I put on my Christmas list, I’d have to drop all investigations into anything related to the Poker Club.”
“Just so,” says Buckman.
“And the murder of Buck Ferris?”
Buckman and Donnelly look down at the table, as though communing with their guiding principles. Then Buckman says, “If Mr. Ferris was indeed murdered on the mill site, then yes, I’m afraid so. Justice is a pillar of social order, Mr. McEwan. But we can’t afford to have the mill project derailed. Too much depends on it, and the Chinese can be skittish about public image. To get this deal, you’re going to have to leave the Ferris matter to the sheriff’s department.”
“Who’ll bury it.”
The old banker gives me a look of perfunctory sympathy. “Not your concern. So, how do you feel about what I’ve said today?”
“I’d like to have a day to think about it, if I could.”
“You have one hour.”
His words hit me like a slap. “One hour?”
At last Arthur Pine stirs from his ennui. From across the table he says, “We don’t want an embarrassing data dump hitting the Watchman’s website tonight. This story has to go away, Marshall. Now. We need that cache.”
I have to work to keep my face impassive. “The cache?”
Pine sighs as though he resents being forced to tell me something I already know. “Before she died, Sally Matheson put together a data file containing damaging information. We believe it contains printed documents, emails, recorded conversations, various other materials. We’ll need that from you, as a sign of good faith.”
“I don’t have it.”
Every eye in the room focuses on my face.
“That would be regrettable,” Buckman says. “And it would invalidate our offer.”
“We believe you have it,” Pine says. “Or if you don’t, that you can get it. So please do that, and contact us within an hour. Do that, and you can make Bienville a better place from this day forward.”
It’s already occurred to me that the PDF I got via email might be enough to placate them and earn the staggering bribe they’ve offered.
Buckman stubs out his cigarette. “You’re looking through a window of opportunity, McEwan. This market exists now, in this moment, and for the next sixty minutes. But circumstances change. All markets are subject to outside pressures. Fluctuations. Given what you’ve been offered, I suggest you make a swift decision.”
“If I said yes, what proof would I have that you’d live up to your word?”
Buckman looks at me as though puzzled by my question. “I’m no saint, as I said. But I am a man of my word. My word is all I have.”
“And about three hundred million dollars.”
The banker gives me a tight, patronizing smile. “Closer to five, actually. May I make a suggestion? Ask your father about me. Duncan and I were never close, but he always treated me fairly. He did right by the club as well. Put it to him the way I’ve put it to you. See what he advises.”
“I might do that. One thing I would need is compensation for Buck’s widow, Quinn Ferris.”
“Did Ferris have life insurance?” Buckman asks.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care.”
“Seven hundred fifty thousand,” Buckman says flatly. “All cash, payable by five p.m. today.”
“A million,” I counter.
“Done.”
“Damn.” I believe I could have asked for more and gotten it. “You guys must be set up for a world record payoff on this deal.”
“That’s our business, son. We look forward to hearing from you.”
“One hour,” Pine says. “Don’t push it.”
Chapter 32
I’m playing Buck’s handmade guitar on an earthen mound built by Indians around the time Genghis Khan invaded China. That’s recent construction compared to the site Buck discovered down at the industrial park, but Buck spent a lot of time on this hill, so it seemed like a good place to take stock of my situation. He served as superintendent of these 170 acres, officially called the Snake Creek Site but known locally as the “Indian Village.” A lot of Bienville residents come out here to walk, picnic, or run their dogs. When I was in junior high, I had buddies who used to sneak out here at night to get high and lie on their backs staring at the stars. I sneaked out here a few times with Jet during our magic summer, but today that seems a lot further in the past than it once did.
My meeting with Claude Buckman and his buddies left me disoriented. I felt like a protester who’d walked into a boardroom to tell off a bunch of corporate