Deal said, turning his palms up to show it was okay.
“The truth is, I did have something of a proposition for you.”
Deal considered a rejoinder or two, but he’d never been a rejoinder kind of guy, not when it came to women. He found himself simply nodding, as dumb as Og, the cave-man hunter.
“I was just thinking,” she continued, “since things are slow downstairs and all, and you’re bound to need some help…” She gave a shrug that squeezed her shoulders together and deepened the furrow between her breasts, sending the conch shell into solid darkness. “What we could do is let people come up here through the downstairs entrance. I could even answer your calls and stuff. I wouldn’t charge much, and it’d give me something to do, you know?”
Deal considered it briefly, long enough for the image of Ray Bob prying apart the bars of his cage to coalesce in his mind. “That’s not such a bad idea…” He broke off then, staring into the earnest gaze before him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
She laughed, a tiny, embarrassed sound. “Angie,” she said. “Angie Marsh. I guess I should have mentioned that.”
“You just did,” Deal said. He rose from his chair then and came around to the front of his desk.
“I’m John Deal,” he said, extending his hand. She reached and shook briefly, a dry strong clasp that suggested better than Ray Bob deserved.
“Pleased,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said. He could smell the faint hint of her perfume now and wondered if it had been wise to leave the protection of his desk. “I appreciate your coming up, Angie. I’ll have to think about it, though. I mean, this is just a place to hang my hat right now, really.”
She nodded, but there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes. “Sure,” she said. “It was just a thought. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” She finished with a bright smile and turned toward the outer office. “I’ll still keep an eye on things,” she added. “No charge.”
Deal gave her a smile back. “I appreciate it,” he assured her. He tried to keep his eyes off her retreating backside, but it was a brief, unsuccessful effort. Any one of the dozen thoughts racing through his mind would have sent Ray Bob vaulting the twelve-foot, razor-wire fences of Raiford.
He walked to the door of the inner stairwell and watched her descend the carpeted steps, her silhouette a graceful, ever-shifting assemblage of curves and angles against the brightly lit landing below. She turned at the bottom and gave him a wave. Deal waved back, waiting for her to disappear before he closed and locked the stairwell door. Something of what Ray Bob must have felt when his cell door clanged shut ran through Deal as the stairwell bolt shot home. The only difference, he reminded himself, was that he was the one operating the lock.
***
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep his mind on the heat and energy calculations the engineers had drafted for the first of the structures at Villas Cayo Hueso, and away from the various fantasies the visit from Angie had planted. Though the structures that would make up the development were framed of block and steel-reinforced concrete, capable—in theory, at least—of withstanding Category V hurricane winds in excess of 150 mph, Deal had tempered Franklin Stone’s original Mediterranean-inspired plans somewhat, replacing the outer finishes of stucco and red barrel tiles with a weather-resistant clapboard siding and bright tin roofing more in keeping with the indigenous architecture of the island.
It was a bit more expensive, but no less durable, and so what if it meant that the cost of materials and the increased air-conditioning load would cut into the profit margin by all of two percent? This was his project, now, not Franklin Stone’s, and it was likely to be standing a long time after he was dead and buried, too. He wouldn’t be able to take the two percent to the grave,
“The truth is, I did have something of a proposition for you.”
Deal considered a rejoinder or two, but he’d never been a rejoinder kind of guy, not when it came to women. He found himself simply nodding, as dumb as Og, the cave-man hunter.
“I was just thinking,” she continued, “since things are slow downstairs and all, and you’re bound to need some help…” She gave a shrug that squeezed her shoulders together and deepened the furrow between her breasts, sending the conch shell into solid darkness. “What we could do is let people come up here through the downstairs entrance. I could even answer your calls and stuff. I wouldn’t charge much, and it’d give me something to do, you know?”
Deal considered it briefly, long enough for the image of Ray Bob prying apart the bars of his cage to coalesce in his mind. “That’s not such a bad idea…” He broke off then, staring into the earnest gaze before him. “What’s your name, anyway?”
She laughed, a tiny, embarrassed sound. “Angie,” she said. “Angie Marsh. I guess I should have mentioned that.”
“You just did,” Deal said. He rose from his chair then and came around to the front of his desk.
“I’m John Deal,” he said, extending his hand. She reached and shook briefly, a dry strong clasp that suggested better than Ray Bob deserved.
“Pleased,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said. He could smell the faint hint of her perfume now and wondered if it had been wise to leave the protection of his desk. “I appreciate your coming up, Angie. I’ll have to think about it, though. I mean, this is just a place to hang my hat right now, really.”
She nodded, but there was a hint of disappointment in her eyes. “Sure,” she said. “It was just a thought. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” She finished with a bright smile and turned toward the outer office. “I’ll still keep an eye on things,” she added. “No charge.”
Deal gave her a smile back. “I appreciate it,” he assured her. He tried to keep his eyes off her retreating backside, but it was a brief, unsuccessful effort. Any one of the dozen thoughts racing through his mind would have sent Ray Bob vaulting the twelve-foot, razor-wire fences of Raiford.
He walked to the door of the inner stairwell and watched her descend the carpeted steps, her silhouette a graceful, ever-shifting assemblage of curves and angles against the brightly lit landing below. She turned at the bottom and gave him a wave. Deal waved back, waiting for her to disappear before he closed and locked the stairwell door. Something of what Ray Bob must have felt when his cell door clanged shut ran through Deal as the stairwell bolt shot home. The only difference, he reminded himself, was that he was the one operating the lock.
***
He spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep his mind on the heat and energy calculations the engineers had drafted for the first of the structures at Villas Cayo Hueso, and away from the various fantasies the visit from Angie had planted. Though the structures that would make up the development were framed of block and steel-reinforced concrete, capable—in theory, at least—of withstanding Category V hurricane winds in excess of 150 mph, Deal had tempered Franklin Stone’s original Mediterranean-inspired plans somewhat, replacing the outer finishes of stucco and red barrel tiles with a weather-resistant clapboard siding and bright tin roofing more in keeping with the indigenous architecture of the island.
It was a bit more expensive, but no less durable, and so what if it meant that the cost of materials and the increased air-conditioning load would cut into the profit margin by all of two percent? This was his project, now, not Franklin Stone’s, and it was likely to be standing a long time after he was dead and buried, too. He wouldn’t be able to take the two percent to the grave,
Similar Books
