by Martin Clark
“Perry’s his name. First off, he’s a reliable dude. Solid. I’ve known him for years. Second, he borrowed a grand from me after a bad trip to Atlantic City. His wife has no idea, and he’s still on the hook for part of it to the Bank of Custis.”
“Excellent,” Mason scoffed. “A gambler with secrets from his wife: the optimum ally.”
“I’ll vouch for Perry. Like I say, if it blows up on us, so what? We admit it: ‘Yeah, damn right we wanted to talk to him to see why he was hawkin’ wicked reports to the police.’ There’s a risk, but it’s not like we’re buyin’ Louis Vuitton from the trunk of Street-Corner Harold’s Maxima. You could argue this seems heaven-sent. Providence’s gift. I’m afraid we won’t do any better.”
“It’s your girlfriend’s phone—”
“And my brother’s,” Custis interjected.
“So the records would be difficult to locate,” Mason mused. “Gates won’t be miked, and he won’t be expecting me. The only weak link is your cop buddy, and we can’t get burned too badly if he fucks us over.”
“So we’re clear, Mace, your name won’t ever be mentioned. Perry doesn’t know the who’s or why’s or anything else.”
“Good enough,” Mason said. “Yeah, let’s give it a shot.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Custis Norman is Superfly. Thanks.”
Rich—real-McCoy rich—when Mason was a lad growing up in Stuart, consisted of a genuine winter suntan and perfectly adequate teeth that had nonetheless been topped off by a few caps and washed bright by bleaches, or even better, a cat’s-pajama luxury along the lines of a Piper Cub at the Spencer airport or a T-Bird convertible straight from the showroom floor at Blue Ridge Ford. In college, he’d been wowed by Southern boys whose families owned third homes on Yankee beaches and hired illegals to plant their flowers, dust their shelves and bathe their infants, the help always dressed in uniforms of one sort or another and careful about direct eye contact. Then there was Mason’s high school friend Darrell Haney, who’d moved to Orlando and shot the moon in the landscape business before he turned thirty—he’d built a movie theater smack-dab in his own house, started a bank and purchased more heavy equipment than he could possibly use, some of it just so he could rumble around on a dozer devouring whatever he pleased when he returned home to Patrick County for a summer vacation. But upon meeting Herman Dylan for the first time, Mason soon realized that the updated incarnation of the filthy, Rockefeller rich possessed far bigger ambitions than silk stockings, fancy automobiles or even big-ass bulldozers. Dylan, it seemed, had somehow managed to buy off decay and age and the laws of nature, in effect striking a priceless bargain.
After informing a flustered Ian Hudgens that he’d decided Patrick County’s grant would be more wisely invested elsewhere, Mason received a call from Dylan himself, an event that prompted Sheila to appear in his office, practically on her tiptoes, and whisper—even though they were alone—the remarkable news: “Mr. Herman Dylan’s on the phone. For you. I recognize his voice from an interview I saw on TV.” Mr. Herman Dylan noted he had a real estate closing in Winston-Salem, fifty minutes away from Stuart, and he invited Mason to join him for dinner so he could take a final stab at selling the Chip-Tech project. Mason agreed to the meeting but cautioned him not to be too optimistic; they’d arrived at an impasse, and there wasn’t much left to discuss. In fact, he’d already told his fellow commissioners he had serious reservations and didn’t support the application.
Curiously, Dylan arranged their meal at a Japanese steak house, not a country club or private home or hoity-toity restaurant. Arigato, it was called, and a black limo was already parked by the entrance when Mason arrived. The interior was crowded with people seated eight to a table, and the sounds of knives, spatulas and metal seasoning canisters clanging on hot grills were all around. As Mason was being led to Dylan’s table, one of the chefs squirted oil onto the center of a grill and a blaze jumped and then quickly died in a sizzle, and the diners laughed and clapped, entertained. Dylan was seated alone, in a recessed section of the main room that was empty except for him but wasn’t blocked or cordoned off. From his private area, he could see most of the other patrons and they could see him. It was apparent that several people recognized Dylan and were attempting to study him without being altogether obvious, especially a group of younger, raucous men who were enjoying beers and mixed drinks with their food, probably a year or two into their first jobs.
