“No.”
“I’d appreciate you taking out your cell phone, switching it off, and leaving it on the table.” He waves a hand at his colleagues. All their phones lie before them on the polished wood, all apparently switched off.
Shrugging my shoulders, I partly comply with his request by laying my iPhone on the table.
“Thank you,” says Buckman. “Now, Mr. McEwan. I detest pointless talk. So I’m going to be as straightforward as I can. We are businessmen. We make no pretense of being anything else. We exist to earn profits, expand our businesses, and consolidate our power. We create wealth. If the lot of others happens to improve while we do that, that’s fine, but it’s not our concern.” The banker pauses as if to be sure I’m following his lecture on capitalism. “You, on the other hand, are a journalist. Some have characterized you as a crusader. A do-gooder. An optimist, even.”
“I’d contest that last assertion. I don’t know a veteran reporter who’s not a cynic.”
Buckman’s smile tells me he thinks I’m deluding myself.
“We’ve brought you here to tell you that today is your lucky day.”
I look at the other faces around the table. Blake Donnelly and Wyatt Cash are grinning. Senator Sumner has a guarded look, while Arthur Pine gazes down at the table in front of him. I can’t tell whether Pine has no interest in the proceedings or is certain he already knows the outcome.
“My lucky day,” I echo. “How’s that?”
Buckman lights a cigarette, blows out a raft of blue smoke, then continues. “It’s come to our attention that you’re in possession of information that could interfere with certain financial endeavors. To wit, the Azure Dragon paper mill and its associated ventures. Because of this, we are prepared to offer you certain considerations in exchange for not using that or any other information to harm our businesses.”
“You want to bribe me.”
Buckman gives me a tight smile. “I’ll let you be the judge. Now, I’ve reviewed the editorials you’ve written over the five months since you returned to Bienville. It’s clear that you have certain, ah, pet issues that concern you. Public education is one. Would you agree?”
“Sure. Other than Reliant Charter, Bienville has some of the worst public schools in America.”
“Just so. How would you feel if Bienville were to have a brand-new public high school? With all the bells and whistles? State-of-the-art computers, smart boards, metal detectors, good teacher salaries, the works.”
I look from face to face again. None of these men seems surprised by Buckman’s words. “You realize you’re talking about forty or fifty million dollars? Minimum.”
“Money is my business, Mr. McEwan.”
“And you’re saying . . . what? You’ll build this school? Get it built?”
Buckman settles back in his chair and speaks with utter confidence. “We’ll push the votes through, get the tax millage increased, and anything that doesn’t cover, we’ll cover ourselves. We’ll have it up and running in a year.”
“That’s one hell of a bribe.”
Senator Sumner leans forward and says, “Marshall—may I call you Marshall?”
“Why not?”
“Marshall, we’re not talking about a bribe. We’re talking about solving one of the most crippling systemic problems in the history of this town. The whole state, really. When I was a judge here, I sentenced hundreds of young black men to prison who had no business in a penitentiary. The real crime in their lives was ignorance. They hadn’t been educated. Claude is offering you a chance to rectify that problem.”
“I’m amazed to admit it, but . . . he did seem to offer that.”
Buckman smiles as though he’s enjoying this. “You’ve also written a lot about crumbling infrastructure, particularly drainage and water mains on the north side of town. Bucktown, they call it in polite company.”
“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.”