that, let alone that entire tract? Not that he owns it, anymore.”
“Who does?”
“The bank that financed the deal.”
“Foreclosure?”
Any minute.” Big smile. “Daddy bought the land at a bargain price,
years ago. Gave it to Junior, the idea being that Junior would sell at
the right time and get rich on his own. He even told Junior when the
right time was, but Junior didn’t listen.” The smile became a lottery-winner’s grin. “Not the first time,
either. Back when Junior was at Yale, he started his own business: competition
with Cliff Notes because he could do it better. Daddy bankrolled him,
hundred thousand or so. Down the drain, because apart from its being a
harebrained scheme, Junior lost interest. That’s his pattern. He has
a problem with finishing things. A few years later, when he was in
graduate school, he decided he was going to be a publisher-start a
sociology magazine for the lay public. Another quarter of a million of
Daddy’s dough. There’ve been others, all along the same lines. By my
calculation, around a million or so urinated away, not including the
land. Not much by Daddy’s standards, but you’d figure someone with
half a brain could do something constructive with that kind of
grubstake, right? Not Junior. He’s too creative.”
“What went wrong with the land?” I said.
“Nothing, but we’re in a recession and property values dropped.
Instead of cashing in and cutting his losses, Junior decided to go into
the construction business. Daddy knew it was stupid and refused to
bankroll it, soø Junior went out and got a loan from a bank using
Daddy’s name as collateral. Junior lost interest as usual, the
subcontractors saw they had a real chicken on their hands and started
plucking. Those houses are built like garbage.”
“Six phases,” I said, remembering the architectural rendering.
“Not much completed.”
“Maybe half of one phase. The plan was for an entire city.
Junior’s own personal Levittown.” He laughed. “You should see the
proposal he wrote up when he sent it to Daddy. Like a term paper
delusions of grandeur. No doubt the bank’ Il go to Daddy first, before
taking over the deed. And Daddy may just divvy up. Because he loves
Junior, tells everyone who’ll listen what a scholar his baby boy
is–another joke. Junior changed his major a bunch of times in
college.
Didn’t finish his Ph.D.–the old boredomm again.”
“One thing he has
stuck with is teaching,” I said. And he seems to be good at it–he’s
won awards.”
Huenengarth let his tongue protrude through his small lips as he shook
his head. “Yeah. Formal Organizations, New Age Management
Techniques.
We’re talking Marxist theory and rock n’ roll. He’s an entertaining speaker. I’ve got tapes of his lectures, and basically what he does is pander to
the students. Lots of anti-capitalist rhetoric, the evils of corporate
corruption. You don’t have to be Freud to figure that one out,
right?
He likes rubbing the old man’s face in it-even the wife’s part of that
program, wouldn’t you say?”
“In what way?”
“C’mon, Doctor. Milo, here, told me you found out about her military
career. The woman’s a slut. A low-life loser. On top of what she’s
doing to the kid. Can’t exactly be what the old man had in mind for
Junior.”
He grinned. Scarlet again, and sweating heavily. Nearly levitating
off his chair in rage and delight. His hatred was tangible,
poisonous.
Stephanie felt it; her eyes were thrilled.
“What about Chip’s mother?” I said. “How did she die?”
He shrugged. “Suicide. Sleeping pills. Entire family’s fucked up.
Though I can’t say I blame her. Don’t imagine living with Chuck was
any barrel of primates. He’s been known to play around–likes em in
groups of three or four, young, chesty, blond, borderline
intelligence.”
I said, “You’d like to get all of them, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ve got no use for them,” he said quickly. Then he got up, took a
few steps, turned his back on us, and stretched.
“So,” he said. “Let’s aim for tomorrow. You get ’em out, we move in
and play Captain Video.”
“Great, Bill,” said Stephanie. Her beeper went off. She removed it