When Mason reached the table, a stocky man in a dark suit and sedate blue tie appeared from nowhere and greeted him, and, after the hostess had departed, the man casually asked him if he minded a search and quick “wanding.” “Don’t take it personally,” he told Mason, “but with an individual like Mr. Dylan, we can’t be too careful.” Mason didn’t want to seem overly meek or submissive, so he didn’t answer, instead unbuttoned his blazer and slightly raised his arms away from his trunk. Mr. Blue Tie rapidly did his job, so efficiently and discreetly it was likely no one noticed.
Dylan rose and came to where Mason was standing, and they shook hands. “Pleasure, Mr. Hunt. Thanks for coming.” He gestured toward Blue Tie, acknowledging him. “This is Matt Strong. Aptly named, I’m fond of saying.”
It was then Mason noticed Dylan’s appearance: Pushing seventy, he had the hair, skin, countenance and manner of a man two decades younger, and if Mason hadn’t known his age from magazine articles and a lightweight, ghostwritten autobiography, he would have been utterly fooled. The scalpel and conjurer’s arts had been spectacularly generous to Dylan, so much so that Mason caught himself searching the man’s neck and forehead for missteps, scanning his hands to see if the work matched all over. Everyone in Stuart knew Loni Akers had flown to Atlanta so she could have her breasts improved, and the occasional second wife or industrialist’s pampered daughter would have her wrinkles and sags banished by a physician, but plastic surgery summed it up quite nicely—the results in the provinces were invariably jarring and fraudulent, an incomplete and checkered grab at reclamation akin to a chunk of flashy chrome slapped on a gray, washed-out jalopy. But with enough money to buy and sell Dr. Faustus himself, Herman Dylan was sublimely altered to the point of seeming remade, wealth incarnate, and Mason had never in his life seen anything so beautifully unnatural. Courtesy of Dylan’s warlock doctor, Mason now had a new take on what it meant to be well and truly loaded.
He sat beside Dylan and they ordered and the chef began his full routine, flipping a shrimp tail into his hat and juggling the salt and pepper shakers, even coming at Mason with a joke squirt-bottle that shot red string, not sauce.
“I love the whole shtick,” Dylan told Mason. “And if you take it easy on the rice, this is some of the healthiest food around.”
“It’s certainly tasty.”
Matt Strong kept his distance, and while Dylan was civil and courteous, there were stretches of silence when he simply ate and had nothing to say. At the end of several quiet minutes, he turned to Chip-Tech without a warning or preface, wiping his lips with a crimson cloth napkin before he spoke. “So you’re against Caldwell-Dylan setting up shop in your county?” he said, and returned to his dinner, collecting a piece of chicken with chopsticks.
“I’m not against you or your company, Mr. Dylan,” Mason replied. “I want the absolute best for Patrick County. I’m trying to do due diligence as a board member, and part of that was to ask you for a guarantee you weren’t comfortable giving. I truly wish matters were different.”
“Me, too. Promising to return money already in my pocket isn’t going to happen, though, especially since the business world can turn on a dime. One day you’re king of the hill, the next day you’re obsolete. Gotta be nimble, Mr. Hunt. Flexible and fast.”
“I’m not arguing with you.”
“So,” Dylan asked, pausing to sip his hot tea, “tell me again why it is you aren’t in favor of us receiving the grant? Why you’re not interested in our jobs?”
“Sure. It’s simple�
�I think you’ll take the money and run. I’d rather invest in something a little less likely to be transient. No offense.”
“None taken. Where exactly is it you intend on spending your money, if I might ask?” Dylan had stopped eating.
“Well, there are some local businesses which could really become more competitive with a small boost. Nothing on your scale, of course, but half a million might allow Kreager Woodworking to expand and upgrade their heath-care choices, maybe grow by ten or twelve jobs. Same with Mechanical Design and Hutchens Petroleum. They’re not going anywhere, and I’ve never understood why we ignore our own—the local people who’ve busted their butts and we see every day—in order to fawn all over strangers. I’d also thought of offering financial aid to kids if they’d come back to Stuart as a teacher or lawyer. Believe it or not, we don’t have enough lawyers. We definitely don’t have enough teachers. The county would have to submit a grant proposal, but I think there are more productive options for us.”
