by Martin Clark
Walter Gunter, Hubert Stovall, Avery Wood, Marvin Stanley, Lucas Barnette and James Staples were all businessmen of one sort or another, and they were almost the entire membership of Patrick County’s economic development commission. They were ebullient when they paraded into Mason’s office, beside themselves with grand news, almost squirming, reminiscent of schoolboys waiting in line for their first ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. “Have you heard Caldwell-Dylan is probably comin’ to Stuart?” Gunter asked Mason when everyone had crowded into the room.
“Bits and pieces,” Mason answered. He was distracted, irritable, his mind elsewhere. He wasn’t in the mood for the men’s panting enthusiasm, nor did he give a damn—right then—who was planning to locate in Stuart. Still, he attempted to be polite, aware that he might need to call his current visitors as witnesses at his trial to testify how composed he was, hardly acting like a criminal who’d been caught and exposed only minutes before. “I understand Herman Dylan is interested.”
“Aw, no, Mason, he’s more than interested,” Stovall drawled. “So you don’t know the latest?” he asked, pleased to be an insider, giddy with his secrets.
“I guess not, Hubert. Why don’t you enlighten me?” Despite his best efforts, Mason sounded nettled, and the men noticed and dialed back their smiles and high-octane exuberance.
“Yeah, well, Mr. Dylan isn’t just interested. He’s as good as here. We got it from the horse’s mouth.”
“Oh?” Mason raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah. We was guests of Mr. Dylan’s at the Homestead last weekend. He put us up and bought us dinner, the royal treatment.”
“My wife got a massage,” Lucas Barnette volunteered. He was wearing a short-sleeve shirt and striped tie, khaki Dockers. He owned several Laundromats and car washes. “I played golf.”
“The point of it all,” Stovall continued, “was for us to meet with his top man, this gentleman by the name of Ian Hudgens. Mr. Hudgens showed us a presentation, and he’s given us his promise that their company Chip-Tech will come to Stuart if you can lock ’em into a grant from the tobacco people.”
“There’re a few other strings as well,” James Staples noted. “But we can make it happen. Water, sewer, tax exemptions. A shell building.”
“The thing is, Mason,” Stovall said, “we need you to get on your hind legs and make them give us the grant. It’s the key. You need to hang tough and really fight for us in Richmond at the next meetin’.”
“I understand,” Mason told him. “But I’m still not as sold on this as you guys are. Maybe missing out on the canapés and lush fairways has left me poorly educated, but from my research so far, Herman Dylan has a spotty record, most notably in terms of staying put after the free money expires. This grant is going to be critical for us—let’s make certain we don’t trade our birthright for a cup of porridge.”
“These are new-paradigm jobs, Mason,” Barnette announced. “We’re comin’ in on the ground floor with an industry that will have a long life. Textiles and furniture are gone to places overseas. Dead and dying. Here’s a new beginning for us. Seventy jobs, great jobs, and a chance for many more. Expansion’s almost a given. I don’t see the downside.”
Mason cracked a smile. “‘New-paradigm jobs,’ Lucas? That term must have appeared early in the dog-and-pony show. Listen, all I’m saying is let’s not rush into an arrangement and waste our money. Four or five years from now, we don’t want to see the moving trucks and padlocks on the factory gates. Mr. Dylan has hit the highway far too frequently for me to be completely comfortable. For starters, it might be wise to extract some tighter guarantees from our prosperous suitor and not just hand him the combination to the vault. I agree it’s a business with significant potential for us all, but we have an obligation to negotiate the best deal possible for the county.”
Marvin Stanley spoke for the first time. “I’m with you, Mason. No need to burn our resources and wind up screwed. It may be to our advantage, it may not. You ride herd on it and find out.”
“Well,” Gunter snipped, “I hope we don’t dicker and dither and lose the best chance this area’s had in years. There are other localities champing at the bit for this factory. I think I speak for the rest of us, and we’re convinced it’s a sound project. We’ve seen the numbers and met the head honcho personally. Let’s hope you can arrange the tobacco money. We’re ready to take care of the other incentives we can control, the local issues.”
