husband would come to an end. If it hadn’t been for the prenuptial agreement Shoemaker had forced on Starla, they would have already told him to go to hell.
“The old bastard,” Eric muttered. For Starla, if the letter proved correct, revenge for their family’s past humiliations would be important. For him, however, the idea of his own wealth, to do with as he pleased, and freedom from Henry Shoemaker’s oppressive dominance, were lure enough.
He tossed his half-finished cigarette into a bed of flowers in front of the golf club’s entrance, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot.
Placing the phone onto its cradle, Henry Shoemaker rose and turned toward the wide expanse of glass behind his desk. Insulated from weather and sounds, a panorama of wharves, cranes, and ships stretched into the distance along the south side of Blount Island, an asphalt and concrete bastion anchored firmly in the mud and sand of the St. Johns River. Though under the overall supervision of the Jacksonville Port Authority, many of the ships that lay alongside the acres of wharves, much of the equipment, and most of the unionized longshoremen were his. His ships, his equipment, and his people. The operative word being
his.
One could say the same for the Florida ports of Tampa, Miami, and Fort Lauderdale’s Port Everglades. And farther to the north—Brunswick and Savannah, Georgia, and on to Charleston and Wilmington in the Carolinas. Different corporations, different presidents and CEOs, but all under Shoemaker’s flagship umbrella, Alliance Industries, Ltd.
Shoemaker was neither tall nor short. In fact, if it weren’t for the $2000 hand-tailored suits, $200 silk ties, and $5000 Rolex on his left wrist, Henry Shoemaker would easily have been the invisible man. Though in his late sixties, it would have taken a magnifying glass to find the slightest wrinkle or blemish from the top of his totally bald head to the tip of an almost formless chin. In fact, there was really nothing particularly memorable about his oval-shaped face. His lips were without curvature or fullness, more like two narrow lines stretched partway across the face. If not for the short, narrow rectangular blocks of black, close-cut bristles masquerading as eyebrows above colorless eyes and a nose reddened by a progressive case of rosacea, the face would have been as unremarkable as a slab of white plaster. Behind that face and lackluster eyes, however, was a mind that controlled an empire worth billions, and with those dollars, a bevy of politicians, each begging to know how high to jump and in which direction.
As he surveyed this part of his empire, the soft strains of a Richard Strauss orchestral tone poem issued from speakers placed about the room. They were hidden from view behind potted plants, within lamp bases, or disguised as first editions set meticulously in bookshelves behind doors of exquisitely carved cedar latticework. As the music built toward a crescendo, Henry Shoemaker’s right hand moved baton-like to the rhythm, drawing forth the swell of violins and the impassioned cry of the brass section.
Suddenly, he heard, “For God’s sake, Henry. Can’t you live one minute without that goddamn music blaring in your ears?”
The spell broken, Shoemaker took a deep breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to hide his irritation before turning toward the woman standing impatiently in the open doorway. “Ah, yes, my dear. With you at my side, who needs music?”
Bitch!
he thought, as he reached for the control console built into the top of his desk. He punched one of several buttons, and the music stopped.
If only she weren’t so beautiful, he would have cast her aside years ago. Always wanting more and more, but then again she had been useful. What money couldn’t buy, she had often secured for him when a congressman or senator found himself compromised by her attentions. Eighteen years younger than he, or was it twenty? No matter, she could
“The old bastard,” Eric muttered. For Starla, if the letter proved correct, revenge for their family’s past humiliations would be important. For him, however, the idea of his own wealth, to do with as he pleased, and freedom from Henry Shoemaker’s oppressive dominance, were lure enough.
He tossed his half-finished cigarette into a bed of flowers in front of the golf club’s entrance, put the car in gear, and pulled out of the parking lot.
Placing the phone onto its cradle, Henry Shoemaker rose and turned toward the wide expanse of glass behind his desk. Insulated from weather and sounds, a panorama of wharves, cranes, and ships stretched into the distance along the south side of Blount Island, an asphalt and concrete bastion anchored firmly in the mud and sand of the St. Johns River. Though under the overall supervision of the Jacksonville Port Authority, many of the ships that lay alongside the acres of wharves, much of the equipment, and most of the unionized longshoremen were his. His ships, his equipment, and his people. The operative word being
his.
One could say the same for the Florida ports of Tampa, Miami, and Fort Lauderdale’s Port Everglades. And farther to the north—Brunswick and Savannah, Georgia, and on to Charleston and Wilmington in the Carolinas. Different corporations, different presidents and CEOs, but all under Shoemaker’s flagship umbrella, Alliance Industries, Ltd.
Shoemaker was neither tall nor short. In fact, if it weren’t for the $2000 hand-tailored suits, $200 silk ties, and $5000 Rolex on his left wrist, Henry Shoemaker would easily have been the invisible man. Though in his late sixties, it would have taken a magnifying glass to find the slightest wrinkle or blemish from the top of his totally bald head to the tip of an almost formless chin. In fact, there was really nothing particularly memorable about his oval-shaped face. His lips were without curvature or fullness, more like two narrow lines stretched partway across the face. If not for the short, narrow rectangular blocks of black, close-cut bristles masquerading as eyebrows above colorless eyes and a nose reddened by a progressive case of rosacea, the face would have been as unremarkable as a slab of white plaster. Behind that face and lackluster eyes, however, was a mind that controlled an empire worth billions, and with those dollars, a bevy of politicians, each begging to know how high to jump and in which direction.
As he surveyed this part of his empire, the soft strains of a Richard Strauss orchestral tone poem issued from speakers placed about the room. They were hidden from view behind potted plants, within lamp bases, or disguised as first editions set meticulously in bookshelves behind doors of exquisitely carved cedar latticework. As the music built toward a crescendo, Henry Shoemaker’s right hand moved baton-like to the rhythm, drawing forth the swell of violins and the impassioned cry of the brass section.
Suddenly, he heard, “For God’s sake, Henry. Can’t you live one minute without that goddamn music blaring in your ears?”
The spell broken, Shoemaker took a deep breath and slowly exhaled in an effort to hide his irritation before turning toward the woman standing impatiently in the open doorway. “Ah, yes, my dear. With you at my side, who needs music?”
Bitch!
he thought, as he reached for the control console built into the top of his desk. He punched one of several buttons, and the music stopped.
If only she weren’t so beautiful, he would have cast her aside years ago. Always wanting more and more, but then again she had been useful. What money couldn’t buy, she had often secured for him when a congressman or senator found himself compromised by her attentions. Eighteen years younger than he, or was it twenty? No matter, she could
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