Alligator (3 page)

Ben, Sam, and Thompson shook hands on it, but all they had been able to get from Levi was a knowing smile. The next day it was on the front page of every newspaper in the South.

It wasn't until two o'clock in the morning that Rye Whitman was able to leave the stockholders' meeting and take a leak. He slipped out of the Miami Hilton ballroom and sneaked down the corridor and into the men's room before anyone noticed his absence.

He was dog tired. He rubbed his thick hand over his forehead as if he could wipe the fatigue off his face. Then he looked into the mirror. He didn't look too bad, considering the hour; considering his age, he was nothing short of a miracle. He was tanned and tall and solid as a rock. He could still swim a mile every morning in his pool and put in a twelve-hour day at the office. Not a day went by that a woman didn't give him the come-on. Often they were half his age. He didn't look all that different than he had twenty years ago. Perhaps there was some gray in his thick, curly blond hair, and a few wrinkles around his ice-blue eyes, but at forty-eight he could have been a lot worse off.

He straightened his tie and splashed cold water over his face, then winked at himself in the mirror. It had been a long night, but he'd headed them off at the pass.

He spotted a cobalt-blue fake velvet chaise in the corner of the room and eyed it longingly, but he knew he wouldn't even be able to get five minutes in before they found him.

Rye was startled out of his reverie by a knock on the door. "Rye! You in there?"

Rye winced. "No," he yelled back. "I went home an hour ago."

Maurice Gainor, vice-president of Whitman Enterprises and trusted friend, as much as Rye trusted anyone beyond himself, opened the door a couple of inches and slid into the men's room. He breathed a sigh of relief. "For a moment there, I could almost see the unemployment line."

"Are you kidding? Those turkeys had no shot." Rye pulled a paper towel from the dispenser, wadded it into a ball, and left-hooked it into a urinal by way of emphasis. "I practically own this state. There isn't a goddamned inch of land between here and Baton Rouge that doesn't have my mark on it. No weakkneed, ass-licking bunch of fancy-pants can organize a proxy fight against me."

"Any idea who was behind it?"

"I don't have a clue. Or maybe I should say the list is so long I don't know which one to choose. But I'll find out quick enough, and when I do, I'll have his balls strung out the thirty-fifth-floor window." Rye flicked Maurice's tie into his face and smiled. "You look like you just fought World War Three single-handedly."

Maurice ran his short, stubby fingers over his wrinkled suit and tried to make himself look presentable. He always looked as though he had just fought World War Three. He was the kind of man who looked dirty and sleazy no matter how often he washed and how much deodorant he used. On him, a five-hundred-dollar suit looked like it came with two pairs of pants. He glanced into the same mirror Rye had looked into seconds before. A squat, beetlelike man with thinning black hair and oily dark skin looked back at him. Only his eyes saved him from looking completely unsavory. They were soft brown and sad. He sighed. He had never gotten used to being ugly. Maybe nobody ever did, he thought. He turned away from the mirror.

"The press is waiting outside for you," said Maurice.

"Let John deal with them." Rye grabbed a paper towel and, taking careful aim, made another hook shot into the urinal.

"It wouldn't look good."

"Yeah," said Rye, "I guess you're right. Where in the hell is John, anyway?"

"He's still in the ballroom, kissing ass."

"Well, get him out of there and let's get this over with." Rye glanced at his watch. "We hurry, we can still make Everglades by morning."

Just as Maurice was about to open the door, there was another knock. "You in there?" called John.

"No," said Rye, "it's the cleaning lady. Come on in and join the party."

John Patterson kicked open the door. He stood in the doorway, one hand at either side of his Brooks Brothers trousers as if he were drawing six-shooters.

"Bang. Bang." John let off an imaginary shot at each man.

With John Patterson's tall, slim figure, short-cropped hair, and a face like the American Dream gone to seed, he was able to look fairly menacing in the half light.

"Not funny," said Rye.

"You're telling me?" John threw some cold water on his face and allowed the air to dry it off. "That was some surprise."

"Balls," said Rye. "Is the meeting over?"

"Yeah, everyone's gone but the press. You want to sneak out the back? There's a way through the kitchen."

"Gainor says it doesn't look right. But let's make it fast, okay? In and out."