“I’ll consider your opinions,” Mason said tersely. “Then I’ll do what I think is right. No more and no less. Thanks for stopping by.”
At lunchtime, Mason informed Sheila he needed “to see a man about a dog” and wouldn’t be returning, and she’d have to cancel his afternoon appointments or transfer them to Custis. Sorry, but she’d just have to do it. He drove to his house, changed clothes and collected his fishing gear, stopping by the Panda #2 to buy a tub of live night crawlers on his route home. Like most county stores, they kept the big worms in their cooler during the warm months, on the bottom rack beside the eggs, bologna and Jesse Jones sausage, next-door neighbors to the beer and wine. Mason removed a container, took off a lid that was pricked with tiny pinholes and shook the dark dirt to get a peek at the bait, made sure the crawlers were fresh before taking them to be rung up.
He went to Kibler Valley and planted a lawn chair on a skinny sandbar that connected with the bank and fingered into the Dan River. He cut a branch from a maple tree and pared it down to a “Y” shape, sharpened the end and twisted it into the ground, cast and set his rod in the stick’s fork. Above him the river was fast and truculent, a series of choppy falls and swift rushes, but it gradually relaxed into a deep, calm pool that joined the sandbar, no bottom in sight, the water good for fishing. The river was noisy where it shot quick and white, the sound penned in by trees and steep hills on both sides. An occasional car or truck would pass on the dirt road ribboning through the valley, none of the vehicles making much speed.
Mason sat there in his chair and let the May sun coat his skin. He studied the eddies and swirls, finding leaves, twigs, foam bubbles or an unfortunate bug, then watched them ride and bounce and dip along, carried off downstream. He felt better, braced, unencumbered. Finally let alone. He’d purchased a six-pack of Budweiser at the Panda, but he left the beer cooling in the shallows next to his chair, untouched. Despite his laziness with the rod, he caught a trout, a decent-size rainbow, hooked through the lip. Pulled to land, the fish’s gills fanned open and shut—red and silver, red and silver—and it had a stunted fin in the front, a translucent nub, probably worn to nothing on the hatchery concrete before it was stocked. Mason removed the hook and lowered the trout back into the water. He watched its silhouette dart for the heart of the hole, and he hoped, somehow, he would receive the same courtesy when—and if—his day came.
Chapter Fifteen
The following Monday, Route 58 to Stuart was blocked by a paving crew, ten or twelve dump trucks lined up in one lane, waiting to spread their asphalt, a steamroller idling behind them, flagmen with two-way radios posted at both ends of the project, slouching against their traffic signs, flipping STOP or SLOW depending on which side was needed. “Brownout season,” Curt Hunt had always called it. “You know it’s hot weather for damn sure when the Mexicans and coloreds finally start their five months of yearly road work.” He’d say it snidely every spring, usually at supper, perturbed for whatever reason, chewing while he spoke, then licking his fingers, dirty grease-monkey nails and all.
Stalled in the highway with the radio mute and the windows partially lowered, Mason listened to the diesel engines clatter and rehashed what he’d decided on the riverbank: there was nothing—nothing—to be gained by wringing his hands, fretting, anticipating Armageddon or collapsing into fear and spoiling the days and weeks to come. A trial was the absolute worst possibility, and as wretched and embarrassing as it would be, he was at home in a courtroom and he’d win and be free to raise his magnificent
daughter. Afterward, people might whisper or gawk or think less of him, but he’d manage, just as he always had. He’d grown up with a violent madman on his heels, every moment a tightrope walk across an infernal pit, and he was fiercely resilient because of it, impervious, whet-leather tough and able to wall himself off and stand his ground. Custis would help him prepare for a trial if it came to that, and he’d hire a crackerjack lawyer and they’d all go to battle. Fuck it—he’d lived with bigger problems and not knuckled under.
He received the SLOW command and touched the gas. Homer Amos was operating the steamroller, perched in its tiny round seat, wearing a hard hat and a fluorescent safety vest, and he waved at Mason, shouted hello and called him by name. “Lock ’em all up, Mr. Commonwealth,” he said as Mason pulled away, “and keep that ol’ assistant of yours straight.”
