intraglobal for the wasteful, pernicious business that it is. I wouldn’t quarrel with sensitive, responsible development. But you, Mr. Callahan, have no regard for people or the land they live on.” “Ridiculous!” Greg Callahan sneered back. I envied him his glare; it was a right effective one. “You’d throw yourself over a blade of grass to keep someone from building a patio, Ms. Hernandez. And folks, let me tell you: it wouldn’t make much sense for me to invest in riverfront property then trash the river, would it, now? Who’d buy a single condo? No one, that’s who.” He cast his penetrating blue eyes across the gathering. “Investment, ladies and gentlemen. That’s what this resort would be. I’m going to spend so much on the riverfront that I’d ruin my own business if I polluted it.” He jerked his head toward Lorna and Freddy Jacksill. “We’ll be holding a meeting of our own, to really tell the truth about Intraglobal. Tomorrow night at the Sit-a-Spell Cafe. Y’all are all invited.” I thought he should’ve left that last part off; Texans do not take kindly to having their accents or regionalisms adopted by others. Miss Twyla stood. “I won’t be there. I’ve already heard enough from Nina to know I’ll never sell my land to you.” Eula Mae was not about to be upstaged. “And I’m going to put my considerable resources behind Miss Twyla’s campaign to save the river.” Callahan smiled thinly. There was the vaguest hint of malice lurking there. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind, Ms. Oudelle, Ms.
Quiff.” He’d done his homework, you had to give him that. He nodded confidently at the crowd. “I urge everyone not to pay too much heed to Ms. Hernandez. She’s a bit upset right now because this is her third attempt to interfere with Intraglobal’s business, and every time she’s failed. She’s a loser. Until tomorrow night, ladies and gentlemen.” He turned on his imported heel and strode out, with the confidence of a rooster leaving a sated henhouse. Freddy Jacksill stayed right in Callahan’s personal space, probably busily calculating the amount of money he could make as the local agent for helping Intraglobal. Lorna hung back for a moment, then left, favoring me with another glance. I patted Candace’s hand and whispered, “I want to talk to him.” I followed them out, hearing Uncle Bid cackle, “See! Jordy’s chasing that fellow to sell him his land. Y’all ain’t going to win.” I decided I’d worry later about setting Uncle Bid straight-as straight as someone as crooked as he could get. I hurried out the back entrance from the stairs. (The upstairs meeting room is accessible by a side door, so folks can have meetings after hours without going through the rest of the library.) Lorna, Greg Callahan, and Freddy Jacksill were standing by Freddy’s Taurus, its RIVERTOWN REAL ESTATE sign big on the driver’s-side door. Greg Callahan watched me as I ran up to them.
Crickets chirped around us, a deafening chorus of them in the live oaks that towered near the library. The sun was setting and his eyes looked hard in the fading light. I said, “Lorna, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” Lorna shuffled slightly. I don’t think she was happy with the upshot of our last conversation. “Sure. Jordan, this is Greg Callahan. Greg, this is Jordan Poteet, my old friend I told you about.” “Jordan, fabulous to meet you.” Greg shook my hand with what I considered an abundance of fake warmth. “Fantastic town you’ve got here. Really homey and cozy.” “Thanks. We’d like to keep it that way.” Greg fixed me with a smile. “Now, Jordan, I hope a smart gentleman like yourself isn’t going to jump on this environmental hysteria bandwagon. I assure you all the information that Lorna presented you is absolutely valid. We’re not going to shoot ourselves in the feet by ruining the river.” “Jordan,” Freddy Jacksill interrupted, “why don’t you give me a call tomorrow and I’ll set up a meeting at my office, where we can discuss Intraglobal’s offer on your land.” I made myself smile at Freddy. I couldn’t say I actually disliked him; but he was one of those people who so nakedly curries favor that they annoy the living hell out of you. He was in his mid-forties, portly, and not dressed in the height of fashion. I always saw him on weekends, squiring potential buyers, usually young yuppie couples from Austin who fantasized about country living. “Well, Freddy, that might just have to wait a spell. I’m not sure I want to sell my land. I’d prefer to give it some thought before I make any decisions.” Greg smiled heartily and squeezed my good shoulder. He didn’t ask what had happened to my arm. “Of course you would, Jordan, and I know that a reasonable guy like you is going to make the right decision. You’re a clear-thinker.” I resented someone who didn’t know me making such gross generalizations; I could be as muddy-thinking as they came, if I put my mind to it. My distaste for Greg bolted in my chest; wh
y was Lorna working for him? I smiled politely. “Well, I’ll be glad to attend your meeting and hear you out.” I glanced at Lorna.
“You’re very lucky to have Lorna working for you. She’s a remarkable woman.” That elicited a smile from both Lorna and Greg. “Isn’t she, though?” he said. “I’d be lost without Lorna. She’s my details lady.”
He grinned at her with a nearly proprietary air. “Great. Well, then, I’ll see y’all both tomorrow.” I shook hands and turned to leave. “And we’ll see y’all tomorrow, too,” Greg chirped. I tried not to break stride. Yankees. They never seem to get that y’all is plural, not singular. Someone needed to have a talk with Greg on how not to alienate the locals. I decided that if I chose to sell my land, I’d coach Greg on the intricacies of Mirabeau etiquette. I returned to an assembly that was frothy with outrage at anyone who might even glance askew at our beloved Colorado River. Uncle Bid and his supporters had departed. Candace leaned over and whispered to me, “So did you cut a deal?” “Not hardly. That fellow is slicker than a watermelon seed.”
