Omar looked up at Knox. The redheaded man had turned partly onto his side and was watching Omar with those strange eyes.
“Let me tell you how it’s going to be,” Omar said. “So far as I know, these weapons belong to you and have not been used in the commission of any crime.”
“That’s true,” Knox said. “They’re clean. I bought ’em at a gun show. You can—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Omar said. Knox closed his mouth with an audible snap.
“Just listen,” Omar said. “Now—you’re a colleague, and you’re here in Spottswood Parish to talk to my people, and you can do that. But—” He pointed the pistol. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I am not going to let you fuck up my work by preaching anything illegal. There are going to be people at the meeting tonight who are peace officers, and who are sworn to uphold the law. You are not going to compromise us in any way. You are not going to advocate killing people, or robbing banks, or committing crimes.”
“I won’t,” Knox said quickly. “You can trust me. I didn’t understand your situation, that’s all.”
“Because,” Omar said, continuing as if he hadn’t heard, “if you do that, if you advocate illegalities, you are just going to disappear. And don’t think I can’t make that happen, because everybody you’re going to meet tonight are people I grew up with, and I know them all very well, and I can trust every single one of them to do what’s necessary.” He wiped sweat from his face. “You understand what I’m saying, podna?”
“Yes.” Knox nodded. “I understand.”
“I’m going to tape-record the meeting tonight.” Omar said, “so there’s a record of what you say. Just in case someone later alleges that you came here preaching sedition or something.” Just in case the Grand Wizard sics the fucking FBI on me, he thought. Knox nodded again. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
They both froze at the sound of the front door opening, at the sound of heels on the wood flooring.
“Oh, my God in this world!” Wilona’s voice. “What happened here?”
“Just a little accident,” Omar called. He was surprised to find that his voice was steady. “I’ll help you clean it up in just a second.”
Omar stood and opened the gun and dropped the bullets out of the cylinder. He tossed the pistol back on the bed. He unzipped the bag of toiletries, dumped its contents on the bed—shaving cream, bag of disposable razors, and a huge economy-sized bottle of aspirin—and then Omar gathered up all of Knox’s ammunition and zipped it into the toiletries case. Knox watched in silence from the floor. Omar paused in the door, looked down at Knox for a long second, then closed the door behind him as he left the room. He walked through Wilona’s sewing room into the living room and found Wilona cleaning up the spilled Coke with a roll of paper towels. She wore heels, her new frock, and Aunt Clover’s pearls.
“Don’t do that, darlin’,” Omar said. He tossed the bag of ammunition on the sofa and bent to help her clean up. “You’ll make a mess of your nice clothes.”
Wilona straightened. “What is going on?” she said. “It looks like you just threw your drink halfway across the room. And you’re all sweaty like you’ve been working.”
“Mr. Knox had a little fall,” Omar said. “I wanted to make sure he was all right before I cleaned up.”
“My goodness.” Wilona looked alarmed. “I forgot he was coming. Is he all right?”
“He’s fine.” Omar swabbed at the floor and noticed idly that termites were digging a tunnel across one of the floor-boards. Time to call the exterminator. “He’s changing clothes right now.” He looked up. “How was your afternoon?”
“Oh, it was lovely!” He picked up the gloves she had left on the little table by the door. “Ms. LaGrande was so gracious—she met me right on the front portico. The portico is a special design, she told me—it has a special name and everything. Did you ever hear what it’s called?” Omar ripped another towel off the roll. “A front porch?” he asked. Wilona laughed. “It’s called ‘distyle-in-antis.’” She pronounced the unfamiliar words carefully. “That’s with the two round columns between the two square columns. Ms. LaGrande’s great-grandfather modeled it after the Tower of the Winds in Athens, Greece.”
Omar straightened, looked down at the floor.
“That’s going to have to be mopped,” Wilona said. “Otherwise it’ll get sticky.”
“I’ll get the mop,” he said.
They both turned at the sound of a door opening. Knox appeared at the door to his room. He was wearing a fresh flannel shirt and the same black jeans. He walked uneasily through the sewing room to the living room door.
“Micah Knox,” Omar said, “this is my wife Wilona.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Knox said slowly.
“Mr. Knox, are you all right?” Wilona walked toward him to shake his hand. “I heard you had a fall.” Knox leaned on the door frame and gave an apologetic grin as he took Wilona’s hand. “I’m just fine, ma’am. Sorry about your floor.”
“I’ll mop that up,” Wilona said. “That’s not a problem. I’m just glad you’re feeling all right.” Knox looked over Wilona’s shoulder at Omar. Omar looked back into Knox’s staring green eyes.
“I think everything’s fine now,” Knox said. “We had a little accident, but everything’s going to be okay.” On Monday, the market dropped off a precipice and didn’t find bottom. A large Dutch bank failed. The Chinese chose this moment to dump billions of dollars of currency reserves, and in every market from Singapore to London the bears contemplated the chaos and sharpened their claws. At twelve-thirty, Charlie called Dearborne’s office and found he’d left for the country club. He looked at Megan through the glass wall of her office and gave her a nod. She typed in the correction, and millions of dollars of losing positions pulsed into the TPS computers on a silent electronic wave. Not that it mattered. What had been catastrophic positions on Friday were turning into mountains of solid gold on Monday. By three o’clock, when the exchange closed, the S&Ps had dropped sixteen percent, Charlie was in the black, and he was standing on his desk, beating his chest and giving a Tarzan yell. Selling short the S&Ps had made him a profit of $137,500,000, give or take a few hundred thousand. Added to this was the forty million he’d started with, and the ten million he’d made on the Eurodollar puts. This was a 370 per-cent profit in less than a week.
And on any large gain made for TPS, Charlie’s contract called for him to collect a bonus of seventeen percent. Seventeen percent of $147,500,000…
“I’m lord of the fucking jungle!” he shouted. “We’re all going to die rich!” His people, the traders and salesmen, looked up from their screens, hesitated a moment, then began to applaud. As cheers began to ring out, Charlie looked up to Megan’s office, and he could see her eyes gazing levelly at him over the top of her monitor. He couldn’t tell whether the eyes were smiling or not. By four o’clock, when the Merc closed in Chicago, Tarzan yells seemed inadequate to the situation. Instead he put on his phone headset and punched Megan’s number.
“Sod the proles,” he said when she answered. “Let your staff do the reconciliation. Come home with me tonight.”
“No guilt,” she whispered. The words sent a surge of desire up his spine.