“What? You don’t love our beautiful burg?” Harmon glanced out the window at the dun cityscape. The river, its shade yellowish-gray from this angle, was prominent. Disintegrating cardboard boxes, driftwood, trash and dead fish floated downstream.
His face once again grew dark. “Yesterday? Another half dozen in the hospital, half of them kids.”
Shaw said, “How’s the cleanup coming?”
Harmon scoffed. “Slow, slow, slow... The city and county’re bankrupt. We have to go begging to the state and feds for help. Prying money out of their hands takes forever.”
Nilsson said, “And whatisallocated to the cleanup? A lot’s unaccounted for. Millions are missing. And who knows where it went. Contractors, city councilmen, the state capital? Washington?”
Her boss said, “A reporter for a local TV station was investigating and...” He shook his head. “Died in a car crash. I’d do air quotes but I don’t do air quotes.”
“Contract hit?”
“Who knows. Probably. There wasn’t much of an investigation, I heard.” A sour laugh. “Ferrington had a lovely tradition of corruption even before the water issue.”
Nilsson said, “If it doesn’t get cleaned up soon Marty’s going to lose his shirt.”
Harmon, it seemed, was distributing free water to those in the affected part of Ferrington, which was a wide swath of the city.
He made a call on the intercom and a moment later his willowy assistant, Marianne Keller, appeared. “Yes, Marty?”
“Authorize disbursement of cash. Colter and Sonja’ll tell you the amount and denominations.”
“I’ll get the paperwork.” Her eyes took in the trigger and they glowed. “You got it back.”
Family...
“Mr. Shaw pulled a switcheroo...”
She smiled his way.
Harmon and Shaw shook hands, and this time the CEO did come in for a bear hug. He stepped back and frowned. “You really should think about that job offer. Good pay. Pension plan. And all the bottled water you can drink.”
11
The round man, in a navy suit and open shirt, was evenly tanned, a healthy color. His thick, swept-back hair was a shade that nestled between red and blond.
He looked up from his lunch, which was meatloaf or chopped steak, sitting on a solid white plate decorated with blue stripes, concentric, near the rim.
Eyeing Merritt carefully, he said, “Ah, Jon. Sit. Sit down.”
Merritt joined Dominic Ryan at the chrome-trimmed table in a dim corner of the Ferrington City Diner off Manufacturers Row. He looked around the large, dark breezy room. The walls, painted green, bore faded murals of muscled, thick-legged and broad-necked laborers, wearing overalls and fedoras, en route to their jobs.
The diner had been a popular feeding trough for working people when therewereworking people in this part of town. Then, it had been packed and noisy and boisterous. Men (and only men) in suits and men in overalls talked and gestured and laughed and argued and ate piled-high plates of food before heading back to the office or floor.
Now there were exactly four people inside, in addition to Ryan and Merritt. One was a large man in jeans and a black leather jacket,sitting with his back to the wall. A magazine was before him, but his eyes had been on Merritt as he entered. He now returned to the periodical.
Ryan sent a glance across the room and a waitress walked up to them. She asked, “Can I get you anything?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“Anything else? We got specials.”
“No.”
When she was gone Ryan said, “You okay, Jon?” The brown eyes scanned him closely.
Merritt muttered, “You know County. No sun in the yard. Food’s crap. Who wants to eat?” He absently tapped the inside pocket of his windbreaker, where sat the envelope containing ten thousand dollars he’d just withdrawn from a nearby branch of his bank. It was over the IRS reporting limit, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a terrorist and he wasn’t a money launderer. Those weren’t things he’d been convicted for. There was more if he needed it. As part of the divorce, his ex had agreed to split their savings account. He wasn’t surprised all the money was there. She was perfectly capable of screwing him but not that way.