A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [26]
“Ahem,” a voice behind them announced. A proper gentleman entered the shack and handed Thornton a card which read DWIGHT GRASSLEY. It was one of those top-echelon business cards that need not carry an address, phone number, or type of business. Dwight Grassley was it.
The Grassley pedigree in Rhode Island went back over two centuries when they landed as Quakers on Block Island. The Grassley dynasty, once a towering insurance and banking power, had peaked, but mainly through too much inbreeding, it had fallen to a lesser plateau, as factory after factory shut down, plunging New England into a manufacturing and economic crisis.
Indeed, the Grassleys were a diminished power, but a power nonetheless.
The Grassley before them was short, round-faced, apple-cheeked, with the pasty smile of an unfavorite son. He would not have been heard from again, but the patriarchs and matriarchs all seemed to die about the same time, leaving him a primary heir.
Dwight got kicked up to first vice president and COO of the Grassley operating entity.
“Sorry to barge in on you without an appointment.”
“Well, that doesn’t seem to be a problem,” Darnell noted.
“I was looking over Hell’s Acres here to see what we can do with it. We own most of this land, but there’s no money in parking garbage trucks.”
“Hell, I didn’t know they did that around here,” Darnell said. Mr. Grassley was miffed over this fellow’s smart-ass comments. “If we had your parcel, we would have over twenty-five contiguous acres and could certainly draw interest on the market. Otherwise, it would have to go in two pieces, which makes it a very hard sell. Now, we’d build in a handsome premium for you.”
“And it just so happens that you have some parcels between Harmony and Chepachet you’ll swap us for a song,” Darnell said as Dwight Grassley grew aggravated.
“You selling or developing?” Thornton asked.
“All, nothing, or part and part,” Dwight answered. “There are a variety of options….”
“Yeah,” Darnell chipped in, “a shopping mall but too close to Pawtucket, a marina hotel but too far from Newport, a senior citizens’ development. Costs to build old folks’ condos are too far out of line of prospective receipts.”
Dwight now underwent a different reaction, one of shock. “How did you get this information?”
Thornton started to jibber-jabber, but Darnell held his hand up. “We got the data on the land sell off your computers.”
Well, well, thought Dwight. Well, well, well. He cleared his throat and leaned toward Thornton, dropping his voice. “May we speak privately?” he asked.
“’Scuse me,” Thornton said. “This is Darnell Jefferson, my vice president, sole employee, and nigra confidant. Sure you must keep a few nigra lawyers around so’s they can translate to the nigras in the low-rent district.”
“I did it,” Dwight said, folding his arms on the desk and laying his head in them. “Even great men like me make mistakes,” he said, trying to make light. “Now that we’re past introductions, you got a cold Coke?”
“If we still have electricity,” Darnell said. “What’s your thinking, Mr. Grassley?”
“The land will sell for enough to clear our books.”
“Let’s see, you can then put a Woolworth’s, Jacques Penne, Sears, Filene’s Basement, and maybe a hundred-thousand-seat stadium made entirely of luxury boxes to attract an NFL franchise. Al Davis would be interested.”
“Dwight—may I call you Dwight?” Darnell queried.
“Certainly. And you’re Darnell and you’re Thornton.”
“Let’s go up on the roof,” Darnell said. It afforded a view of the dump site and was rather depressing. “Mr. Grassley—Dwight—you’re from one of Rhode Island’s great families. This state is known for beads, bracelets, and costume jewelry, probably taught to the Pilgrims by the Indians. It’s no longer a growth industry or a major financial