Serenity had been surprised at how easy it was to get the owner to volunteer. She had walked in ready to kick ass for the free food, but the owner thanked her as soon as she asked.
She had pointed at the long line to the restaurant, as truck drivers and construction workers on break picked up food at the closest place to the MAD.
“You’re going to lose all that business tomorrow when they can get their food for free,” she’d said.
“I’ll also lose the cost of the food and will have to pay extra workers tomorrow and open up early,” John Lawler said. “And my business will do better in the long run than it ever did because I did all that.”
She gave him a look and he laughed.
“Don’t seem right, does it? We were taught that the way to make money was to hang on to every nickel, don’t give even a smile away if you can’t make money off it. Tomorrow, I’ll give away more food than I’ve ever sold in a week. And, I’ll get a hundred new customers who have never tried my food—and a hundred more who are just grateful for what I did.” He laughed again. “And another thousand more who come to the new MAD. Sometimes, Serenity, the best way to make money is to give things away for free. ‘Cast your bread on the water,’ as a pretty smart businessman said two thousand years ago. Thanks for the opportunity. We’ll have those tables covered tomorrow.”
So, the tables were covered with food today, and the benches were covered with workers grabbing a quick bite so they could get back to work, homeless men getting a good meal, and moms bringing their kids out to see their future going up before their eyes.
There was a small wooden platform on the edge of the new MAD that was set up so kids could hammer a nail or turn a wrench, and get their picture taken showing them helping build the MAD.
That is, when the kids could elbow their way past the city fathers and every state politician and wannabe from three states that were getting their pictures taken at the table, usually wearing hard hats to show they were working. Pictures taken, and then gathering around the tables for free food.
“Y’all coming back for lunch?” asked Bentley, ignoring the mayor and Serenity.
Barnes, the councilman from the wealthy district up on the hill, snorted. “‘Course. I’m going to do my volunteer work every day at seven a.m., noon, and seven at night.”
Serenity thought about the value of the volunteer work this crew performed at the food lines and picnic tables but bit her tongue and said, “Liberated’s going to cover the tables with desserts at midnight tonight.”
Barnes grunted. “I’ll volunteer at midnight, too. God, I hate overtime.”
The mayor hadn’t touched his plate of pork barbecue and potato salad. He was wearing his top hat and coveralls, swearing he would wear nothing but coveralls until the MAD was finished.
A man with gray hair and a still strong build came up and set his tray down.
“Mr. Molcut,” said Serenity. “You’ve been working pretty hard since before I got here.”
He took a sip of coffee and gave Serenity a long look. “Important to keep your hands on your community.”
“Paul’s done that,” said the mayor. “Since he retired as head of one of the big aerospace companies here, he’s been involved behind the scenes of nearly everything.”
“I like staying busy,” Paul Molcut said. “Keeps me in touch with all of my old buddies in the business world. And, out in the fresh air like this.” He swallowed the last of a sausage biscuit. “Serenity, you ought to get together with us. A bunch of us community-minded folks get together for our own church service early on Sunday mornings at the Catholic Church. As important as you’re becoming, you ought to join us.”
“Thanks,” she said.
He wiped his mouth, emptied his coffee cup and stood up to go back to work.
The mayor leaned into the center of the table. “You boys ain’t listening to me. I said there was a delay.”
Serenity said, “Looks like it’s going great. First floor went up yesterday. One crew’s adding the second floor today while another finishes the first. That’s the plan: one floor a day. Snap the floor in place today, volunteers and workers complete the interior of that floor tomorrow while the next floor is added. Seth says we’re an hour or so ahead.”
“Not a delay in the building.” The mayor patted her hand. “This isn’t something you need to worry your pretty little head about, Ms. Hammer. This is real… statesmanship… for statesmen.” He turned to the other men who had their heads down in their plates. “Got a call first thing that said our good government money’s held up.”
The heads came up. One or two paused in mid-bite with their mouths full of food, which wasn’t a pretty sight.
“What do you mean?” said Bentley, spitting crumbs.
“I mean that the contact called me early. Said there was a delay, and we wouldn’t get our money today. Might not get it at all this time. Said there was a problem, might take them a few days to get it fixed. Might not get it fixed at all.”
Barnes said, “At all?”
“I think he’s just throwing his weight around. You know how he is.”
Barnes put down his fork. “No, I don’t. He only talks to you. I haven’t talked to him since I was recruited for the job. They can’t cut off my money. I’ve done everything they asked.”
“Well, they say it’s not coming.”
“This is serious. I got a payment coming up on the lake house.”
The mayor said, “Said we might have to get used to it.”
“We need to tell him who’s the boss here,” Barnes said, “We run this city.”
The table was silent.
Another councilman, the quiet one, said, “We knew when we started taking this money that these guys were probably crooks.”
Barnes stiffened. “There is nothing illegal about this. The Good Government Fund is a dark money PAC, legal under Alabama law. Remember when the old governor got caught with his pants down, was paying his honey with money from a dark PAC so nobody could tell who the donor was, or how much he paid?”
“Still crooks, even if they’re legal crooks.”
“Or businessmen,” Barnes muttered.
thirty-seven
the boss wears pink
SERENITY LEFT the statesmen to their work and walked into the new MAD.
“Hey,” said Burroughs. “You can’t be in here without a hard hat.”
Seth Burroughs was smiling, which was not something he did often or well.
“I’ll get one,” said Serenity.
“Wait here.” He walked off.
Serenity stood in the doorway and looked around at the big empty cavern. Men were crawling over it like ants. Half the walls were already covered with wallboard while men and women spackled, taped, painted, wired and plumbed.
Serenity saw through the mess, though, and saw what it could be. Would be. Something new and powerful for the people of Maddington. Not home, not work, but a place as welcoming and productive as either, making both home and work stronger. Up front, where she was now, there would be a welcome area where a person would be greeted by a librarian who knew everyone’s name, and would help people find what they needed. And, if someone didn’t need help, off to the right was the coffee shop and bakery with tables to sit and read or work, or meet with friends, book clubs or business groups. To the left, a small bar and grill would be open evenings. And—if Serenity could hold on to the money—all of them would run on a pay-what-you-can basis.