sk.thetalisman-第18节
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rateful…sounding speech that said nothing。 And that night； having primed himself with three large martinis； Sloat drove from his house to the restaurant and took a baseball bat from the trunk of his car and smashed in the long window which had once given a pleasant view of the street but now looked out at a corridor of fencing which ended in a huddle of metal bins。
He had done those things 。 。 。 but he hadn't exactly been Sloat when he did them。
The next morning the Chinese requested another meeting and this time offered to quadruple their payment。 'Now you're talking like men；' Sloat told the stony…faced Chinese。 'And I'll tell you what！ Just to prove we're all on the same team； we'll pay half the cost of replacing your window。'
Within nine months of Sawyer & Sloat's taking possession of the building； all the rents had increased significantly and the initial cost and profit projections had begun to look wildly pessimistic。 By now this building was one of Sawyer & Sloat's more modest ventures； but Morgan Sloat was as proud of it as of the massive new structures they had put up downtown。 Just walking past the place where he'd put up the fence as he came in to work in the morning reminded him…daily…of how much he had contributed to Sawyer & Sloat； how reasonable were his claims！
This sense of the justice of his ultimate desires kindled within him as he spoke to Richard…after all； it was for Richard that he wanted to take over Phil Sawyer's share of the pany。 Richard was； in a sense； his immortality。 His son would be able to go to the best business schools and then pick up a law degree before he came into the pany； and thus fully armed； Richard Sloat would carry all the plex and delicate machinery of Sawyer & Sloat into the next century。 The boy's ridiculous ambition to bee a chemist could not long survive his father's determination to murder it…Richard was smart enough to see that what his father did was a hell of a lot more interesting； not to mention vastly more remunerative； than working with a test tube over a Bunsen burner。 That 'research chemist' stuff would fade away pretty quickly； once the boy had a glimpse of the real world。 And if Richard was concerned about being fair to Jack Sawyer； he could be made to understand that fifty thousand a year and a guaranteed college education was not only fair but magnanimous。 Princely。 Who could say that Jack wanted any part of the business； anyhow； or that he would possess any talent for it？
Besides； accidents happened。 Who could even say that Jack Sawyer would live to see twenty？
'Well； it's really a matter of getting all the papers； all the ownership stuff； finally straight；' Sloat told his son。 'Lily's been hiding out from me for too long。 Her brain is strictly cottage cheese by now； take my word for it。 She probably has less than a year to live。 So if I don't hump myself off to see her now that I have her pinned down； she could stall long enough to put everything into probate…or into a trust fund； and I don't think your friend's momma would let me administer it。 Hey； I don't want to bore you with my troubles。 I just wanted to tell you that I won't be home for a few days； in case you call。 Send me a letter or something。 And remember about the train； okay？ We gotta do that again。'
The boy promised to write； to work hard； to not worry about his father or Lily Cavanaugh or Jack。
And sometime when this obedient son was； say； in his senior year at Stanford or Yale； Sloat would introduce him to the Territories。 Richard would be six or seven years younger than he had been himself when Phil Sawyer； cheerfully crack…brained on grass in their first little North Hollywood office； had first puzzled； then infuriated （because Sloat had been certain Phil was laughing at him）； then intrigued his partner （for surely Phil was too stoned to have invented all this science…fiction crapola about another world）。 And when Richard saw the Territories； that would be it…if he had not already done it by himself； they'd change his mind for him。 Even a small peek into the Territories shook your confidence in the omniscience of scientists。
Sloat ran the palm of his hand over the shiny top of his head； then luxuriantly fingered his moustache。 The sound of his son's voice had obscurely； irrelevantly forted him： as long as there was Richard politely ing along behind him； all was well and all was well and all manner of things was well。 It was night already in Springfield； Illinois； and in Nelson House； Thayer School； Richard Sloat was padding down a green corridor back to his desk； perhaps thinking of the good times they'd had； and would have again； aboard Morgan's toy train line in coastal California。 He'd be asleep by the time his father's jet punished the resistant air far above and some hundred miles farther north； but Morgan Sloat would push aside the panel over his first…class window and peer down； hoping for moonlight and a parting of the clouds。
