They’d lived bigger lives, those simple Wyoming folks had.
Because of him.
Through his good offices.
He’d sent them to the Holy Land. By way of Paris. Only the best hotels. Cars, tour guides, the whole enchilada.
Suddenly irritated, he sternly, even rudely, addressed an underling. An underling who was soft and admired him. Perry. Why the hell had Perry let that Frenchie in here? Did Perrycogitate? Was he capable of using hisnoggin? Could he apply that lump of flesh taking up so much damn space there at the end of his neck tosolvea thing? Could he at least do that?
Seemed he couldn’t.
Well, get out.
Get out, Perry.
Have a think about all I’ve said to you.
Maybe I’m wrong.
Been wrong before.
Although not very damn often.
Perry, get out.
Send in Lars. Send Marie in. Tell her don’t dare bring that goddamn graph back in here. It stinks to high heaven. Communicates zilch. How much did that piece of trash cost me? Remember those folks calledshareholders? Who trust us with theirmoney? That they worked hard toaccumulate?
His wife woke, rose, checked a bedside monitor, placed a palm on his forehead, and returned to the love seat, pausing to adjust the position of her slippers such that the invisible person was no longer pigeon-toed and was facing not the couch, but the window, as if looking out of it.
—
I did not understand how the Frenchman’s nonsensical ravings could have upset such a serious and confident man.
But they had.
Outwardly my charge remained motionless (on his back, eyes closed, one hand under the covers, the other above), while inwardly (that is, as he imagined himself from within the dreamlike state in which his illness had trapped him) he rocked from side to side, as if bound and in distress.
I gently urged him back toward those memories of home (those kitchen smells, the burn pile, those games of Nail Your Neighbor).
He was having none of it.
That dope, what crap, he thought angrily. What did that frog know about it? Had Pierre here ever roustabouted in heat over a hundred under Gleb damn Neeling? Who’d give a guy a stout poke in the ribs with a wrench because some minor safety protocol had been (briefly) neglected? Well, Neeling had been right to do it. He sure had. Safety first. Injuries cost a company. You didn’t want to see a fellow injured. So, therefore: firmness. Be a little rough. That way, the lesson got in there.
Net result?
Fewer people hurt.
Neeling was a doer, God love him, the whoring old bastard.
You know one thing you rarely heard about in the good old U.S.A. anymore? Monsieur Frog? A young fellow dying of appendicitis. At twenty-eight. Like Grandpa’s brother had. Because a road got washed out. And the horse-drawn cart couldn’t make it through. Imagine you go back in time and drop that young guy into the backseat of a big old SUV, fly him over a perfect four-lane to some gleaming modern hospital, save his life.
There was a story often told. Perhaps you’ve heard this one. Don’t stop me if you have, though, ha ha (I dearly love to tell it): Little boy’s grousing: doesn’t like cars. Because of “the pollution.” You know where this one’s going, I bet. The father pulls the car over to the side of the road. “Then I suppose you’ll want to walk.”
End of objections from el kiddo.
Your choice, Jacques.
Dying in the back of a horse cart stuck in the mud? Or zinging toward help, air-con blasting?
