When David Sugarman called to say his team had arrived in St. Louis, John offered to drive into the city and meet them for dinner. Sugarman said that wasn’t necessary. John then suggested they meet at Egyptian Grounds, get acquainted over “the best coffee in the county” and then head to the site. Sugarman nixed that idea, too.
“We’ll meet at the southeast corner of the property.”
“Yes of course,” John deadpanned. “Who buys without first kicking the tires, right?” Sugarman didn’t offer so much as a faint chuckle, nor could John imagine a grin at the other end of the line. The idea of acting the obnoxious rube was beginning to grow on John just so he could piss this bureaucratic asshole off.
John had planned on getting to the site late, a bit of an “up yours” gesture for Sugarman. But due to morning traffic backed up on the bridge coming out of downtown St. Louis, the DC team was behind schedule. Three text messages later indicated they were cruising now and expected to arrive by ten. By that time, John had spent twelve dollars on coffee and another five on a muffin the size of his dog’s head.
Finally, he shoved the coffee shop door against a stiff breeze, hunched into his coat, and headed to his truck. On his way to the site, he passed by the home he grew up in, where his mother still lived, and the old farmhouse, repeatedly added on to and remodeled over the years, where he and Kathy lived, all part of the land his great grandfather had started farming at the turn of the last century. The Veranda ancestral estate, he liked to call it. Over the years, they’d sold off acreage when needed, and his father transitioned from farming to the legal profession. Both houses were set deep into the property, with their sprawling backsides mostly hidden by stands of trees and well-manicured hedges. He admired the row of fruit trees in his mother’s front yard, each surrounded by a passel of flowering plants she tended as if they were her babies. Often, first thing on a Sunday morning, while Kathy and his mother got ready for church, he’d walk the perimeter of the two properties with a steaming cup of coffee in hand and his old hound trotting at his side. That was his favorite part of the week. Although they both pestered him to go with them, he hadn’t been to church in months, joking that he only went often enough so that people in town would not think he and Kathy were having marital issues.
Five people wearing pristine, bright yellow hard hats turned to watch as he pulled into the site. He wondered what they’d seen on Google Earth that might suggest something could fall on their heads. Oh, right, best practices, for safety. Sugarman probably insisted they wear steel-toed boots with their power suits, too.
He parked the truck and climbed out, taking his good-old-boy time. One of the men broke off from the group and strode toward him.
“John Veranda?” he said, frowning, looking at his watch. “Pleasure to meet you. David Sugarman. Mr. Eisenstat sends his regards.”
“Good to meet you, Dave,” Veranda said purposely. “Glad we could make this happen.”
“It’s David, Jonathan,” Sugarman said, with a tart smile.
Touche.
Sugarman turned and walked back toward the other men clustered in a tight circle. “I’d like to introduce the members of my team from CSIA.”
“My apologies for being late,” Veranda said, shaking each man’s hand. “As you’ve probably already seen from the Google eye in the sky, there isn’t much to look at. It’s pretty quiet around here, although interstate traffic adds a bit of background noise.”
Sugarman nodded toward one of the other men. “We’ll take note of that.”
When the windows were opened at his house, Veranda found the highway noise comforting, evidence of human activity. As a teenager, he remembered the constant hum of cars and trucks as the promise of a oneway route out of town. Follow the hum, he used to think, like the Yellow Brick Road. Only don’t follow it back home. Yet now, here he was.
“You get used to it. It can be quite soothing, even,” John said reflexively. He’d been concerned that the noise might be a detriment to the medical center deal, even though proximity to an interstate was a good sell for a trauma center.
“If you find thoughts of global war soothing,” Sugarman said. “The interstate highway system was originally built to move military troops and armaments during the Cold War.”
Duly noted, John thought. You’re an asshole and a showoff. “All utilities services were accounted for in the prior development effort?” Sugarman asked as they began to walk the perimeter of the site.
“Absolutely.”
Two of Sugarman’s colleagues made notes, one on a notepad, another dictating into a kind of recording device John hadn’t seen in ages.
“We’ll have to recalculate the water and sewer flows, electrical loads, and telecommuncations needs. Our facility needs will be different from a medical complex. Send me any prior estimates and plans and we’ll see what adjustments need to be made, whether the size of the supply lines need to be increased.”
“I don’t have a problem with it, but I’ll have to let my partner know I’m sharing the plans.”
“Not a word on who the interested party is, remember. Not yet.”
“I’m the soul of discretion,” John said, crossing his heart, coffee cup still in hand.
Sugarman turned and looked long and hard in the southerly direction. “We’ll probably need to acquire that land as well.” He pointed. “We’ll need a sizable perimeter around the facility.”
