The Knowland Retribution by Richard Greener

of his moonlike face. He projected an earnest manner and shook hands firmly, but with care. He had what Walter knew must be widely celebrated as a winning personality, no particle of which did Walter suppose to be authentic. Wes let go of Walter’s hand. “That’s some gate you’ve got there. Security?”
    â€œKeeps the goats out,” Walter told him. “The island’s full of them. Cows too. The damn goats ate my flowers so I had to put up the gate.”
    They sat at the marble table: Walter, Nathan, Maloney, Wes. Comfortable and shaded. Wes set his case under the table. The old woman had brought cold drinks and food on a square silver platter. Walter nodded appreciatively at the artfully arranged meat, cheese, fruit, and crackers. “Mr. Stein,” he said, “what can I do for you?”
    â€œI need to find somebody.”
    â€œYes, I see. Who?”
    â€œI’m not sure. How the hell am I supposed to know?” Stein turned angrily, awkwardly on Tom, jabbing a finger toward Walter, barking like a Chihuahua, “Goddamnit, Tom. That’s supposed to be his end.”
    Tom leaned forward to settle a gentle hand on Stein’s child-size shoulder. It seemed a practiced gesture. Walter took it to fall within the job description. Wesley plainly regarded it as routine. Tom kept his hand in place as he spoke. “What Nathan means to say is that we need to find someone and we’re not absolutely sure of his identity. We need to find out who he is. Then we need to find him, and then come to a resolution of our problem. We’ve got a problem here, Mr. Sherman, and we’re all a bit stressed. Given your experience with difficult matters I’m sure you’ll agree that that is normal enough.”
    â€œThe stress I can see,” said Walter sternly, “but I know nothing about your situation. I can’t agree or disagree until I know what you’re talking about. Why don’t you describe your problem.”
    â€œHe’s trying to fucking kill us!” yelled Stein in a voice like troubled gears, his mouth a ragged thing beneath his sharp, vein-crossed nose. “Is that enough of a fucking problem?”
    If it was a performance, it was a good one. Walter was inclined to think otherwise, to believe that the little sac of testosterone was genuinely off-stride. Walter let his eyebrows jump and cocked his head to show interest. Then he tried an ironic note, mimicking discovery. “And you’re not sure who this person is? Have I got that right, Mr. Stein?” A muttering sneer came back.
    â€œYou got it,” said Pitts unexpectedly, from another county, mouth full of ham and cracker. “But he damn sure knows who we are and the murderous cocksucker’s already—”
    Tom cut him short with a twitch of his head, then said, “Maybe we’re getting ahead of ourselves, maybe just a little.”
    At least twenty painfully prolonged seconds followed. Nathan Stein turned peevishly toward the water, wrestling no doubt with whatever tiny demons labored to unglue him. Wesley Pitts nodded aimlessly, removed his glasses, wiped his eyes with the backs of his powerful hands, and backpedaled to his appropriate place in the order of things. Walter felt for Tom. As point man he was supposed to keep things together, especially at moments like this. Now, he needed help. Walter reached for a chunk of apple. He chewed it, released a sigh, and applied a mild, mournful tone to his next observation. “Guys,” he said, “This doesn’t really sound like my kind of work.”

Atlanta
    After their second or third closing, all these decades ago, Harvey decided to have a photo taken. He had a secretary use a camera he had brought from home. The buyer and seller each got an 8x10 glossy, suitable for framing. It showed happy folks shaking hands on a life-changing deal. This became an extremely popular perk, and soon they had so many