“We called it Niggertown when I was a boy,” Donnelly interjects. “Different time, of course.”
“We’re prepared to make sure all that gets repaired in a timely manner,” Buckman declares.
“Of course you are,” I say, scarcely able to believe the turn this conversation has taken. “Since you’re fixing the world all of a sudden, how about crime?”
Wyatt Cash catches my eye. “What would you recommend? More police officers? A community development fund?”
“More cops on Bienville’s city force, for sure. Higher salaries to attract quality recruits, and to keep them. And a real chief, not the puppet you have in there now.”
Buckman smiles. “Done, done, and done.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I never joke, Mr. McEwan. I’m told I’m not funny.”
I wonder who had the balls to tell Claude Buckman he wasn’t funny. Had to be his wife. “Let me ask a question.”
“Certainly.”
“Why are there only five of you here? I thought the Poker Club always had twelve members.”
A couple of the men look uncomfortable, but Buckman doesn’t hesitate to answer. “We five are the voices that matter.”
“How would Beau Holland and Tommy Russo feel about hearing that?”
Buckman shrugs. “Immaterial. Holland’s a junior member, and Mr. Russo is from out of state. He’s a sort of . . . provisional member.”
“Max Matheson’s not from out of state. His ancestor was one of the founding members, right?”
“True.”
“And Max isn’t just a heavyweight in this town. He’s a force statewide.”
“All true.” Buckman steeples his fingers and speaks with precision. “But Max has been . . . profligate in his personal relations. He has put this consortium at risk, and by so doing has sacrificed both his voice and his vote. That’s as clear as I’m prepared to be at this time.”
For an old man who smokes too much, Claude Buckman can still bring it. He talks like a character from a John O’Hara novel. I see why Max is scared, too. With friends like these . . .
“Let me get this straight,” I temporize. “You guys have the power to do all this—you’ve always had it—yet you’ve chosen not to?”
“As I said at the outset,” Buckman replies, “we’re not in the business of saving the world. That’s your department. But at this moment in time, we happen to have a coincidence of interests.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Could I say something?” asks Avery Sumner.
“Of course, Senator,” says Buckman.
“Here’s what this comes down to, Marshall. If you keep pushing ahead with these newspaper stories, you’re going to wreck a deal that took one hell of a lot of hard work. More important, you’ll damage southwest Mississippi beyond repair. This development means salvation to your neighbors. Hundreds of jobs, health insurance, a business renaissance . . . you name it. So why on God’s earth would a good man like you want to hurt all those people?”
The answer comes to me without effort. “Because somebody murdered my friend.”
Sumner coughs and looks at Buckman, but Blake Donnelly is nodding. “I hear you, son. I knew Buck Ferris, as I told you the other night. He was a damn good man. And if he was murdered, that’s an awful thing. But no man in this room had anything to do with that. I give you my word. Now, you’ve heard the kinds of things we’re prepared to do to improve this town. And I think if you put a question like this to Buck, he’d say, ‘Do all the good you can, Marshall. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The world is for the living.’ Don’t you think so?”
I wish Quinn Ferris were here to respond to Donnelly, but the truth is he might be right. “He might,” I concede.
The oilman smiles to hear his instinct confirmed.
“To summarize,” Buckman concludes. “Do you want to torpedo the future of this whole area so that men like us will make a few million dollars less than we otherwise might? Condemn your hometown to eventual poverty and obscurity? Or do you want to bless Bienville with another fifty years of prosperity? I do not exaggerate, Mr. McEwan. Today the decision lies in your hands.”
Several responses rise into my mind, but before I can voice any of them Buckman says, “We’re not saints, young man. My only virtue is that I’ve never pretended to be one.”
“Look, I appreciate that you—”
“Write yourself a Christmas list!” Buckman says effusively. “All the things I’ve named, plus your pet projects, plus a community development fund to be disbursed at your discretion.”
“A liberal’s wet dream,” Blake Donnelly says with a grin. “Compliments of the greedy conservatives.”
Everyone laughs at this, even Buckman.
“Just to be clear,” I say, trying to keep my voice under control. “To get what I put on my Christmas list, I’d have to drop all investigations into anything related to the Poker Club.”
“Just so,” says Buckman.
“And the murder of Buck Ferris?”
Buckman and Donnelly look down at the table, as though communing with their guiding principles. Then Buckman says, “If Mr. Ferris was indeed murdered on the mill site, then yes, I’m afraid so. Justice is a pillar of social order, Mr. McEwan. But we can’t afford to have the mill project derailed. Too much depends on it, and the Chinese can be skittish about public image. To get this deal, you’re going to have to leave the Ferris matter to the sheriff’s department.”
“Who’ll bury it.”
The old banker gives me a look of perfunctory sympathy. “Not your concern. So, how do you feel about what I’ve said today?”
“I’d like to have a day to think about it, if I could.”
“You have one hour.”
His words hit me like a slap. “One hour?”
At last Arthur Pine stirs from his ennui. From across the table he says, “We don’t want an embarrassing data dump hitting the Watchman’s website tonight. This story has to go away, Marshall. Now. We need that cache.”
I have to work to keep my face impassive. “The cache?”
Pine sighs as though he resents being forced to tell me something I already know. “Before she died, Sally Matheson put together a data file containing damaging information. We believe it contains printed documents, emails, recorded conversations, various other materials. We’ll need that from you, as a sign of good faith.”
“I don’t have it.”
Every eye in the room focuses on my face.
“That would be regrettable,” Buckman says. “And it would invalidate our offer.”
“We believe you have it,” Pine says. “Or if you don’t, that you can get it. So please do that, and contact us within an hour. Do that, and you can make Bienville a better place from this day forward.”
It’s already occurred to me that the PDF I got via email might be enough to placate them and earn the staggering bribe they’ve offered.
Buckman stubs out his cigarette. “You’re looking through a window of opportunity, McEwan. This market exists now, in this moment, and for the next sixty minutes. But circumstances change. All markets are subject to outside pressures. Fluctuations. Given what you’ve been offered, I suggest you make a swift decision.”