Rye wadded up another towel and made a brilliant shot. He winked at Maurice and John. "Come on."

Rye sneaked up to the door and opened it a crack. The dimly lit corridor was quiet. At the far end he could just barely make out the twenty-five waiting reporters who were penned into a cordoned-off area near the ballroom. It would be easy to sneak by them.

Suddenly Rye burst through the men's-room door and, with Maurice and John in his wake, began striding down the corridor, a super-powered businessman in a hurry. It was all part of a game he had learned long ago. Pretend you're in control and they'll buy it.

Within seconds the press caught sight of Rye and tried to push through the barrier. The corridor, which only moments before was quiet, became a mob scene as the reporters jostled and pushed one another, shouting out questions at Rye and cursing one another. Five security guards sprang into action and, linking hands, held back the reporters. Flashbulbs popped, exploding light across the Hilton lobby like it was Christmas.

Rye strode over to the ballroom and positioned himself in front of the huge walnut doors he knew would look so impressive as background for his photo in the morning papers. He crinkled up his glacial blue eyes and flashed his relaxed country-boy smile for the cameras. "What the hell you boys doin' up so late?" he said after a barrage of pictures had been taken. "Must be well past your bedtime."

"Heard you had a little problem, Mr. Whitman," yelled a reporter for the
Wall Street Journal
, trying to make himself heard over the general din of shuffling feet and popping flashbulbs.

"Now who the hell told you that?" Rye smiled like an indulgent father.

"Come on, Rye, we hear there's been some trouble," shouted the tall, young, pimply-faced boy known as the Miami
Herald
's Wunderkind. He was hanging over the security guard's arms.

"Give us a break," whined a reporter from the Naples
Times.
He managed to dig his incredibly sharp elbow into the Wunderkind.

"No trouble," said Rye, beaming at them. "We just had a few differences that needed ironing out. But everything is fine now."

A blue-eyed young woman, newly hired by NBC and frantic to show her worth, shouted from the rear, "Mr. Whitman, we all know there's been a proxy fight. And from what we hear, you were lucky to make it out with your ass."

"Who let that cunt in here?" snapped Rye.

"I heard that, Mr. Whitman," she yelled back.

"You'll hear a lot more if you don't shut that mouth of yours."

"Rye, don't," Maurice said frantically.

"I don't have to take that kind of shit."

The woman from NBC pushed her way to the front of the reporters. Her sharp blue eyes glared at him. Her voice was high-pitched and hysterical.

"Come on, Mr. Whitman, you've raped this state till it's nothing more than one long housing development."

"Careful I don't do the same thing to you. You look like you could use a good—"

"Rye!" Maurice's voice was heavy with warning.

"Okay, okay," answered Rye, "but let's get the hell out of here. I've had enough for tonight."

Maurice and John formed a flying wedge. The security guards cleared a path, and the three men pushed through the mob of reporters.

The reporters started pushing and shoving one another out of the way like dogs before a hunt. Rye could feel their hot breaths on him as they shouted. The noise of shuffling feet and shouting voices, combined with the damp Miami heat, was overpowering. Rye tried to ignore it. Keeping his eyes straight ahead and his shoulders hunched, he pushed through the crowd, past the Hilton lobby and out the swinging doors into the hot Miami night. He could still hear them shouting questions after him.

A ten-passenger, chauffeur-driven, cobalt-black Mercedes swung into the driveway as if on signal. Maurice threw open the door before the car had even stopped, and Rye and John piled into the back seat. Maurice waited until they were safely in, then jumped in himself. The chauffeur put the car back into gear and, with a piercing screech, pulled away from the curb and onto the city streets, just as the crowd of reporters crashed through the hotel doors.

"Okay, boys," said Rye as he pulled off his tie and opened his shirt to the frigid air blowing out of the air-conditioning vent, "now let's get down to real business."

He punched a button on an electrified bar that folded out from the seat in front of him. The machine dropped a glass, squirted a perfectly mixed four-to-one martini out of a bright pink nipple, and dumped a load of ice. Rye watched his machine work with almost as much delight as he had felt the first day he got it. Rye loved gadgets.

"Here's to close calls," he said as he downed the martini. Rye relaxed into the plush leather seat and pressed the intercom. "Rodriguez?"

