3
Sam had always wondered what Pagoda Village looked like on the inside, having passed it countless times, but he'd never had any reason to enter. Business and pleasure had brought him across the river from his hometown of Waterton often enough, but the local wisdom had it that their Chinese food was tasteless and overpriced—also it wasn't Chinese—and he was less than adventurous when it came to trying new restaurants.
What he'd always liked about it was the mock Oriental architecture. Had he not gravitated toward real estate, he'd have doubtless become an architect, draftsman, or at the very least, a contractor. Buildings intrigued him. His “edifice complex” was one of his standard business jokes.
Pagoda Village's main roof was composed of overlapping pantiles, and the dissymetrical ogee curves shimmered in the noonday sun—if one had an eye for such things. He took his dark glasses off, opened the door, and stepped into the dark interior.
It was typical for an out-of-the-way Maysburg eatery. The town was regionally famous for having forty restaurants, give or take, which seemed to exist only for tourists, persons whose taste buds had remained in embryo, and those couples who—for whatever reason—did not wish to be seen. They were usually dimly lit, chockablock with skimpy tables, plants, and gimmicky decor, and the food was, as a rule, undistinguished.
He felt very odd about this meeting with the man who had spoken with him first a week before, telling Sam he was coming to town for “another party who was interested in buying some rural land.” Nobody who bought ground, no serious buyer, that is, ever spoke that way. The choice of words was awkward, making him think that the man—identifying himself as one Christopher Sinclair—was not being especially forthright. Sam Perkins had been polite, and dismissed the call soon thereafter.
A week later his secretary told him Christopher Sinclair was on the line. He wanted to “talk turkey.” The party he represented had made up their mind what kind of package they wanted. There was “a lot of money in this deal” for Sam. But there were certain restrictions. It was all very sensitive and hush-hush. “Let's meet and I'll put my cards on the table,” Sinclair had told him, suggesting an out-of-the-way place in Maysburg, across the river in neighboring Tennessee.
Everything about Christopher Sinclair was immediately reassuring. He looked like the prototype of a Nashville con artist: big, bulky—fat, in fact—with a dimply smile and a hearty hail-fellow-well-met air about him. Not the sort to be cooking up shady real estate deals in dark beaneries. Or perhaps just that very sort. Beautiful pink skin (the color of a baby's tush, he told Mary that night), glossy, unbitten nails, good suit, and a gorgeous head of snow white, wavy hair.
He could have passed for a southern Methodist preacher on his vacation, or an insurance man from Moline —with “Chartered Investment Consultant” on his business card—until he opened his mouth to speak. As soon as he introduced himself and they started schmoozing “for serious,” all glad-hander images were quickly dispelled.
This Christopher Sinclair was one smart, tough cookie. He knew his real estate. And he smelled like Big Bucks.
“You recognize this ground?” he'd said, partially unfolding a copy of a land abstract. A circle was drawn across the squares and rectangles of property lines, a circle in red, smack dab in the middle of some of the best black-dirt cropland in all of North Waterton.
“Sure do.'
“My party wants to buy it.'
“I've got bad news,” Sam said, smiling. “No way.” He shook his head. “It's not available.'
“Doesn't matter,” the silver-haired stranger whispered. “We're going to buy it.” He obviously hadn't understood.
“No. See this here.” Sam gestured at the parcels of land that represented maybe four thousand acres between the river and East Waterworks Road. “These are some of the biggest farms in this part of the state. You've drawn a circle through the farms of maybe a dozen big landowners. They'd never part with any portion of that land in a million years.'
“Ten.'
“How's that?'
“Ten big landowners. Well, ten landowners. Some are fairly big. Some aren't. My party is well aware of who owns this chunk of ground.'
“No. They'd never sell these parcels. Not a one of them.” Sam had already begun to lose interest. He decided he'd see if he couldn't salvage something out of the luncheon date. “What did your party want the ground for—if you don't mind saying? I've got some mighty fine properties that would do just—'
“Hold it, Mr. Perkins.” He cut him off immediately. “Don't try to sell me. We're way ahead of you. We know precisely what holdings you have, who you represent, the real estate you're peddling, and so forth. You don't get the picture yet. We want you. We want a piece of ground. We're going to have you take serious cash offers to the ten individuals whose names appear in this summary.” He handed a thick sheaf of papers across the table. Sam was already shaking his head. The guy apparently couldn't understand English.
“You're wasting your time. You've drawn a circle that cuts off prime corners of Augie Grojean's riverfront property. That ground was part of a family dispute that took four years to settle in court. That family wouldn't sell that ground for all the money in the world. I mean—Russ Herkebauer? The Herkebauers are one of the oldest families in this county. Russell's brother owns the bank here, for God's sake. That's the Genneret Ranch you've got circled. Doyle Genneret could set fire to a wet elephant with hundred-dollar bills, Mr.—” he'd already started to forget the man's name—'Sinclair.'
But within the next thirty seconds Sam Perkins knew that he'd misjudged Christopher Sinclair, and for the first time he began to believe in business miracles.
“I hear you, Mr. Perkins—Sam, if I may? Look here, podna.” He unfolded the sheaf of papers. “All those elements have been investigated.” He tapped the sheaf with a manicured nail. It was a blur of words about a fifteen-hundred-acre property twenty-five miles to the south. “The Grojean family has just about farmed out that ground by the river. They've got problems even making a crop on some of that ground. If they doubled their present production for the next fifty years, they couldn't touch what
Sinclair took him through the rest of the stack. Big money was behind this deal. And they'd done their homework.
“I'm not sure you need me, Mr. Sinclair.'
“Chris, please.'
“Chris. I mean—you've already got this all engineered.'
“You know how it is, Sam. Some persons of means like to be circumspect. Careful. Keep everything nice and discreet. My party wants you to handle it because you're the known, local person to do it—you're friends with these men and women. Known most of them all your life, right?'
“Mm-hmm. That's true.'
“And that's why you're getting cut in for a slice of the apple pie. We don't want a lot of talk and speculation about this—more than there's bound to be anyway. You know how everybody is all up in arms about foreign interests buying up ‘hometown America.’ And I think that goes for out-of-towners. Nobody wants people coming in and buying up three hundred acres when they don't know anything about the deal. Makes it all look suspicious. They'll get to wondering if somebody's gonna start burying toxic waste next door.” He laughed heartily.
“Are they?'
“Just the reverse. My party is into ecology. We'll clean up, not dirty up. We're going to build the most fabulous thing anybody's ever heard of.” His voice dropped even lower. A look of almost evangelical zeal crossed his
