Gast turned again, impressed. “You’re a learned man, Mr. Poltrock. That’s quite correct.”
“But I also know the furnace there has been permanently shut down. They haven’t made a gun barrel in Maxon since 1814.”
The jaundiced eyes looked blurred. “Again, you’re correct. But that’s not my interest, nor is it in the interest of my confidantes.”
“You just leave that to us,” Gast said, “while we leave the construction of the railroad to you.”
Poltrock severed his next objection when more movement caught the corner of his eye. A beautiful woman in white had just swept into the room.
“Mr. Poltrock. Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Penelope.”
Poltrock stood up at once.
The sight hijacked his gaze. All he saw first was the beaming face surrounded by tousles of hair the color of sunlight. A graceful white hand daintily held a fan with embroidered roses.
“Mrs. Gast,” Poltrock nearly stammered. “It is truly my honor to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, Mr. Poltrock.”
She extended her hand, which felt hot when Poltrock took it. An erection that made no sense suddenly ached in his trousers. The fragrance of flowers seemed to emanate from her. Poltrock knew he dare not stare but one stolen glance revealed the rest of her: a figure of perfect contours fitted into a pleated bustle dress white as the clouds. By the tenets of the day, it was crude to look directly at another man’s wife—especially a wealthy man’s— and Poltrock found it close to impossible to keep his eyes from falling to the lacy neckline and considerable cleavage exposed.
“Your fine husband and I were just discussing—”
“Business,” Gast said abruptly.
“Oh, I know,” the lilting accent drifted from her lips. “Your important railroad, which will help confederate our Southern states into the most powerful nation in the world.”
“You can be sure, my dear,” Gast said. “My railroad will be more important to the South than the depot in Chattanooga.” But the look in Gast’s tinted eyes said that he did not appreciate the interruption.
Penelope Gast stroked her fan a few times, which blew a few strands of golden hair upward. “Will Mr. Poltrock be joining us for lunch?”
“Of course he will,” Gast answered before Poltrock could. “But we still have business to discuss, so—”
“Of course, dear,” the woman said. “Have a fine day, Mr. Poltrock.”
Poltrock gulped and nodded. “And you, too, ma’am.”
The stunning beauty of the woman rocked Poltrock. He hoped he’d recovered well when he sat back down and said, “You have a wife of great culture and beauty, Mr. Gast. You must be very proud of her.”
“I certainly am, Mr. Poltrock.”
Poltrock didn’t think his erection had been noticeable.
At once, his nostrils flared and his stomach clenched: the stench of stale urine seemed thick as fog. And then came the words:
“She’s a whore of the first water. She smells of piss and reeks of weakness and gluttony. She’s fucked dozens of men behind my back, sometimes even slaves. One day, and you can mark my words, I’ll see her raped to the brink of death and then I will personally halve her detestable pussy with an ax.”
Poltrock’s eyes shot open at the devilish talk, but when he looked around the den…
Gast wasn’t there. Poltrock was alone.
He shuddered in place. First those vile images and now this evil talk.
In his hand, he noticed that he was still holding the check.
Gast’s fine leather shoes snapped back into the room over the hardwood floor. “My wife is quite a busybody, as I’m sure you noticed. Forgive the interruption to our important discourse.”
Poltrock tried to shake cobwebs from him head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gast, but I must be much more fatigued from my trip than I thought. I feel so distracted. I didn’t even see you leave the room.”
“Your long journey from Raleigh, yes—certainly,” Gast remarked. “I escorted my wife to the kitchen; she insisted on showing me the funnel cakes she’d made. Oh, I know she didn’t really make them—she’s terrible in the kitchen—but I let her believe that I think she did. She’s quite worth the accommodation.”
Poltrock was sweating. He was trying to order his thoughts. Somewhere, a dog was barking.
“Work for me, Mr. Poltrock. You’ll be doing yourself and this great land of ours a proud service.”
“I apologize for not making myself clear in the first place,” Gast interrupted with a raised finger. “Not fifty dollars per month, Mr. Poltrock. Fifty dollars per week.” Poltrock stared at the man and his overwhelming offer, and as the words left his mouth to take the job, Poltrock could’ve sworn he smelled urine.
CHAPTER FOUR I
Collier couldn’t remember what happened in the dream, but he remembered what it smelled like:
Urine.
He wakened from the nap aggravated and dry-mouthed. Yes, it was the smell of urine that permeated his slumber, and as he leaned up, he thought he recalled other details, not sights, but sounds.
A steady and nearly musical sound of metal striking metal. He thought of metal bars being clanged together, or hammers hitting steel. And something else, too…
A whistle?
He rarely dreamed at all, but when he did it was typically of things he could see: people, places. Not sounds and smells.
When he turned out of bed, he caught himself musing over, first, Lottie’s body, then Mrs. Butler’s.
A narrow night table stood by the desk, marbletopped. On it the clock told him it was 6:30 P.M.
He roused, then showered in the small but homey bathroom.
More puzzlement, a chaser for the entire day. But a brief relief came when he thought again of the sounds. Metal striking metal.
One mystery solved, however useless. Next, in the sudden daydream, he pictured himself in the shower…with Lottie…