"Yes, sir," answered his chauffeur, a small, wiry Cuban with thick black hair and a sly, slow smile.

"I still expect to make Everglades City by dawn."

"I no think we can." Rodriguez's accent was so thick, it sounded like he had just swum over the day before.

"I ain't payin' you a hundred fifty a week to think."

"Yes, sir."

Rye smiled. He loved putting Rodriguez on. "Matter of fact, I don't know what I am paying you one hundred fifty for. From now on you're gonna get one twenty-five."

Rodriguez almost lost control of the car. He swallowed hard and whined, "Mr. Whitman.... I..."

"Relax. Just joking," said Rye. "But, Rodriguez...?"

"Yes, sir."

"I still expect to be in Everglades by dawn. I got an important date with an alligator."

As he rode through the empty Miami streets, Rye Whitman was thinking about alligators. He was also ruminating about a new land deal he was cooking up. At the same time, he was amusing himself with the thought of Maurice and John, two city boys, going on a gator hunt.

Rye never thought about one thing at a time, but, like a computer, calculated one thing in one bank and something totally different in another. This ability to plot and scheme in several directions at once had helped make Rye the awesome success that he was. Rye could size up an opponent while he read a complicated contract. At the same time, he would know what everybody else in the room was doing and thinking. There was nothing that passed over him, no word, no glance, no gesture, that Rye didn't see and add to his mental file.

Remembering a bit of unfinished business, he turned to Maurice and said, "Get hold of that faggot Masters."

"But, Rye, it's three o'clock in the morning."

Rye checked his wafer-thin gold wristwatch. "It's only two fifty-eight."

"Terrific," said Maurice, but he picked up the car phone and dialed. He knew better than to argue. It took six rings before Walt Masters answered.

"Walt, you old son of a bitch," said Maurice, giving Rye a wink, "how in the hell are you? No, it's two fifty-nine... Listen, I wanted to talk to you about this land business. Rye is angry, Walt. I mean, he's yelling for your head." Maurice pointed to the receiver and made the jerk-off sign. He watched to make sure Rye laughed; then he continued, "You have to see his position. We can hardly cram one hotel in that space, let alone five."

Rye reached over and made himself another martini. Maurice had stopped talking, and when Rye glanced at him he noticed that his face was growing redder and redder, until he looked like he was about to launch himself out of the seat. The turkey, Rye thought.

Maurice covered the receiver and whispered to Rye, "He won't go a penny lower than twenty-five hundred."

Rye shook his head.

"But, Rye, it's still worth twice that," Maurice persisted, knowing it was a lost cause.

John laughed. "Land is only worth what you pay for it."

Rye looked from John to Maurice, the one vice-president in charge of hatchet jobs, the other, similarly, a vice-president on the stationery, but in fact a white Stepin Fetchit. He often told them he couldn't remember why he had hired either of them. Sometimes he meant it.

"What do I do?" repeated Maurice.

"Nothing," said Rye. "Call Daggart and tell him Walt bit at two grand." He winked. "We don't have to worry about them checking with each other. They don't talk, since Daggart put it to Masters's wife."

Maurice smiled at Rye. He loved watching him in action. To Maurice, he was like a great quarterback, the Joe Namath of big business. He hung up on Masters and dialed Daggart.

The bright lights of Miami receded behind them as the Mercedes turned onto the highway and picked up speed. It was too late for there to be much traffic. Only a few camping vehicles and several large semis shared the road with the men.

It took Maurice several calls before he located Daggart. He was shacked up at the Jersey Motel with Mrs. Masters.

Rye listened to Maurice making the pitch for a while but soon grew bored. Casting around for something to do, he rummaged through the sporting equipment in the back of the car. It was awesome. Among the tents and camping stoves were three Weatherby .460 magnums, four Franchi 30-06s, a .742 Woodmaster, a couple of Browning .243s, and three Ruger .375 H&H magnums.

Ever since Rye was a boy, he had been a hunter. He'd gone after moose in Canada, boar in Mexico, tiger in India, and rhino in Kenya. He often said that the only thing he hadn't gone after was buffalo in Arizona, and that was only because the locks on the Phoenix Zoo were too good. Otherwise he'd have crawled in there and knocked them off.