Mason and Custis arrived at the parking lot within seconds of each other, and Custis beckoned him over to the Cadillac and invited him inside. Tucked into the passenger seat, Mason noticed the car smelled of drive-through breakfast biscuits and a splash of top-drawer cologne. He twisted toward the rear, pretending to search the interior.
“What?” Custis asked. “What’re you lookin’ for?”
“The source of the nice smell. Since there’s nothing dangling from the mirror, I thought maybe you were riding high with one of those classy air-freshener crowns in the back window.”
“Yeah, well, they were sold slam-out at the dealership when I checked. It’s aftershave balm, a skin-care product. It’s why I look like I’m thirty and you remind people of Granny Clampett.”
Mason laughed.
“So I’ve been at the grindstone all weekend, Mace, tryin’ to crack this. I couldn’t sleep.”
Mason focused on his friend, barely blinking. “Listen—I’m not going to cave, not going to cower, not going to let it dominate my life. I’ve made it through rougher times. Hell, this is only a blip on the Curt Hunt scale of discomfort.”
“Somehow, we need to yank the switch on your brother and shut him down. He’s the key.”
“No doubt,” Mason agreed.
“It’s gonna be impossible for you or me to get a clean shot at him; cops are bound to be watchin’ him like a hawk. In fact, he probably wouldn’t even speak to us.”
“True,” Mason said. Leon, the dog warden, walked past the car and wagged two fingers, grinned. Two of a kind, it meant in Stuart. Quite a pair.
“I hate to even bring it up, but you think Sadie Grace could—”
“Nope. No, no, no, no. No. It’ll ruin her when this breaks. It’ll be bad enough then. More to the point, I’m not about to rely on my mama’s apron strings.”
“I guessed as much,” Custis said somberly. “Don’t blame you.”
“I can’t phone him, and I damn sure can’t write. I’m guessing he doesn’t have access to the Internet, huh?”
“A whore like Gates, if we can offer him a more attractive prize, he’ll change his tune. Feeble as it is, that’s gotta be our strategy until we can shake something else loose.”
“I’ve done the same calculations,” Mason said. “Gates is their whole case.”
“I’ll keep at it,” Custis vowed.
“Thanks.”
“You’re positive there’s no way they have the gun? Or a witness? Or evidence you’ve forgotten about? Surprises are cool at birthdays and Christmas, a bitch at trial.”
“Like I said, I hid the gun myself and we scraped the barrel. Can’t be any other witnesses, or they’d have surfaced years ago. I’ve been through it with a fine-tooth comb, Custis, and it’s a mystery to me.”
“Another thing: You know I’m with you—every step I’m right there—but if this goes to trial, you’re goin’ to need a lawyer besides me. I appreciate what the retainer does, the protection and so forth, and you understand I’d be glad to do the time behind bars for you if it came to that, but number one, you’ll need me to testify, and number two, we both realize I can’t represent you while I’m an active commonwealth’s attorney. The state and the bar would probably take a dim view.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about who to hire.”
“I’ll work like the Godfather of Soul for as long as I can, and I’ll raise my right hand and be the sweetest witness you’ve ever seen—you can take that to the savings and loan.”
“I appreciate it. I owe you. Someday, somehow, I’ll return the favor.”
“But if this doesn’t disappear soon, you’d better be linin’ up a lawyer.”
“No need to retain somebody now and have the world gossiping about my problems and telling tales. You and I can do whatever needs to be done until an indictment. Let’s keep the situation under our hats for the time being. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the lawyer question will be moot.”
“I’m committed to beatin’ it for you,” Custis said. “I won’t quit.”
“Do I also smell biscuits in here? The bacon, egg and cheese from Hardee’s part of your new diet? You sign up for the long-haul-trucker weight-management plan?”
“I’ve lost seven pounds, thank you. Ain’t a man alive who can go total cold turkey.”
