Stuart Woods - Heat

“I guess I can handle that.”

“You’d have to learn the computer bookkeeping system.”

“I can handle that, too, even though my wife took care of that part of my old business.”

“You’ll have to learn to buy materials, and I mean negotiate . You’ll have to hire and fire — with my consent, of course — and you’ll have to order machine parts and keep an eye on the salespeople. I’ve only got three, and they’re all in the West. One of these days I’ll have a shot at some Eastern markets, I guess.”

“I’ll give it my best, Herman,” Jesse said.

“All right, you can start by picking out a foreman from your crew. Watch him for as long as you think necessary, and when you think he’s ready, you put on that white shirt and tie and come on up here.”

Jesse stood up and stuck out his hand. “I really appreciate your confidence, Herman. I won’t let you down.”

Muller shook his hand. “I don’t believe you will, Jesse.”

Jesse turned to go.

“Oh, I guess we’d better talk money,” Muller said. “How’s seven-fifty a week, to start?”

“That’s fine with me, Herman.”

“Do a good job, and you’ll get more.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Go on, get back to work. Your crew will be messing up, without you there.”

Jesse stopped on Main Street and bought a suit and some shirts before going home to Jenny. When he told her the news of his promotion she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the neck.

“Good Lord! You’re setting records at Wood Products! Assistant manager!”

Jesse hugged her and savored the moment. He pushed away his past and tried to believe that he was just an honest working stiff who’d gotten a promotion.

“Why don’t I take you and Carey out to dinner? We’ll celebrate.”

“We’d love to! You wait, and I’ll change my clothes and get Carey dressed up. We’ll go to the Steak Shack, is that all right?”

“Fine with me,” he laughed. “I love a good steak.”

He watched her run up the stairs like a happy schoolgirl, and he felt happy himself.

Kurt Ruger picked up Melvin Schooner at the motel and drove him toward the mountain. Schooner, he thought, looked nervous, but that was understandable. Everybody was a little nervous around Jack Gene Coldwater.

“Why does he want to see me?” Schooner asked, dabbing at his forehead with a shirtsleeve.

“I think he just wants to say hello, Mel. He knew you were home visiting your mother, of course.”

“It’s about the money, isn’t it?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mel. Jack Gene’s not mad at you.” He turned at the church and started up the mountain.

“He just doesn’t understand the cash flow,” Schooner said. “We’ve spent the past two years updating our word processing product and that cost us a bundle. You can’t imagine how much cash is soaked up by three or four hundred programmers sitting there, day after day, writing code.”

“Jack Gene will understand,” Ruger replied soothingly. “If there’s anything he understands, it’s cash flow.”

“Yeah,” Schooner said disconsolately.

The road steepened, and they climbed past houses tucked back into the trees, houses occupied by the elite of the church. Near the top of the mountain Ruger turned into a driveway, then stopped in front of a small television camera and waited until he was recognized and the wrought-iron gates were electronically opened.

“We’re going to his house?” Schooner asked, sounding almost alarmed.

“Yes. He wanted to see you here.”

“I’ve never been to his house. Jesus Christ.”

“Just about,” Ruger replied.

Jack Gene Coldwater received them in the garden, which was English in style, planted with many flowers and perennials. This time of year, Ruger noted, the place was still green, even though the flowers were not in bloom and patches of snow appeared here and there on the grass. Two of Coldwater’s wives were gardening, working away, crouched or kneeling, doing their master’s work.

“Have a seat here,” Ruger said, indicating a stone bench. The two men sat on the cold granite and pulled their coats closer around them. They had only a moment to wait before Jack Gene himself appeared from around a corner of the garden path, striding toward them, his breath coming in clouds of mist. Ruger and Schooner stood to meet him. He shook both their hands and sat down on one end of the bench, placing Schooner between Ruger and himself.

“Mel, how are you?” Coldwater asked.

“I’m just fine, sir,” Schooner said, like a schoolboy called into the principal’s office.

“I’m glad to hear it. How’s the work coming on the new release of the WordPlay software?”

“We’re just finishing up the beta testing; I’m planning to release the first of the year.”

“Good, good. I know what a drain on resources such a huge project can be.”

“Yes, sir, it certainly has been a drain.”

“What sort of acceptance of the new version do you anticipate?”

“Well, the feedback from the beta testing has just been phenomenal. My marketing people think we will ship two million copies the first forty-five days; most of them upgrades, of course.”

“Sounds as though I should buy some more Schooner stock,” Coldwater said, rewarding Schooner with a broad smile.

“Oh, God,” Schooner moaned, “let’s not get into any insider-trading problems with the SEC. I’m already worried about the antitrust division of the Justice Department; they’re breathing down our necks on the acquisition.”

“Don’t worry, Mel, I’ll be discreet; I’ll buy through third parties, and I’ll spread the buys around — some in Texas, some in New York, some in California.”

“I’d appreciate that, sir,” Schooner said, sounding relieved.

Coldwater gazed off into the distance. The view was spectacular from so high up, and he seemed to drink it in for a full minute of silence. Then he spoke. “Mel, I’m concerned about your spiritual state.”

Schooner looked alarmed. “Oh, sir, I’m certainly working to keep straight.”

“I know you are, Mel; you always have.” He turned and looked at Schooner. “It’s what I’ve come to expect from you,” he said slowly.

Perspiration appeared on Schooner’s forehead. “Thank you, sir,” he said.

“But I want to see a manifestation of your spiritual state,” Coldwater said, keeping his eyes on Schooner’s. “I want more than words; God wants material evidence of your continuing commitment to the church.” He paused. “So do I.”

“Sir, right now ten million dollars is difficult,” Schooner said, his voice trembling.

“Ten million?” Coldwater asked, his eyes widening slightly. “Is that what Kurt has asked you for?”

“Yes, sir; that was the figure he mentioned.”

“I think, say, five million dollars would satisfactorily demonstrate your faith,” Coldwater said.

Schooner seemed almost to swoon with relief. “Oh, I can manage that, sir. I’ll have it in the church account by Monday.”

“In my own account,” Coldwater said. “The Cayman Islands account.”

“Whatever you say, sir.”

“You said you’d ship two million copies of the new WordPlay the first forty-five days?”

“That’s what we anticipate, sir.”

“Good. You can send the other five million the middle of February, to the church account.”

Schooner gulped. “I should be able to do that by then, sir.”

“You won’t disappoint me?” Coldwater asked, placing a fatherly hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Oh, no sir,” Schooner blurted. “Of course not.”

Coldwater clapped Schooner sharply on the back. “Good man! Your church can always depend on you!”