before, including Jian Wu against the wall. Donnelly walks to his chair at Buckman’s right, and I take my seat at the near end of the table. Of all the faces around the table, it’s those of Pine, Holland, and Russo that look angriest.
“All right,” rasps Buckman. “Azure Dragon will comply in full with your conditions, Mr. McEwan. They don’t like it, but being proved guilty of espionage against the United States they like even less.”
Buckman taps the table with his clawlike fingers. “Next, the Bienville Watchman, its associated real estate, and the mortgage on your parents’ house will be returned to your father and mother forthwith by noon today, unencumbered by debt, as per your terms.”
“Again,” says Donnelly, “you have my apologies as to how that was done. No excuse for it, and I hope Duncan gets back on his feet soon.”
Buckman grimaces at this mixture of sentimental courtesy with business. “The other real estate you mentioned,” he goes on, “will be returned to the various sellers under the terms you described within ten days. Mr. Holland, give Mr. McEwan your word on that.”
Beau Holland’s jaw is set so tight he looks incapable of speech.
“Beau?” Buckman prompts him.
Through clenched teeth Holland says, “Agreed.”
“For my part,” says Buckman, “I will call for and support the public school referendum, as you requested, and I’ll make sure those schools get funded. Same for the community development fund. Mr. Russo? Your word on that?”
Tommy nods once. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since the meeting began. It’s like being watched by a tiger shark from the edge of a reef.
“As you’ve probably noticed,” Buckman says, “I’ve left two of your demands to the end. Before we discuss them, I’ll ask Beau to step outside.”
“What the hell?” Holland demands, his tanned face going red again.
“Mr. Russo,” says Buckman, “please take Mr. Holland outside for a drink or a cigarette. Keep him company.”
Holland glares at me on his way out, but Russo gives me a pass, which only makes me worry that he intends to find me later.
“Two things,” Buckman says, after they’ve gone. “Blake?”
“We’d like you to reconsider something, Marshall,” says Donnelly. “Having a U.S. senator from Bienville is just too helpful for this town to give it up. This Chinese thing is just a sideshow. We can make sure Avery votes honest on those issues. But don’t take that competitive advantage away from the town. My God, think what John Stennis and Big Jim Eastland did for this state. Trent Lott?”
“Good old pork,” I mutter.
“Damn right!” says Donnelly. “We’d appreciate you giving that deal point another look, son. Seriously.”
“What’s the second issue?”
Wyatt Cash speaks for the first time. “This matter of Buck Ferris’s murder. I’ll say right up front, I’m no fan of Beau Holland. And let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that he and Cowart turn out to be guilty. If they were arrested and charged—or, God forbid, indicted—they wouldn’t hesitate to deal whatever cards they have to stay out of prison. And Beau knows more about the business of this club than Sally Matheson ever did.”
Arthur Pine leans forward and says, “We can’t risk that becoming part of a conversation with a district attorney. Even our own district attorney. And given Beau’s temperament . . . well, you understand.”
“So where does that leave us?” I ask.
“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Donnelly says in a tone I’ve never heard from him before. It suddenly strikes me that, despite his genial exterior, the oilman is just as ruthless as the rest of these guys.
“Exactly what are we talking about?”
Buckman says, “It’s hard to justify putting the county to the expense of a trial if the guilty parties are known.”
Donnelly nods with apparent regret. “A waste of taxpayer money.”
“Especially considering the complexity of the case,” adds Pine.
“There’s precedent in the club,” says Buckman. “Just after the war, there were instances of collaboration with the enemy that had to be handled this way.”
He’s talking about the Civil War. At least I hope he is. The coldness with which these men discuss the execution of one of their own—or two, including Cowart—chills my blood. Of course, they probably see Dave Cowart as a mere peasant, not one of them.
I shake my head and look from Buckman to Donnelly. “Gentlemen, I’m asking for justice, not murder.”
“Justice is a tricky business,” says Wyatt Cash. “What’s the difference to you, so long as the guilty parties pay for what they did?”