A town park with soccer fields and baseball diamonds, along with a winding path and exercise stations, had been carved out from the cornfields about fifteen years back. Unfortunately, the town had run out of money before anyone thought of planting trees to provide shady relief in the depths of the summer. Now, there was a newer park closer to the high school, complete with a swimming pool complex and water slide, and this park wasn’t used as much anymore. The march of progress, John thought. Nothing stays the same. And nothing was more depressing than an empty baseball field. He didn’t imagine anyone would miss the park too much. But still, this was a complication. He didn’t own the land anymore.The town council would have to approve the sale.
He wondered if they might want to acquire more land, which could mean parcels of the Veranda estate he wasn’t willing to part with. That possibility was troubling, so he put it right out of his mind.
“I thought the government was looking for ‘shovel ready’ projects? Getting township approval to acquire the park and obtaining the permits could seriously push back your start date.”
“We could make some minor exceptions for the right location.”
As if in response to John’s blank countenance, Sugarman added, “We’re talking major real estate here, John, and major major services and local development to go with them.”
John chuckled. “Major Major. I take it you’re a Catch-22 fan?”
“Never read it.”
That explains a lot, John thought. “Too bad, it’s one of my favorites. Stuart’s, too.”
“The Interstate’s a fantastic natural barrier,” one of Sugarman’s colleague’s said, as others in the team walked ahead.
John stifled an exasperated sigh and watched a bird land amidst the tan colored grass and hop towards the exercise trail lining the far side of the field. It’s chirping carried across the wind to where they stood. No more playground for you, birds, he thought, if this thing happens.
“Are you at liberty to disclose what the government plans on building?” he asked.
“No, but I will say this—confidential, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We are supposed to maintain some pretense of competition among potential sites, but I can’t deny that this place really is perfect. The Federal Highway Administration’s right of way along the Interstate makes this site much easier to manage than others under consideration. Of course, we’ll need the land between the two access roads on the south side.”
Veranda blanched. That didn’t take long. “Umm … well, we can consider that, but the homes there, and the property around them,” Veranda pointed toward the two houses in the distance, “cannot be included in the sale.”
Sugarman looked puzzled.
“I mean, I live there, Sugarman. My eighty-eight-year-old mother lives there. This is all family land.” John swept an arm across the landscape.
Sugarman paused. He looked at John with the same insincere smile he proffered when he’d called him Dave. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
John opened his mouth to speak, but decided to let it go for now. Instead, he just nodded at Sugarman. But there was no way he was selling himself and his mother out of their homes.
They walked on in silence until Sugarman’s entourage turned and began walking back toward their car. When they got to the vehicles, John offered to take them to lunch, his third attempt at collegiality.
“Thanks,” Sugarman said, shaking John’s hand, “but we’ve got a 4:00 p.m. flight out of Lambert.”
“Well, I hope you got what you came for.”
“It’s a formality, really. But yes, we did. We’ll be in touch.” Sugarman opened the car door, but turned around before getting in. “And remember, this is still confidential.”
Veranda nodded, saluted, and almost clicked his heels together. How many times was Sugarman going to say that?
Exhausted from the tension of the morning, and shivering from the unforgiving winds blowing across the empty site, John stopped by the Egyptian Grounds to get one of their croissant sandwiches instead of going home for lunch. When he entered, he spotted Holly sitting at a small table, gazing dreamily out the window. The chill in his blood warmed immediately. He sauntered over to her. “What’s so interesting out there?”
Holly jumped and looked up. “Why, hello, Mr. Veranda.”
“Would you mind some company?” Holly motioned for him to sit. He glanced out the window and looked back at Holly, squinting. “It must have been something compelling to have you so entranced.”
She giggled. “It’s a little silly, actually,” she said. “I was just thinking that the way the pavement in the parking lot is cracked reminds of something having to do with chaos theory.”
“Chaos theory? You are full of surprises.”
She shrugged. “The subject happened to come up one time, and I was intrigued, so I did some research. I’ve always liked math and the way structure can be an emergent property of—” She stopped when she realized he was gaping at her.
John was thinking about the Valentine’s Day gift she had returned. The woman studied chaos theory for a hobby and he’d bought her tiny, Whitman’s chocolate sampler and left it in her doorway. What a dope he was.
She turned to face him. “So, John Harold Veranda, Esquire, what’s on your mind?”
“Nothing in particular. I’m chilled to the bone after hosting a few gentlemen on a tour of the medical complex site.”
“Really? An interested buyer? What company, if I may ask?”
“CSIA,” he said, before he remembered it was all confidential. So much for keeping my mouth shut, he thought.
Holly looked puzzled, as if turning the acronym over in her mind. “CSIA, huh? Rings a bell. What does it stand for?”
“Well, actually, I don’t really know. Probably some name that reveals nothing.” Veranda reached into his pocket and pulled out Sugarman’s business card. “Here’s the the guy’s card.” Fuck Sugarman, John thought, what harm could there be in divulging the name of his firm?
“Hmm, yeah, I recognize the logo. Back in St. Louis, Penndel and I noticed a renovated storefront in the neighborhood. It had been an old garage or service station. Anyway, the CSIA sign appeared on the outside when the renovation was complete. He said he never saw anyone go in or out of that building in five years. Penndel figured it was a government contractor of some sort. Probably had something to do with the federal mapping facility in St. Louis.”