“Nothing wrong with that, I guess, if you believe it’s as simple as handing these businesses cash and watching them all magically prosper and create jobs. Money, even well-intentioned money, dropped into the wrong sector or spent at the wrong time is money wasted. Like throwing seeds on concrete.”
“So’s money spent at the carnival.” Mason twisted his chair so he could have a full view of Dylan. “They come to your town, everybody’s thrilled for a week, and they leave you with empty pockets, Taiwanese teddy bears and a feeling the rides weren’t as fun as the year before.”
Dylan chuckled. “Besides your guarantee idea, what will it take to earn your support?”
“I don’t know,” Mason said. “I suppose I’m open to suggestion.” He cocked his head. “We’ve been waltzing around it, but how about you tell me you’re not planning to hit and run, that you’ll make a good-faith effort to ensure we stay viable?”
“I could tell you most anything I wanted to, but I doubt it’d mean much. I’m not a fan of fools’ errands.” Dylan smiled, but there was a strain of malevolence in his expression, like the silver edge of a razor blade visible in tainted Halloween chocolate. “Truth is,” he said casually, “we’ll probably leave in five or six years. I’m not going to sit here and blow smoke up your ass. You’ve got a handle on the situation. Bully for you—you saw past the fairy dust and slide shows.”
“So why am I here?”
Dylan smiled again, allowing more menace to slice through. There were barely any creases at the corners of his mouth. He slid his plate away and rested his hands on the table, one stacked on top of the other. “To see if we can do business.”
“How come this one plant in a tiny Virginia town is so important to you?” Mason asked.
“Six million in grants from the Tobacco Commission, a million from the Governor’s Opportunity Fund, no local taxes, free water and sewer, a shell building there in your industrial park and about another million and a half from the federal government. Of course, you’re the first domino—no local support and no tobacco money screws me everywhere else. Those kind of dollars certainly warrant taking you to dinner and asking for your confidence a second or third time.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.” Mason shrugged and flipped up his palms. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You’re convinced, are you, that six years of excellent jobs is something you want to sneeze at? The grant money’ll go somewhere, so why not to your citizens? Hell, if I was to tell you, ‘Mr. Hunt, I’m a philanthropist and hope to give forty or fifty people health-care insurance and thirty-five thousand dollars a year for five or six years,’ explain to me again the reason you’d say no? And that’s all this is, subsidies and socialism packaged so people can feel good about taking it and politicians can thump their pimply chests and claim they’ve delivered the bacon. It’s all a shell game, and I’m telling you which shell’s got the pea under it.”
Mason looked out into the restaurant. “If you wanted to write us a check, a donation from your account, we’d be tickled pink.” He kept his focus on the people in the adjacent room. “Probably even present you with a key to the city and name you grand marshal of the Christmas parade. The bottom line is I think we can do better. I realize there are people who would grab the short-term benefit and be happy, but I’m not one of them. Maybe I’m wrong—maybe we’ll lose your plant, my ideas won’t hold water, the tobacco money will go elsewhere and we’ll wind up left behind. Still, I’ve decided. For what it’s worth, I appreciate you being candid with me.” Only when he finished did he face Dylan.
“Lying’s difficult when the other side knows they’re being lied to. You need a level playing field if you’re going to get anywhere with dishonesty.” He removed his hands from the table. The chef was gone and the waitress appeared and poured his tea from a small ceramic pot. “I’ll offer this also,” Dylan said once they were by themselves again. “I can always use smart, tough people in my business. I’d be pleased to hire you on as a consultant. Of course, we’d have to be cautious about how the arrangements were made.”
Mason stiffened. He noticed a piece of rice on the table, and he mashed it—soft, tiny, cold—with his thumb, pressing it into paste. “I’m not interested in a bribe,” he said icily.
“I didn’t offer you one,” Dylan replied, not flinching. “I mentioned a business possibility. I’m disappointed you read something corrupt into it. I understand you have no money needs, or at least you shouldn’t in light of your late wife’s assets.”