He wanted to go home immediately…home was only thirty minutes away from the office…so that he could change clothes and get something to eat； maybe snort a little coke； before he had to get to the airport。 But instead he had to pound out along the freeway to the Marina： an appointment with a client who had freaked out and was on the verge of being dumped from a picture； then a meeting with a crowd of spoilers who claimed that a Sawyer & Sloat project just up from Marina del Rey was polluting the beach…things that could not be postponed。 Though Sloat promised himself that as soon as he had taken care of Lily Cavanaugh and her boy he was going to begin dropping clients from his list…he had much bigger fish to fry now。 Now there were whole worlds to broker； and his piece of the action would be no mere ten percent。 Looking back on it； Sloat wasn't sure how he had tolerated Phil Sawyer for as long as he had。 His partner had never played to win； not seriously； he had been encumbered by sentimental notions of loyalty and honor； corrupted by the stuff you told kids to get them halfway civilized before you finally tore the blindfold off their eyes。 Mundane as it might be in light of the stakes he now played for； he could not forget that the Sawyers owed him； all right…indigestion flowered in his chest like a heart attack at the thought of how much； and before he reached his car in the still…sunny lot beside the building； he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and fished out a crumpled package of Di…Gel。
Phil Sawyer had underestimated him； and that still rankled。 Because Phil had thought of him as a sort of trained rattlesnake to be let out of his cage only under controlled circumstances； so had others。 The lot attendant； a hillbilly in a broken cowboy hat； eyed him as he marched around his little car； looking for dents and dings。 The Di…Gel melted most of the fiery ball in his chest。 Sloat felt his collar growing clammy with sweat。 The attendant knew better than to try to buddy up： Sloat had verbally peeled the man's hide weeks ago； after discovering a tiny wrinkle in the BMW's door。 In the midst of his rant； he had seen violence begin to darken in the hillbilly's green eyes； and a sudden upsurge of joy had made him waddle in toward the man； still cutting off skin； almost hoping that the attendant would take a poke at him。 Abruptly； the hillbilly had lost his momentum； feebly； indeed apologetically suggested that maybe that…there l'il nuthin of a ding came from somewhere else？ Parking service at a restaurant； maybe？ The way those bozos treat cars； y'know； and the light ain't so good that time a night； why 。 。 。
'Shut your stinking mouth；' Sloat had said。 'That little nothing； as you call it； is going to cost me about twice what you make in a week。 I should fire you right now； cowpoke； and the only reason I'm not going to is that there's about a two percent chance you might be right； when I came out of Chasen's last night maybe I didn't look under the door handle； maybe I DID and maybe I DIDN'T； but if you ever talk to me again； if you ever say any more than 'Hello； Mr。 Sloat' or 'Goodbye； Mr。 Sloat；' I'll get you fired so fast you'll think you were beheaded。' So the hillbilly watched him inspect his car； knowing that if Sloat found any imperfections in the car's finish he would bring down the axe； afraid even to e close enough to utter the ritual goodbye。 Sometimes from the window that overlooked the parking lot Sloat had seen the attendant furiously wiping some flaw； bird dropping or splash of mud； off the BMW's hood。 And that's management； buddy。
When he pulled out of the lot he checked the rear…view mirror and saw on the hillbilly's face an expression very like the last one Phil Sawyer had worn in the final seconds of his life； out in the middle of nowhere in Utah。 He smiled all the way to the freeway on…ramp。
Philip Sawyer had underestimated Morgan Sloat from the time of their first meeting； when they were freshmen at Yale。 It could have been； Sloat reflected； that he had been easy to underestimate…a pudgy eighteen…year…old from Akron； graceless； overweighted with anxieties and ambitions； out of Ohio for the first time in his life。 Listening to his classmates talk easily about New York； about '21'