“Strange.”
“Far as I know, the building’s still there.”
John opened his phone and searched the Web. He’d looked up their site before and it had all been a bunch of corporate mumbo jumbo. But maybe he could learn something more if they listed a St. Louis branch office. After a minute of peering at his phone screen, he said, “Here’s a listing for St. Louis, but it’s out by the airport.”
“I can ask Penndel about it if you’d like.” John reached over and touched Holly’s hand. “Please do, can’t have too much intelligence when you’re striking a business deal.” She didn’t move her hand away, but he didn’t allow his to linger.
“He seems to know everyone or know someone who knows someone who knows everyone. And he’s got a knack for finding out about things.”
After an awkward pause, Veranda suddenly felt emboldened to ask a personal question.
“Holly, are you and Penndel … an item?” He scrunched up his face like a kid. Holly threw her head back and laughed.
“As we both like to say,” she said, “we have a terrific relationship, unmarred by love or sex.”
Veranda let out his breath. “Ah, there’s a description.”
“So, what did your CSIA guests think of your site?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be confidential. To get the country out of this nasty recession, the feds have budgeted all this emergency money for economic stimulus programs, and they’re looking for projects that can put people to work ASAP. You know, shovel ready. They were interested in the medical complex site. Not the hospital, mind you, just the site, for something I am not … I’m not yet fully privy to.”
He knew he was being disingenuous. Stuart had told him in so many words that DHS was looking to relocate prisoners from Guantanamo to the mainland, but he held out hope that his property would actually be used for something different. Something useful. Something positive. In fact, he’d almost completely convinced himself that Stuart must have been mistaken.
Holly eyed him as if she knew there was something he wasn’t telling her.
“How interesting.” She looked down at her watch. “Listen, I’ve got to get going.” As she stood, she said, “It was nice running into you.” She pulled her fur around her neck and turned to leave, but gave a backward glance, this time with a smile that crinkled the tiny lines around her eyes and made her whole face light up. John watched her until she disappeared around the corner.
The wind had picked up and an icy snow whipped around her and bent the clumps of weeds growing out of the sidewalks, snow collecting around them in tiny drifts. Egyptian Grounds was on the opposite side of the square from her little bungalow and she usually liked the walk, not least because, if she walked the sidewalk around the square itself, her path took her past John’s office. She might as well admit that much.
She passed the rusted gate at the railroad crossing and imagined a stiff wind snapping it off, sending it wheeling down the deserted street. She quickened her step and pulled her furry collar up closer around her neck. Everything in this town is falling apart, she thought. What company would want to locate here?
Just past Briggs Home Furnishings, she noticed a black sedan parked on the other side of the street. She didn’t recognize the car, but the man sitting in the driver’s seat looked like the guy from the park bench, the one with the cigarette. Something about him again stirred a memory and set off her highly tuned alarm bells. But she was too cold to think about it for long.
She felt bad that John’s vision for the medical center had come to nothing, and a pang of sympathy shot through her. She thought about the little box of chocolates he had given her on Valentine’s Day and another pang shot through her. Would it have hurt anything to have kept it? She thought about how he looked at her, and how he always seemed ready to reach out to her.
On the other side of the square, a sign hanging crookedly in a sad-looking window caught her eye. Islamic Information Center. A smaller poster in the lower corner of the window posed the question, What do Muslims really think about Jesus Christ? Oh, shit, Holly muttered as she hurried past.
Once on her porch, she dusted off the melting snowflakes on her coat and tossed it over a chair near the front door. Then she kicked off her shoes and picked up her phone to call Penndel.
“Hey there … can you do me a favor, please?”
“Anything for you,” Penndel said.
“It’s for John—”
“So you want me to do favors for John now?” Penndel quipped, his laughter filling her ear.
Holly rolled her eyes. “Stop it. You know he’s married.”
“So you told me. When you moved out on me and took up residence in godforsaken Saluki.”
“Anyway, can you do some checking to see what you can find out about this company, CSIA? Remember the building near Grand Center with the CSIA sign, and no one ever coming in or out? Seems the company is looking at the land John earmarked for his medical center.
“I’ll do it for you and your Mr. John Veranda,” Penndel said, still laughing.
Holly hung up, turned on the stereo, and plopped on the couch. She definitely should have kept the box of chocolates. “Veranda’s chocolates,” she said. “John’s chocolates.” She liked the sound of it rolling off her tongue and imagined tasting it on her lips. John’s chocolates would go well with a glass or two of red wine. She pulled the plush throw up over her legs and settled into the pillows. What was so wrong about his gesture of Valentine’s Day kindness? All it meant was that he was thinking of her. It didn’t mean he was looking for something more. Not necessarily. Her eyelids began to droop, dreamy wisps of John Veranda lulling her to sleep.