has nothing to add and finally yields to a sweaty-palmed council candidate angling for Roger’ssupport, followed by a mass-transit advocate pushing for a September levy, an auto lobbyist soliciting advice on how to kill the same measure, and a sociology professor who, at Roger’s convenience, of course, would like to discuss the fair’s impact on the city. Then a man who doesn’t bother to introduce himself informs him that the French exhibit, particularly its movie, is
an absolute travesty
! Roger’s face remains wide-eyed and curious long after he quits listening. He finally excuses himself, spots Teddy entertaining the mayor—waving both hands the way he does whenever he’s telling stories—and peels off toward Malcolm, moving too briskly for anything beyond smiles and nods, pretending not to hear his name being called, bottling his mounting irritations—all these doubters and doomsayers sucking at his trough. The self-righteousness of Sid Chambliss flickers inside him like a severed power line. And now, watching Malcolm Turner in action, he senses something reckless and loose-lipped about him that he’d mistaken for enlightenment.
Perhaps he’d placed too much stock in their similar ages and backgrounds. Both dropped out of the U and rose rapidly, Roger in restaurants, Malcolm in real estate. Yet the differences were more telling. Malcolm was married, had four children, drove a new Cadillac and owned a suburban mansion. Roger had a fiancée, no kids, a dented Impala and a Queen Anne bungalow he shared with his mother. Still, they were both good at dreaming aloud. Mal flipped downtown properties the way other developers bought and sold suburban houses—demolishing, rebuilding, reselling and leapfrogging into bigger buildings. And listening to him babble at times, Roger could imagine the entire skyline filling in. It was Mal’s relentless pestering that persuaded him to invest in a project near the incoming freeway. What else was he going to do with the money that was piling up for the first time in his life? Mal had a fancy name for his future apartment complex—
The Borgata: A Villa by the Sea
—even before he’d figured out where it would be built, which was where Roger kicked in. Unfurling a battered map, Mal had circled four intersections with a red pen and asked which would ultimately become the most convenient location. All Roger did was point a tremblingpinky at the circle a block away from the future Roanoke Street on-ramp.
By the time Roger gets to him now, Malcolm is doubled over, glassy-eyed with mirth, raising his hands in mock surrender. “The man of the hour! You know everybody, right?”
Roger surveys the unfamiliar smirkers as Malcolm rattles off names and titles: “Jon Reitan, undersheriff, Rudy Costello, Northwest Games, and Michael Vitullo, tavern owner and notorious rascal.”
Roger shakes hands and matches names to faces as cameras flash—who’s photographing him now?—and the muttering men praise the fair, the lounge, the weather, everything. When he can’t take it anymore, he points at Malcolm. “Talk to you for a minute?”
“Certainly! Honored to get an audience. ’Scuse me, fellas.”
The crowd noise forces Roger to speak louder. “Would appreciate it if you’d return my calls.”
Malcolm looks dumbfounded. “If anybody understands what it’s like to be
ridiculously busy
, I’d have thought it’d be you.”
Roger bends closer. “Why are you building already?”
“The apartments? Prep work,” he says slowly, as if to a child. “These things don’t pop up overnight, Roger. Gotta clear the land and lay the foundation while the weather holds.”
“You bought, cleared
and
started faster than you said you would. Nobody else is building.”
Malcolm starts to laugh, closes his mouth, smacks his lips and leans in. “Everybody’s snapping up properties, okay? Everything’s fine. More investors hopping on board all the time.” He snickers. “Never had
an absolute travesty
! Roger’s face remains wide-eyed and curious long after he quits listening. He finally excuses himself, spots Teddy entertaining the mayor—waving both hands the way he does whenever he’s telling stories—and peels off toward Malcolm, moving too briskly for anything beyond smiles and nods, pretending not to hear his name being called, bottling his mounting irritations—all these doubters and doomsayers sucking at his trough. The self-righteousness of Sid Chambliss flickers inside him like a severed power line. And now, watching Malcolm Turner in action, he senses something reckless and loose-lipped about him that he’d mistaken for enlightenment.
Perhaps he’d placed too much stock in their similar ages and backgrounds. Both dropped out of the U and rose rapidly, Roger in restaurants, Malcolm in real estate. Yet the differences were more telling. Malcolm was married, had four children, drove a new Cadillac and owned a suburban mansion. Roger had a fiancée, no kids, a dented Impala and a Queen Anne bungalow he shared with his mother. Still, they were both good at dreaming aloud. Mal flipped downtown properties the way other developers bought and sold suburban houses—demolishing, rebuilding, reselling and leapfrogging into bigger buildings. And listening to him babble at times, Roger could imagine the entire skyline filling in. It was Mal’s relentless pestering that persuaded him to invest in a project near the incoming freeway. What else was he going to do with the money that was piling up for the first time in his life? Mal had a fancy name for his future apartment complex—
The Borgata: A Villa by the Sea
—even before he’d figured out where it would be built, which was where Roger kicked in. Unfurling a battered map, Mal had circled four intersections with a red pen and asked which would ultimately become the most convenient location. All Roger did was point a tremblingpinky at the circle a block away from the future Roanoke Street on-ramp.
By the time Roger gets to him now, Malcolm is doubled over, glassy-eyed with mirth, raising his hands in mock surrender. “The man of the hour! You know everybody, right?”
Roger surveys the unfamiliar smirkers as Malcolm rattles off names and titles: “Jon Reitan, undersheriff, Rudy Costello, Northwest Games, and Michael Vitullo, tavern owner and notorious rascal.”
Roger shakes hands and matches names to faces as cameras flash—who’s photographing him now?—and the muttering men praise the fair, the lounge, the weather, everything. When he can’t take it anymore, he points at Malcolm. “Talk to you for a minute?”
“Certainly! Honored to get an audience. ’Scuse me, fellas.”
The crowd noise forces Roger to speak louder. “Would appreciate it if you’d return my calls.”
Malcolm looks dumbfounded. “If anybody understands what it’s like to be
ridiculously busy
, I’d have thought it’d be you.”
Roger bends closer. “Why are you building already?”
“The apartments? Prep work,” he says slowly, as if to a child. “These things don’t pop up overnight, Roger. Gotta clear the land and lay the foundation while the weather holds.”
“You bought, cleared
and
started faster than you said you would. Nobody else is building.”
Malcolm starts to laugh, closes his mouth, smacks his lips and leans in. “Everybody’s snapping up properties, okay? Everything’s fine. More investors hopping on board all the time.” He snickers. “Never had
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