At his desk there was a pink message slip in Sheila’s flowery script informing him a Mr. Ian Hudgens had phoned and wanted Mason to return his call. Mason had her ring him while he checked through her other notes and reminders. Hudgens was in Manhattan, and he spoke with a cosmopolitan’s studied lack of accent—his diction to the tee, his vowels neutral and sterile—as if he’d grown up in Saginaw or Butte or Gainesville and taken a postgraduate class somewhere along the line to master the details of hip ennui and whitewashed intonation. He juggled sounding cordial and blandly superior, no small task. “I had hopes we could meet and discuss our Chip-Tech endeavor,” he explained after they’d run through their formalities and chitchat about Patrick County’s splendid weather. Mason imagined the word “endeavor” leaving Hudgens’s lips with its affected British spelling: endeavour was the way he heard Hudgens fashioning it.
“I’m not sure we need to meet,” Mason said politely. “You can just tell me over the phone what’s on your mind.”
“Ah. Yes. Exactly. I’d thought perhaps I could be even more informative face-to-face, but I understand you are a busy man with a full schedule.”
“I don’t know how busy I am, but I’ll be glad to hear you out. We could use a solid employer.”
“I’m grateful,” Hudgens said. “Though we would be pleased to invite you to New York as our guest and let you have a closer, more intimate look at who we are and how we operate. Mr. Dylan will see to it you are well received—a Yankees game, Broadway, a restaurant of your choosing, whatever engages you.”
“Very kind of you and Mr. Dylan, but I’m not sure I’d be entirely comfortable accepting hospitality from folks I’m considering for a multimillion-dollar contract. Might be a little sticky ethically.”
“I respect your sensitivity,” Hudgens replied. “Of course, the trip would be purely educational.”
“So what exactly is it you want me to know?” Mason asked, impatiently enough that Hudgens knew to move on.
“To be candid, some of your fellow citizens there in Stuart tell me you have questions about us and our intentions. Our viability and good faith. I’d like to dispel any reluctance you have along those lines. Cure any misgivings. As your region’s Tobacco Commission representative, you will have great influence on our plans to locate in Patrick County. We want to convince you we’re an asset for your area.”
Mason tried to put a face to the voice—he envisioned slicked-back dark hair, clear skin, slippery eyes, trendy spectacles, a slightly beaked nose. “Feel free to tell me anything or send me information or come to Stuart and make your pitch. To be honest, I’ve spent a fair amount of time investigating your company’s track record, and the big problem for me is your staying power. You gentlemen have a tendency to spend the free money and hit the door.”
“I applaud you for safeguarding your communit
y and its investment. Sincerely, I do. But I trust you’ll also note our long presence in many, many locales after the grants and incentives have disappeared, often to our detriment. Given your research, you must know our plants have long tenures in Columbia, South Carolina, in Bangor, Maine, and in the modest city of Fremont, Ohio. We understand our obligation to the communities who have welcomed us and dedicated their resources to our arrival.”
“True enough. But since 1998, you’ve shut down five plants in four different states, every one in a smaller locale like ours, and the closings always come, as best I can tell, soon after the freebies expire.”
“In many instances, we find ourselves at the mercy of marketplace conditions we can’t manage. Taking a manufacturing unit off-line is also very costly for us. It’s certainly not part of our business model or a systematic component in our integrated strategy. I would invite you to contact Mr. Clay Austin, the city manager for Hopkinsville, Kentucky; he will tell you we struggled mightily to remain intact in his small town, but we simply could not fill the job slots with competent, qualified people. In fact, he will tell you that, if anything, we—Caldwell-Dylan—were sold a bill of goods in terms of the quality of their available workforce. I can only trust you will look at the big picture and not a few isolated realignments.”
“I haven’t come to a decision yet,” Mason said. “And hearing your perspective is helpful. I don’t have any agenda except to do the best I can for Patrick County. Once we receive our grant, we’re not going to be able to return to the well for a second dip. I’m taking this seriously. I want to ensure we don’t wind up in the hands of confidence men and highfliers, our only stake down the tubes.”
“And we want to partner with you to make this a worthwhile, profitable relationship for all involved. We are proud of this company’s commitment to our workers and their communities. In fact, I’ll overnight you a copy of our charitable giving.”
