Page 76 of The List

“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.”

9:00P.M.

CHRIS DROVE HIMSELF DOWNTOWN, PARKED IN THE UNDERGROUNDgarage, 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 signin 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.

DAY FOURTEEN

MONDAY, JUNE 19

10:00A.M.

BRENT WALKED INTO THECOMFORTINN, THE FIRST TIME HE’Dvisited the local motel in years. The two-story structure occupied a highly visible tract just east of Highway 16A on County Road 26, the spur into Concord, and was the largest of the county’s three motels.

Fourteen years ago he’d handled the divorce that forced the husband, a Howard Johnson’s franchisee, to close the doors. A year later the county foreclosed and took the property back for taxes. A year after that another franchisee bought the building, changed the name, and upgraded. Now it comprised forty rooms, a pool, plenty of cabbage palms, a nice restaurant, and two spacious meeting rooms used regularly by the Concord Kiwanis Club and the Woods County Lions Club, as a placard out front announced.

Off-plant sites for collective bargaining sessions became the norm years ago. A site away from the mill diffused any charge of overreaching and allowed the parties to comfortably sit at the table on an equal footing. He’d been told that the Comfort Inn had played host to the last two bargaining sessions, the site provided free of charge, the hope being that most of the participants would eat lunch in the dining room.

He entered the meeting room just as Christopher Bozin stepped to the front and said, “Gentlemen, how about we get started.”

It was a safe salutation since a quick survey revealed no women were present. Bozin gave everyone a moment to quiet down. Brent found a chair just inside the door at the back of the room.

“I want to welcome you to the ninth set of negotiations between Southern Republic Pulp and Paper Company and its three chartered unions. The company is here. We’re ready to negotiate an agreement and we hope it’ll be done in record time.”

Light applause followed.

Bozin beamed a broad congenial smile.

Though Brent was attending his first set of negotiations, he felt he’d been there before thanks to Hank’s graphic daily descriptions. About twenty-five men were present, each union sending a negotiations committee that varied from three to five people along with a representative from their respective internationals. The company had assigned two-man teams to bargain with each local, all from industrial relations. Brent and his boss would float among the three sets of talks, offering legal help where needed.