Page 40 of The List
“I doubt it. The members are going to have to digest the changes and get used to the idea of five years again. That takes a little time to get right.”
“This is the tricky point,” Bozin said. “I always worry about the other unions. Whether we can bring them in line. Have you ever had any reservations, Hank, about the way we do this?”
“Not a one. It’s the only way to bargain. The privacy allows a reasonable deal among reasonable men.”
The older man sighed. “I remember in the beginning when we negotiated everything in the open. Long, hard bargaining sessions. Robbie Shuman made things tough, didn’t he?”
“You got that right.”
“Brent, did you ever meet Shuman?” Bozin asked.
“No, sir. But I went to high school with his son. He was shot to death, as I remember. What a terrible thing.”
“Robbie was tough as nails,” Hank said. “But he was also pigheaded.”
“I’m curious, Hank, when did Hamilton first suggest the more private bargaining sessions?”
“A long time ago. He called me to the front office one day and we had a talk. That was the first time we ever sat down with the door closed.”
“You may not know this, but Robbie was offered that chance too. He refused. He was, indeed, difficult to work with.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Robbie was a good union president, he looked after his people, but there are many ways to get the job done. You gotta be tough. That’s true. But you don’t have to be an asshole.”
“You must have been thrilled at the time, though. An offer to act as the ultimate deal maker between the unions and management.”
“Every negotiation since has run a thousand percent smoother.”
Bozin nodded. “How do you get the other two unions to go along? That has to be difficult.”
“I’ve been lucky there. The presidents of IAM and UPIU have always been friends. They listen to me.”
“The deals you helped forge have been good for everybody. You understand things, Hank. And you never lose sight of the ultimate goal. Keep the mill operating. Keep people working. That’s what’s important.”
“I say a steady paycheck is far better than some onetime fat raise, or overly generous benefit, that will ultimately have to be paid for in lost jobs.”
They talked for another half hour.
More about the negotiations, the company, and Concord.
Bozin seemed to genuinely enjoy bantering with Hank, and Brent enjoyed watching the two older warriors. It was 8:30 when they were standing back in the foyer saying goodbye.
The front doorbell rang.
Bozin opened the carved-paneled door.
A man stood outside.
He was tall, with a sinewy, hard, athletic physique.
Early forties, brown hair faded to a dull sheen by gray streaks.
A gravitas look dominated the chiseled face, which cast a nothing stare reminiscent of a funeral director.
Brent vaguely recalled seeing the face once before, at the opening of the negotiations yesterday. The man had talked briefly with Bozin.
“Jon, I don’t know if you know these gentlemen or not.”
“No, sir. I don’t believe I do.”
The voice was soft and low, no syllable given any overt inflection.
He was introduced as Jon De Florio, chief of company security.
“I’ve heard your name, but this is the first time I think I’ve ever actually met you,” Hank said.
“I believe it is,” De Florio said. “I can come back later.”
Bozin waved him off. “There’s no need. Brent and Hank were on their way home.”
Bozin escorted them onto the front porch. “It was good of you to come. I enjoyed our talk. I hope it was enlightening. Maybe we can get together again before I go back to Atlanta.”
Brent and Hank headed for their vehicles.
“We need to talk,” Brent whispered to Hank, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
“I saw you called a few times. About what?”
“Those numbers. I found something.”
“Since you’re telling me this, does that mean the list is not nothing?”
“What day did you get it?”
“The night you got back to town.”
June 6.
He connected the dots. “It’s definitely not nothing.”
Then he glanced back.
Bozin waved goodbye and he returned the gesture with a smile. He then climbed into his car and started the engine but took a moment and looked beyond Bozin at Jon De Florio.
Who, through the open front door, watched everything.
8:45 P.M.
C HRIS SAT IN THE DEN AND LISTENED AS D E F LORIO REPORTED WHAT he’d learned so far about Reed and the list. He absorbed the necessary details for what he had in mind, his face betraying nothing, his words a lie.
“When I hadn’t heard anything from you,” he said, “I decided to ask Reed here to see what I could personally find out. Hank and I have always been able to talk in the past.”
“Did you learn anything?”
He shook his head. “He never mentioned anything remotely connected with the list.” Then he feigned disappointment but was actually pleased.
Questions had to be swirling in De Florio’s inquisitive mind.
Especially one. Why was the new kid on the block also here?
Intentionally, he’d offered nothing on that subject.
Instead, he asked, “What are you going to do now?”