“I think we’re done here,” Mason declared. “I appreciate the invitation and the dinner.”
“Yes, we are. I’m sorry we didn’t make any progress.” Dylan finished the last of his tea and clinked his cup into its indentation on the saucer. “I’d hoped we would. Now we leave set against each other. At odds. I regret it, Mason. Damn, I do. You’re a likeable fellow.”
“Is this your stick since I didn’t go for the carrot?”
“I’m not sure I take your meaning,” Dylan said with an inflection that made clear he understood exactly what Mason was suggesting.
They left together, Matt Strong at Dylan’s elbow, and a bold young man from the drinking group approached Dylan and asked him to autograph a dollar bill. Strong produced a pen and Dylan wrote his name on the currency and wished his admirer well. Dylan paid with a credit card and the three of them walked through the door into the summer air, Mason in the lead, Strong tending to the door for his boss.
Outside, it was more night than day. Cars on the highway had their headlights burning, and the afternoon’s weighted heat had lifted. Dylan and Strong didn’t hold up at the limo, instead stayed with Mason, following him across the parking lot, not speaking. Mason wondered about Dylan’s intent—their tailing him seemed ominous, and neither of them gave any hint as to why they were tagging along. Mason took stock of Strong, and the brute saw him doing it, didn’t seem to care. Strong would thrash him, Mason immediately concluded. He looked like the sort who knew about pressure points and vulnerable bones—but certainly Herman Dylan had better instincts than to have a commonwealth’s attorney attacked in a public place lousy with witnesses. This was probably just Dylan’s method of intimidating him, a silent, unexplained smothering that would end with some elliptical reference and a sinister good-bye.
Mason stopped suddenly. “You don’t have to escort me to my car,” he said to Dylan. “I appreciate the thought, but I’ll be fine.” He was firm, bordering on confrontational.
“Oh. Well, okay,” Dylan answered, and from his tone, Mason gathered he’d misconstrued the man’s purpose. “I didn’t know we were going to anyway, but it’s…it’s…good to be relieved of the duty.”
Mason hadn’t moved. “Then why are you following me? You and Mr. Strong? Quiet as mice?”
Having swiftly sized up the source of Mason’s anxiousness, Dylan was amused. Glib. “Uh, because we just ate together, finished at the same time and we need to get our car so Matt and I can drive to th
e airport? As for the ‘quiet’ part, you’ll find I don’t talk unless I have something to say.”
“You’re a long way from your limo,” Mason said, but the alarm and accusation had almost left his voice.
“Ha. Now I see,” Dylan chortled, although he’d guessed what was coming, wasn’t surprised in the least. “Now I see,” he repeated, relishing his advantage. He glanced at Strong, who took it as a cue to crack merry as well. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Hunt, but the limo’s not mine. I’d bet it’s being rented by kids headed to a club or girlfriends painting the town or maybe our buddies who sent their leader for an autograph—the young hotshots could split the cost into very reasonable shares.”
“Oh, um,” Mason grunted.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“My mistake. Bad assumption. I thought it was yours and didn’t want you to feel, to feel, you know…obligated to keep me company.” He hoped he wasn’t red-faced. “So it belongs to somebody else?” he rambled.
“Yes, it does. Matt and I are Town Car men.”
“I’ll be damned,” Mason said. “I mean this in a complimentary sense, but you seem like a man who’d travel large.”
Dylan turned to Strong. “Tell Mr. Hunt our story, Matt.”
“So,” Matt Strong began as if he’d been waiting in the wings, expecting the request, “one day in the jungle this mouse discovers an elephant up to his neck in quicksand, sinking fast. ‘Please, please help me, Mr. Mouse,’ cries the elephant. The mouse leaves and comes back with his Porsche and hooks a cable to the elephant and drags him to dry land. The elephant is eternally grateful, and lo and behold, months later the elephant is strolling through the jungle and finds the mouse stuck in the same quicksand, about to go under. ‘Remember me, Mr. Elephant?’ squeaks the mouse. ‘I saved your life. Please help me.’ The big ol’ elephant steps close as he can to the danger, unrolls his huge penis and tosses it out to the mouse, who grabs it and is pulled to safety.”
