Stuart Woods - Heat

“No need to call me too often, until something happens,” Kip said. “Next week will do.”

“Right, see you then.” Jesse broke the connection and crawled under the truck to put the phone away. As he closed the safe, he heard another vehicle approaching down the dirt track. He crawled out from under the truck in time to see a police car pull to a stop and Pat Casey get out.

“Hey, Pat,” he said, brushing off his clothes.

“Howdy, Jesse.” The chief of police watched him warily. “What are you doing out here?”

“I turned down this road to take a leak, to tell you the truth, and what with the bumps, I thought my muffler was loose. I went under there to have a look at it.”

“You should have taken it down to the filling station and put it on the rack.”

“Not while I’m making nine bucks an hour, I won’t,” Jesse replied.

Casey grinned. “Guess not. How’s it going out at Wood Products?”

“Pretty good; I got promoted. I’m running a press, now.”

“That means Herman likes you, I guess.”

“I guess.”

“I hear you and Phil Partain had a little rumble.”

“A little one.”

“I’m impressed you came out of it with your ears on your head,” Casey said. “Partain’s messed up more than one fellow around here.”

“Partain’s a schoolyard bully, that’s all.”

“I guess that’s true, but he can be dangerous, especially if you’ve made a fool of him, like you have. I’d watch my back.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

“I wouldn’t take it hard if you killed the son of a bitch,” Casey said.

“I’m not out to kill anybody, but I’m not going to let him kill me,” Jesse said.

“That’s a reasonable attitude,” Casey said.

“Well, I’ve got to go to the drugstore for my landlady,” Jesse said, digging for his keys.

“You do that; never keep a woman waiting.”

Jesse got the truck started, turned it around and headed back toward the highway. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw Casey starting to look around the clearing where he’d been parked. He was going to have to find a better place to use the telephone.

Jesse stood at the magazine rack in the drugstore and waited for Jenny’s prescription to be filled. He flipped through a home improvement magazine, taking care not to be seen reading the New Yorker or Esquire . He had been there only a moment, when a tall, thin man wearing glasses and a full beard walked into the store and past him. Jesse tensed, but tried not to show it. He knew that man, but he couldn’t remember from where, and he hoped to hell the man didn’t recognize him. Who was he? Jesse racked his brain.

“Jesse, your prescription is ready,” the druggist called out.

“Thanks, Mike,” Jesse called back, returning the magazine to the rack and keeping his back to the visitor. Then, as he was about to turn toward the counter, a computer magazine caught his eye; the cover photograph was of the same man who had just entered the store. Melvin Schooner, Jesse realized. Head of one of the fastest-growing software companies in the world. Jesse had read about him half a dozen times in the business section of various newspapers. Schooner departed the prescription counter as Jesse approached, and Jesse got another good look at him. No doubt about who he was.

“There you go, Jesse,” Mike said. “I put it on Jenny’s account.”

“Thanks, Mike. Say, that fellow who just left looks familiar.”

“Sure, that’s Mel Schooner, the computer guy; hometown boy, he is.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen him on TV, or somewhere.”

“Mel’s done real well, but he still has time to come home and see his mother,” Mike said. “Real nice fellow; belongs to the church here. Been real generous with local contributions.”

“That’s nice. Take care, Mike.”

Jesse went back to his truck with a new thought in mind. Just which contributions had Schooner been so generous with? He got into the cab, and peeked into the bag at Jenny’s prescription. Was she ill? He smiled. Nope. Birth control pills. He was glad to know she was taking those.

He drove back toward the house, wondering about Melvin Schooner and his software company. The papers said he was fast gaining on Bill Gates at Microsoft. The guy wasn’t forty yet, and he was supposedly a multibillionaire. He wondered if Schooner was acquainted with Jack Gene Coldwater.

As he drove toward home, it began to snow, and Jesse, who had spent nearly all of his life in the South, felt excited, like a schoolboy. The snow was one more indication of how far from Atlanta Federal Penitentiary he had come.

Almost as soon as Jesse had begun to operate the press, he was made foreman of his section. He was startled, and then, looking around, he realized that Herman Muller was no fool; he could look at a crew and know who the best man was. And Herman, Harley Waters explained, wasn’t one to stand on any such ceremony as seniority. He was suddenly making fifteen dollars an hour, and it amused him that it seemed to be big money.

Then, the week before Thanksgiving, Jesse got the shock of his life. Herman Muller summoned him to his office, sat him in a chair and regarded him solemnly.

“Jesse,” Herman said, “I’m not getting any younger.”

“I hadn’t noticed, Herman,” Jesse replied.

“Oh, I’m not getting all that much older, either, I guess, but yesterday my doctor put me on some medicine for arthritis, and it kind of shook me up. I mean, in all my life I never took any medicine for something that wasn’t likely to go away pretty fast.”

“Arthritis isn’t all that much of a problem these days, is it?”

Muller shrugged. “I guess not; it was just the notion of having a chronic ailment that got me thinking.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, Herman; you’ll bury most of us.”

“I expect to,” Herman said, allowing himself a small smile, “but I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to have some help upstairs, here.”

Jesse didn’t reply, since he had no idea what Muller was talking about.

“I told you when you came here, not so very long ago, that it’s my policy to promote from within.”

“That’s right, you did, and I guess I’ve benefitted from that policy.”

“Well, this morning I sat down and I went through my list of foremen. There’s six of you fellows, and you’ve all got different qualities to recommend you. None of you has a lot of education, but some of you are smarter than others, and I think you’re the smartest of the lot.”

“Why thank you, Herman.”

“I was looking back over your employment application and remembering our first conversation, and it appears that you’re the only one of my foremen who’s ever run a business.”

“I am?”

“Yessir, and even though you went bust, I don’t think it was your fault; it was the times, is my guess.”

“That’s what I’d like to think myself,” Jesse said.

“Anyway, you’ve had some experience running a business, keeping costs down and volume up; you’ve handled men, I can tell from the way you do your present job.”

“I guess I have.”

“Well, I’ve decided that I need a... well, a kind of assistant manager, I guess; somebody who can learn the business from my perspective and who can keep the place going if I’m out with the flu for a few days.”

“I see,” Jesse replied.

“You’re my man, Jesse; I’ve looked ’em all over, and even though you’re the newest foreman, you’re the best, and the job’s yours, if you want it.”

“Herman, I sure do want it, I’ll tell you that,” Jesse said, not without feeling.

“You’d have to wear a white shirt and a tie every day, like me,” Muller said.