“Five Mountains is not reopening,” she said.
“I think your corporate overlords are not taking the long view. A park like that, it needs time to develop, build an audience, as it were.”
“What’s this to you?”
He leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, a posture that made his stomach loom in front of him like an upturned wok.
“I’m looking to get back into politics,” Finley said. “I want back in the game. Promise Falls has hit the skids. This town is broken. Businesses closing, people moving away. Paper’s gone under. That private prison—which would have meant a shitload of jobs—didn’t get built here. A plant that was making parts for GM and Ford lost its contract to Mexico. And as if all that weren’t bad enough, the local theme park has folded up its tent. That’d be you.”
“It was not a viable operation,” Gloria Fenwick said. “Building in that location was a miscalculation. Traffic patterns were misjudged. Promise Falls is too far north of Albany. There are no other attractions, like a discount outlet mall, to make this a logical destination point. People had to go too far out of their way to get here. People don’t pass Promise Falls on their way from point A to point B. So the place has been mothballed.”
“Every time I drive by, it kind of freaks me out,” Finley said. “Seeing that Ferris wheel, the roller coaster, everything just sitting there, not moving. Abandoned like that. It’s creepy.”
“Try being there,” Fenwick said. “My office is still on the property. It’s like living in a ghost town. Especially late at night.”
“Anyway, when I get back in,” Finley said, putting his hands on his desk and leaning forward, “I can make it so Five Mountains pays no local business taxes or property taxes for five years. And in five years’ time, if the park is still not financially viable, that could be reexamined. Make it ten years. People having jobs is more important than filling local tax coffers.”
The phone rang again. He let it go, but seconds after it stopped ringing, his cell went off. “Goddamn it,” he said. “It’s like having flies buzzing around your head all the time.”
“Maybe you need an assistant,” Fenwick said.
“Interested?”
“No,” she said.
“Because I’ve actually been scouting around, getting some names. What with running a business, restarting my political career, I’m kind of drowning.”
“Is that a joke?” Fenwick asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You being in the water business.”
“Oh.” He grinned. “I missed that one.”
“When did you get into this?”
“Three years ago. This has been Finley land for seventy-three years. We always knew there was a natural spring on the property, but I was the one who decided to look into its financial potential. I set up a plant, and now we’re going gangbusters.”
“So what do you care about getting back into politics? You have a good business going here.”
“I like to contribute,” Finley said. “I like to make a difference.”
Fenwick wondered whether the man could keep a straight face. Finley managed it. But it didn’t stop her from pursuing the matter.
“A man like you always has an angle. You don’t want to get back in to help the people. You want to get back in to help yourself. You get in, you do people favors, they pay you back. That’s how it works.”
“A cynical theme-park operator,” Finley said. “It’s like finding out Willy Wonka hated chocolate.” He rubbed his hands together. “Here’s the thing. I’m not asking Five Mountains to reopen. I know that may not be feasible. But if you could find a way to say, after having a meeting with me, that you are at least considering taking another look at reopening, I’d really appreciate that.”
“You mean lie,” she said.
Finley waved a hand in the air. “Call it what you will. But just in this room.”
“What’s in it for Five Mountains?” she asked. “Say I go to my superiors and make your pitch. What’s in it for me?”
“All the free springwater you want?” he said, and grinned.
Gloria took a second look at the clouded bottle. “If it comes with some antibiotics.”
“And,” Finley said, taking a white letter-size envelope from his desk and placing it on top, “this.”
The envelope was a quarter of an inch thick. Fenwick glanced at it, but did not touch it.
“You must be kidding,” she said. “Who are you? Tony Soprano?”
“It’s a consulting fee. I’ve been consulting you about your firm’s plans. Don’t you at least want to see how much it is?”
“No, I don’t,” she said, standing.
Finley slid the envelope off the desk and back into the drawer. “I know you can’t sell the place.” He chortled. “If I was you, I’d tell my bosses to torch the whole operation and collect the insurance. Only way you’ll get a fraction of your money back out of it.”
Fenwick shot him a look. “What the hell made you say that?”