peak of anger crumbled and fell slowly and softly away. Charlie Himbermark sat small in the seat beside him. He looked bludgeoned and shrunken. Johnny was half amused at his own anger, and he felt a small twinge of compassion for the poor old fool.
“Aren’t… aren’t you driving pretty fast, Johnny?”
“Shut up!” There was that much anger left.
The miles ran fleetly under the fast wet wheels of the car. They went through Bradenton, and turned toward the Sunshine Skyway and Route 19. Tampa Bay was obscured by rain. Johnny could not see the bridge far ahead. One incredibly steadfast fisherman stood on one of the smaller causeway bridges, huddled against the rail, back to the gusty wind, line stretching down to the gunmetal water, frothed with white.
“You just didn’t handle it so well, Charlie,” Johnny said at last, his voice soft.
Charlie responded immediately to the hint of forgiveness, and he sat erect and turned toward Johnny. “I guess I just wasn’t too clear about what you wanted me to do up there, Johnny. Gosh, I understand it now. I never would have talked like that if I’d understood all the ins and outs. Now that I’ve got it all clear in my mind, I can handle it all right for you. You can leave me up there when you head back and you won’t have to have a worry in the world. That’s it, Johnny. Not a worry in the world. I was talking to Will Wilson last night—he’s my neighbor—and I was telling him…” The voice faltered and stopped.
“Go on, Charlie. What were you telling him?”
“That it… was an interesting job.”
“And dropping a lot of little hints about it.”
“He wouldn’t tell a soul, Johnny. Will knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“If that’s true, I should have hired him instead of you. Jesus, Charlie, let’s not talk about it. We won’t talk about it again until we get up there. I wish to God we could have flown up there.”
The big car sped on. St. Petersburg was lost and gray under the thick fat rain. Johnny Flagan sat low in the seat, hands holding the wheel lightly. His mind was not on the road or the weather, or even the problems ahead. He was playing a mental game that was old with him, a game that had begun years ago and had become more satisfying to play each year.
He divided his mind into two parts, like a big white balance sheet with a sharp dividing line down the middle. On one side he slowly listed what he owned. Land, securities, cash, buildings, options. He thought of each item carefully, lovingly, remembering to a penny the cost of acquisition, assigning a conservative current valuation to each one. When he was through, when he could think of no other item, he drew a line and added the figures. Next he listed his obligations, finding the exact total. He did it all slowly, so that the game would last longer. He subtracted one from the other.
Johnny Flagan, at this moment, at this instant of time, you are worth almost five hundred and ten thousand dollars. And, except for Bruce Lovingwell—one of the smartest tax attorneys in the business—there is no one else in the wide world who even suspects that it’s that much. Half of a million, Johnny. Now let’s get on with the game. A dollar bill isn’t quite six inches long, but we’ll call it six inches and cut the total down to an even half million. Let’s see. That’s two hundred and fifty thousand feet. About forty-seven miles. Four point seven miles if it was ten-dollar bills. Or damn near a half mile of hundred-dollars bills. Five hundred thousand-dollar bills. Three thousand inches. Two hundred and fifty feet.
He could picture the money spread flat and even along the highway and it gave him a sensual almost voluptuous pleasure to think about it.
The more there was of it, the easier it was to get hold of more.
The old man thought you worked for it. He thought if you broke your back out there in the celery, you’d make money. Or if you hauled on the nets until your hands bled,
“Aren’t… aren’t you driving pretty fast, Johnny?”
“Shut up!” There was that much anger left.
The miles ran fleetly under the fast wet wheels of the car. They went through Bradenton, and turned toward the Sunshine Skyway and Route 19. Tampa Bay was obscured by rain. Johnny could not see the bridge far ahead. One incredibly steadfast fisherman stood on one of the smaller causeway bridges, huddled against the rail, back to the gusty wind, line stretching down to the gunmetal water, frothed with white.
“You just didn’t handle it so well, Charlie,” Johnny said at last, his voice soft.
Charlie responded immediately to the hint of forgiveness, and he sat erect and turned toward Johnny. “I guess I just wasn’t too clear about what you wanted me to do up there, Johnny. Gosh, I understand it now. I never would have talked like that if I’d understood all the ins and outs. Now that I’ve got it all clear in my mind, I can handle it all right for you. You can leave me up there when you head back and you won’t have to have a worry in the world. That’s it, Johnny. Not a worry in the world. I was talking to Will Wilson last night—he’s my neighbor—and I was telling him…” The voice faltered and stopped.
“Go on, Charlie. What were you telling him?”
“That it… was an interesting job.”
“And dropping a lot of little hints about it.”
“He wouldn’t tell a soul, Johnny. Will knows how to keep his mouth shut.”
“If that’s true, I should have hired him instead of you. Jesus, Charlie, let’s not talk about it. We won’t talk about it again until we get up there. I wish to God we could have flown up there.”
The big car sped on. St. Petersburg was lost and gray under the thick fat rain. Johnny Flagan sat low in the seat, hands holding the wheel lightly. His mind was not on the road or the weather, or even the problems ahead. He was playing a mental game that was old with him, a game that had begun years ago and had become more satisfying to play each year.
He divided his mind into two parts, like a big white balance sheet with a sharp dividing line down the middle. On one side he slowly listed what he owned. Land, securities, cash, buildings, options. He thought of each item carefully, lovingly, remembering to a penny the cost of acquisition, assigning a conservative current valuation to each one. When he was through, when he could think of no other item, he drew a line and added the figures. Next he listed his obligations, finding the exact total. He did it all slowly, so that the game would last longer. He subtracted one from the other.
Johnny Flagan, at this moment, at this instant of time, you are worth almost five hundred and ten thousand dollars. And, except for Bruce Lovingwell—one of the smartest tax attorneys in the business—there is no one else in the wide world who even suspects that it’s that much. Half of a million, Johnny. Now let’s get on with the game. A dollar bill isn’t quite six inches long, but we’ll call it six inches and cut the total down to an even half million. Let’s see. That’s two hundred and fifty thousand feet. About forty-seven miles. Four point seven miles if it was ten-dollar bills. Or damn near a half mile of hundred-dollars bills. Five hundred thousand-dollar bills. Three thousand inches. Two hundred and fifty feet.
He could picture the money spread flat and even along the highway and it gave him a sensual almost voluptuous pleasure to think about it.
The more there was of it, the easier it was to get hold of more.
The old man thought you worked for it. He thought if you broke your back out there in the celery, you’d make money. Or if you hauled on the nets until your hands bled,
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