Page 35 of The List

Set the hook. “The more critical question is, can you deliver five years?”

“I’ve talked to the other two union presidents. I can get ’em to give you five, but it’ll cost.”

“And what if we’re not interested in paying those costs for five years?”

“Maybe I can get you interested.”

He shook his head. “You amaze me, Hank. Last time it was like pulling teeth to get those additional two years on the contract. I had to pay extra on wages and help build that union hall of yours. Now you’re saying you’ll get them for me?”

“You know I can’t take my people and walk. A strike would serve no purpose. You’d love those couple of years, you just don’t want to pay through the nose for ’em. I can get ’em… cheap.”

The plan was working. Not only had Reed found the memo, he’d believed every single word. But he decided to stall a bit more. “Why didn’t you negotiate this with Chris Bozin? He’s the one down here this time.”

Reed shrugged. “I prefer to deal with you.”

He paused and started to reel him in. “So what will those extra two years cost, assuming for the moment I’m even interested?”

“No takebacks on anything we have. Some adjustment on the medical deductible, particularly for retirees. And at least a modest assurance on overtime.”

“What do you mean by modest?”

“Enough that I can tell the membership we won the point. If you want it to fade into oblivion a year from now, you won’t get any flak from me.”

All the internal memos he’d read lately warned against guaranteeing any overtime hours. So he liked that concession. “I think that would work. Now to the meat of the coconut. What about wage increases?”

“Four percent spread over five years.”

“Two percent and you guarantee the other unions will join.”

“Three percent up front and I’ll deliver the other two unions.”

“Deal.” But he wanted to know, “How are you going to explain a five-year contract to the other unions? None of them were wild about that last time.”

“I won’t have to,” Reed said. “As soon as you see our first offer your people are going to automatically revise their offer down to three. Probably claim too much expense, the unions have asked for too much, anything just to blame us. When that happens we’ll be out of gas.

Everybody knows there’s not going to be a strike.

What’ll we have to bargain with? Those added two years are our only negotiating tool and they know it. ”

“What makes you think we’re going to revise our offer down? We’ve never done that before. We like five years.”

“Changing from five to three has been your plan from the start.”

He told himself to play along. The fish was out of the water and in the boat, with the hook firmly in its mouth. Let the fool think he won. “And how did you know that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Care to tell me who?”

Reed only smiled.

“No. I don’t suppose you’d ’fess up to that.” Lee shook his head and finished the performance. “Not bad, Hank. Good work, as always. It’s pretty hard to pull one over on you.”

9:00 P.M.

C HRIS DROVE HIMSELF DOWNTOWN, PARKED IN THE UNDERGROUND garage, and slowly made his way up into the Blue Tower. He’d returned to Atlanta from Concord last evening and spent a quiet day at home, mainly enjoying the splendor of his summer garden while waiting for darkness.

The building’s mezzanine cast a ghostly quiet.

The only person in sight was a lone security guard manning the ground-floor information desk.

All visitors on weekends were required to sign in and out.

But that rule didn’t apply to one of the owners.

So he ignored the guard and continued a slow determined stride to the elevator bank, the pain in his abdomen mounting.

On the twenty-ninth floor he walked directly to his office.

He didn’t switch on any lights, preferring not to announce his presence.

Though he already possessed some information, more thoughts had occurred to him over the past few days.

It took half an hour to extract the remaining data from his computer and make sense of it in the narrative.

Finally, he transferred everything to the same flash drive used a few days ago.

He switched off the terminal and ambled toward the door.

He did not bother to check his mail or phone messages.

Neither mattered anymore.

The pain was becoming unbearable and he was glad for the solitude.

He gazed across the darkened room at his desk—hand-carved oak, topped with Italian leather, imported from London.

An assortment of Victorian chairs, a small Chesterfield sofa, bookcases, and a mahogany library table rounded out the English décor.

He’d come a long way from making loans and agonizing over $1,000 deals.

His accomplishments were legendary. His companies profitable.

His reputation was one of a savvy businessman, the Silver Fox, who’d supposedly made a fortune through brains and hard work.

But he could no longer ignore the ghosts of those sacrificed along the way.

Their voices screamed at him through the night.

And only in the twilight of his life had he come to regret what he’d done.

His soul was beyond saving, his eternal fate sealed.

Yet there were others whom he could save.

People who would grow old and die naturally.

Priorities who’d never make it onto future lists.

And at the same time he could deny Hamilton Lee and Larry Hughes any measure of satisfaction.

He savored one last looked around his office.

Knowing he would never see it again.