“Maintain surveillance. Perhaps even step it up some. Until we know the extent of this, we have to keep a close eye on Reed.”
“I agree.” He hoped De Florio would expend all his resources there. He needed some freedom to finish what he’d started. “Have Hamilton and Larry been informed?”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
He was not na?ve enough to think that De Florio had not already talked with Lee, but he played along. “I’ll take care of that in the morning.”
De Florio rose from the chair. “Is there anything else you need from me tonight?”
He stood too. But immediately winced in pain, grabbing his abdomen, catching his breath.
De Florio reached out to help. “Are you all right?”
A couple of deep breaths and he gathered himself. “I’m fine. Really.” He steadied himself, then stood straight. “It’s nothing. Just a small medical problem I’ve had to deal with lately. Nothing serious. That’ll be all. Thank you.”
“You want me to call a doctor?”
“That won’t be necessary.” He sucked a few more deep breaths. “Are you staying at the lodge or in one of the guesthouses?”
“I have one of the guesthouses.”
“I know where to reach you then.”
De Florio excused himself and left through the front door.
He’d actually been having a fairly good day with the pain.
Only during the last hour or so had that changed.
He still could have easily kept the discomfort to himself, God knows he’d suffered through enough practice, but he’d intentionally not.
Hopefully, the message did not go unnoticed by the messenger.
He crept up the stairs one step at a time. The chime from the grandfather clock in the foyer announced 9:00 P.M. He could hear the staff tidying the kitchen and the dining room and knew they would switch off the remaining lights and lock up when finished.
Upstairs, he carefully undressed and slipped on his pajamas and robe. He brushed his teeth and, not yet ready for sleep, strolled out onto the balcony into the warm night, the cedar deck damp from an earlier shower.
Crickets and frogs serenaded one another through the blackness. His house was in the extreme west corner of the property, away from the river and most of the other facilities. He liked the solitude. He also liked that his fellow shareholders were nowhere nearby.
De Florio’s appearance had been fortuitous.
He assumed Lee was having him watched. He also assumed De Florio had recruited one of his house stewards as an accomplice, exactly why he’d arranged for the dinner here.
But De Florio showing up and witnessing things firsthand seemed perfect.
Lee and Hughes had obviously yet to find what he’d left.
Before tonight, though, there really was no need to look.
Once they did, he knew the situation would gestate rapidly.
From that point on time would be short. He needed to be ready to move on a moment’s notice and finish what he started.
He angled his head toward the sky. A first quarter moon hung to the north, thin clouds swirling in slender fingers, veiling and unveiling the stars.
How much longer until relief?
The weekend?
Next week?
Hopefully, sooner than that.
9:40 P.M.
B RENT SHOWED H ANK WHAT HE’D DECIPHERED SO FAR.
034156901 William Mesnan, May 23, Heart attack
456913276 Patrick Brown, May 21, Kidney failure
343016692 J. J. Jordon
295617833 Brandon Pabon, June 6, Drug overdose
178932515 Tim Featherston June 7, Anaphylactic shock
236987521 Melvin Bennett
492016755 Paul Zimmerman, June 13, Hunting accident
516332578 Michael Ottman
“You got this on June 6,” he said to Hank. “Pabon died that same day. Featherston dies on the seventh. Zimmerman a week later. Something’s wrong here. If this is a list of deceased employees, how did Featherston and Zimmerman get on it?”
“That’s a really good question.”
Yes, it was.
“Jordon, Bennett, and Ottman have been retired a long time,” Hank said. “Let’s see what I can find out about them.”
They were parked in the grassy lot for the county’s main recreation center, where the two baseball diamonds and football field were located, not far outside Concord.
Nobody else was around. That, and the darkness, offered a great measure of privacy.
They’d driven straight here from Hickory Row.
Hank worked the cell phone for twenty minutes, making calls until he learned that all three men were also dead, along with the dates that it happened.
034156901 William Mesnan, May 23, Heart attack
456913276 Patrick Brown, May 21, Kidney failure
343016692 J. J. Jordon, June 6, Heart failure
295617833 Brandon Pabon, June 6, Drug overdose
178932515 Tim Featherston, June 7, Bee sting
236987521 Melvin Bennett, June 8, Anaphylactic shock
492016755 Paul Zimmerman, June 13, Hunting accident
516332578 Michael Ottman, June 9, Heart attack
“All total,” Brent said, “two died on the sixth, the same day you got this list. Four died after.”