Jimmy Hull stared at the drawing, rubbed his chin, and said, "Thirty million dollars huh?"
"At least," Hoppy answered. His bowels were suddenly loose.
"And who's doing it?"
Hoppy had practiced his answer, and he delivered it with convincing authority. He simply couldn't divulge the name, not at this point. Jimmy Hull liked the secrecy. He asked questions, all of which had to do with money and financing. Hoppy answered most of them.
"Zoning could be a real problem," Jimmy Hull said with a frown.
"Certainly."
"And the planning commission will put up a nasty fight."
"We expect this."
"Of course, the supervisors make the final decision. As you know, the recommendations from zoning and planning are merely advisory. Bottom line is the six of us do whatever we want." He snickered and Hoppy laughed along. In Mississippi, the six county supervisors ruled supreme.
"My client understands how things work. And my client is anxious to work with you."
Jimmy Hull removed his elbows from the desk and sat back in his chair. His eyelids narrowed. His forehead wrinkled. He stroked his chin and his beady black eyes shot lasers across the desk and hit poor Hoppy like hot bullets deep in the chest. Hoppy pressed all ten fingers onto the desk so his hands wouldn't tremble.
How many times had Jimmy Hull been at this particular moment, sizing up the prey before going in for the kill?
"You know I control everything in my district," he said, his lips barely moving.
"I know exactly how things work," Hoppy replied as coolly as possible.
"If I want this to be approved, it'll slide right through. If I don't like it, it's dead right now."
Hoppy only nodded.
Jimmy Hull was curious about what other locals were involved at this point, who knew what, just how secret was the project right then. "No one but me," Hoppy assured him.
"Is your client in gambling?"
"No. But they're from Vegas. They know how to get things done at the local level. And they're anxious to move fast."
Vegas was the operative word here, and Jimmy Hull savored it. He looked around the shabby little office. It was spare and spartan and conveyed a certain innocence, as if not much happened here and not much was expected. He had called two friends in Biloxi, both of whom reported that Mr. Dupree was a harmless sort who sold fruitcakes at Christmas for the Rotary Club. He had a large family and managed to avoid controversy, and commerce generally, for that matter. The obvious question was, why would the boys behind Stillwater Bay associate themselves with a mom-and-pop outfit like Dupree Realty?
He decided not to ask the question. He said, "You know, my son is a very fine consultant for projects like this?"
"Didn't know that. My client would love to work with your son."
"He's over in Bay St. Louis."
"Shall I give him a call?"
"No. I'll handle it."
Randy Moke owned two gravel trucks and spent most of his time tinkering with a fishing boat he advertised for saltwater charters. He had dropped out of high school two months before his first drug conviction.
Hoppy pressed on. Ringwald had insisted he try and pin down Moke as soon as possible. If a deal wasn't reached initially, then Moke might race back to Hancock County and start talking about the development. "My client is anxious to determine the preliminary fees before purchasing the land. How much might your son charge for his services?"
"A hundred thousand."
Hoppy didn't flinch a muscle and was quite proud of his coolness. Ringwald had predicted a shakedown in the neighborhood of one to two hundred thousand. KLX would gladly pay it. Frankly, it was cheap compared to New Jersey. "I see. Payable-"
"In cash."
"My client is willing to discuss this."
"No discussion. Cash up front, or no deal."
"And the deal being?"
"A hundred thousand cash now, and the project sails through. My guarantee. A penny less, and I'll kill it with one phone call."
Remarkably, there was not the slightest trace of menace in his voice or face. Hoppy told Ringwald later that Jimmy Hull simply laid out the terms of the deal as if he were selling used tires at a flea market.
"I need to make a phone call," Hoppy said. "Just sit tight." He walked to the front room, which was thankfully still deserted, and called Ringwald, who was sitting by the phone in his hotel. The terms were relayed, discussed only for a few seconds, and Hoppy returned to his office. "It's a deal. My client will pay it." He said this slowly, and frankly it felt good to finally broker a deal that would lead to millions. KLX on one end, Moke on the other, and Hoppy in the middle of it all, in the fire and totally immune from the dirty work.
Jimmy Hull's face relaxed and he managed a smile. "When?"
"I'll call you Monday."
Chapter Nineteen
Fitch ignored the trial Friday afternoon. There were urgent matters at hand with one of his jurors. He, along with Pang and Carl Nussman, locked themselves in a conference room at Cable's office and stared at the wall for an hour.
The idea had been Fitch's and his alone. It was a shot in the dark, one of his wildest hunches yet, but he got paid to dig under rocks no one else could find. Money gave him the luxury of dreaming the improbable.
Four days earlier he had ordered Nussman to ship overnight to Biloxi the entire jury file from the Cimmino trial a year before in Allentown, Pennsylvania. The Cimmino jury had listened to four weeks of testimony, then handed the tobacco company another verdict. Three hundred potential jurors had been summoned for duty in Allentown. One of them was a young man named David Lancaster.
The file on Lancaster was thin. He worked in a video store and claimed to be a student. He lived in an apartment over a struggling Korean deli, and apparently traveled by bicycle. There was no evidence of another vehicle, and the county rolls reflected no taxes levied on any car or truck titled in his name. His jury information card stated he was born in Philadelphia on May 8, 1967, though this had not been verified at the time of the trial. There had been no reason to suspect he was lying. Nussman's people had just determined that the birthdate was in fact fictitious. The card also stated he was not a convicted felon, had not served on jury duty in the county in the past year, had no medical reasons not to serve, and was a duly qualified elector. He had registered to vote five months before the trial started.
There was nothing strange in the file except a handwritten memo from a consultant which said that when Lancaster appeared for jury duty on the first day, the clerk had no record of his being summoned. He then produced what appeared to be a valid summons, and he was seated with the pool. One of Nussman's consultants noted that Lancaster seemed quite anxious to serve.
The only photo of the young man was one taken from a distance as he rode his mountain bike to work. He wore a cap, dark sunglasses, long hair, and a heavy beard. One of Nussman's operatives chatted with Lancaster as she rented videos, and reported him to be dressed in faded jeans, Birkenstocks, wool socks, and a flannel shirt. The hair was pulled back severely in a ponytail and tucked under his collar. He was polite but not talkative.
Lancaster got a bad draw when the numbers were pulled, but made the first two cuts and was four rows away when the jury was chosen.
His file was closed immediately.
Now it was open again. In the past twenty-four hours, it had been determined that David Lancaster had simply vanished from Allentown a month after the trial was over. His Korean landlord knew nothing. His boss at the video store said he failed to show up for work one day and was never heard from again. Not another person in town could be found who would admit to knowing Lancaster ever existed. Fitch's people were checking, but no one expected to find anything. He was still registered to vote, but the rolls wouldn't be purged for another five years, according to the county registrar.