Brody Brady emailed the members of The Martini Club calling them to an emergency meeting at his place—no martinis or hors d’oeuvres, just serious business.They were assembled within an hour.
“I have some terrible news,” Brady began. “We have been scammed, fooled by Rufus Bideau. Verde Bioenergy is not coming to Stuarton. There are no negotiations to build a switchgrass plant here and never have been. Bideau simply made the whole thing up to get us to overpay for a worthless farm.”
Brady was pale. He stretched his frail body to its full height, and in a deep, sorrowful voice added, “And I was his messenger, his fool. He evidently saw how I had been duped by the New Universal Trade Center group and that little stripper girl. He sought me out. Somehow, I will make this up to you, my friends. I will see that all those who joined The Burning Bush Investment Club are reimbursed.”
“Fat chance,” snarled Gerald Smyth.
“We didn’t have to invest,” Ginsberg interjected. “We are grown men. We are capable of making decisions on our own. We can’t simply blame Brody for our bad judgment.”
“Maybe we can turn the farm into an airstrip for senior citizens,” joked Jay Corrigan, the retired airline pilot. “I always wanted to give flying lessons to old people. Bring them closer to heaven, so to speak.” He laughed, trying to break the mood.
“Right,” Smyth shot back with his trademark sarcastic anger. “Maybe we could invest in a fleet of small airplanes with built-in porta-potties. You know how us old folks always have to pee. Better yet, we could sell tickets to watch you wing walk, Corrigan…or maybe I should just kick your smart ass all over the room for fun.”
Corrigan, who had flown F14 Tomcats over Vietnam as a Navy fighter pilot, rose from his chair and headed toward Smyth. “I never backed off from your types before, and I’m not gonna do it now.”
“Hold on. I may have a better solution, if we can all just stop panicking for a moment.” David Neville stood up. “What if we could still make this switchgrass thing happen?” A thin man of average height, he was hardly an imposing figure, but he had served on President Johnson’s Council of Economic Advisers and was respected by the club’s members. “Not being as trusting as the rest of you, I recently put in a call to Verde Bioenergy’s vice president for North American investments. Turns out, he’s an old friend of mine. I told him we had heard the company was going to build a plant here. When he denied any knowledge of it, I suggested that Stuarton could offer terms as favorable as Victorton and that he should speak to our mayor. He asked me some questions, and said he would be in touch. In light of this glimmer of hope, I suggest we continue to show confidence to our fellow investors and tell them things are just going to take a little longer than we thought.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but it doesn’t curtail my desire to break Bideau’s neck first,” said an even-angrier-than-usual Smyth.
“I know where Bideau’s office is, but that enormous son of his, Lucas, is his receptionist,” Brady jumped in, hoping to blunt Smyth’s desire for retribution.
“Bullshit,” snapped Smyth. “I’m going there right now. Anybody coming with me?”
Mike Rose whipped open his jacket, revealing his pistol. “I’m with you.”
“Never thought I’d have a brothel owner for backup, but now’s the time,” Smyth answered with a half smile.
“I don’t endorse violence,” Ginsberg said, “but as Koheleth said, ‘There is a time for peace and time for war.’ I’m coming along.”
Corrigan and Brady quickly agreed to join the retired CIA agent as well, Brady announcing that he would drive. Neville said he would stay behind with an open phone line, so reinforcements could be called in, if needed.
Smyth gave the remaining members his dark look and followed Brady, Rose, Ginsberg and Corrigan out to Brady’s car.