A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [19]
For two years Darnell kept a sharp eye on Thornton Tomtree’s invention. The Bulldog was doing spell-binding work. Thornton rebuffed a dozen offers to join the top national electronics companies.
He did not exactly know what he ultimately wanted from the Bulldog. More and more electronic research and product appeared around the country. Thornton concentrated on understanding an overall pulsation of the computer phenomenon.
Darnell was lured in. With the way opened for anything, he started his own collection of data to try to find an indispensable niche where the Bulldog would fit.
Columbia came courting, to no avail. Darnell was now in his corner in the junkyard. Backup point guard for the elegant Providence College team might better suit his future.
For the next couple of years he wanted to collect and analyze every bit of business information he could get his hands on. Providence would serve him well.
“Henry, don’t take the boat out today. I don’t like the direction of the wind. Could kick up some rogue waves.”
“Moses, that hole is full of sea bass, and they’re boiling with lust,” Henry said, tossing his fishing gear into the rear of the pickup.
Mo grabbed his arms. “Don’t go out today. It just don’t feel right.”
“You get the head and tail.”
When the bass were running, the best fishing was at Noah’s Rock with its nasty little riptide that ran between the rock and the beach, a quarter of a mile away. When the incoming tide overpowered the outgoing tide in the rip, fish came in like a blizzard.
But this day the power of the churning and surging sea proved too much for the old converted lobster boat to outrun. A rogue wave a dozen feet high bashed the rock, then sucked the water out of the inlet until one could see the bottom. Behind it came swells that literally hurled the boat into Noah’s Rock, where it burst apart.
Henry Tomtree was so bashed up, he had to be buried in a closed coffin.
Thornton did not weep at the wake or funeral. He did not hear or have a remembrance of Darnell’s entreaties. The numbing pain of his first great loss plunged him deeper into himself where he worked ’round the clock, hunched over his maze of wires. After a month he allowed himself a single groan of pain.
Like new, he showed up at the yard to go over the accounts with Moses.
“The books are a mess, Mo,” Thornton said.
“Those ain’t the books. The books are up here,” Mo answered, pointing a forefinger at his forehead.
“Well, I’ve got to get them in some kind of order. We’re in probate. I don’t just inherit. I inherit what is left. Mo, I’m scared of losing the yard.”
Mo rubbed Thornton’s hair. “You won’t lose the yard, son. Henry was very good to me. I’ve put away a creditable sum for just such an occasion.”
A month later, a very lonely Moses Jefferson took a last look around the kingdom of tortured metal. He stood by the basketball court. “Catch the ball! Throw it to the open man!”
The light was burning in Thornton’s shack. Seemed like it was always burning.
Mo felt he was waiting around these days, just waiting around. He knew he’d be going off to sleep soon.
Chapter 6
TROUBLESOME MESA, 2008
Quinn, I told myself, keep it simple. Literature is not appreciated these days. Say your piece and get off the stage. What is this! Only 2:14 A.M.
What would Rita and I and the kids do after the election? If we were defeated on the campaign issues, we’d suck it up and go on with life. To have come within touching distance of the White House and have the door slammed in your face, rejected, is another matter. I could take some solace in the fact that it was Alexander Horowitz who was defeated and not Quinn O’Connell. Reality says this will go with us to our graves and largely dictate the lives of our children.
I scan the speech. Well, it needs some more touching up, but not now.