talk. “Fiber-optic cable will carry information to and from your dealers and distributors at the speed of light.”
“I know what it can do,” said Paulson. “What makes you so sure your company is the right one?”
This seemed, to Casper, like the right time to bring up Angelo. “You may have heard of Angelo Vulpone.”
Paulson narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard of Angelo Vulpone. He’s dead now and good riddance. My wife committed suicide because of Angelo Vulpone.”
“I’m sorry,” said Casper, stricken. “My God.”
“Angelo Vulpone,” repeated Paulson. “Before he was exterminated I understand he endorsed your project. He put it in writing?”
Casper said nothing.
Paulson stood up. “Leave the prospectus with me. I’ll look it over again. But let me tell you,” he stabbed a finger at Casper, “if I put seven million into your company, I’ll want a voting share. Twenty-five percent.”
Casper stood.
“That’s firm.” Paulson set his glasses on the table and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Red.”
* * *
Casper, still upset over the “Red” dig and even more upset by Paulson’s wife’s suicide, called Orion on his cell phone but got no signal. He then drove to the office.
Orion looked up as Casper came through the door. “Do I dare ask how it went?”
“Arrogant bastard. He’s back to demanding twenty-five percent of the company and voting shares.”
“You told him he was the one who’d benefit?”
“I did.”
“Well, Casper, you tried.”
Casper tossed his attaché case onto a chair. “I should’ve called him ‘Shorty.’”
“Say what?”
“I’m taking the five o’clock flight.”
“You tell him Angelo Vulpone planned to invest?”
Casper nodded. “Paulson’s wife committed suicide. He claims Angelo Vulpone was responsible. I didn’t ask why.”
“No, of course not.”
Casper picked up his attaché case and left. His footsteps faded away down the outside stairs.
* * *
Early on Friday morning, the inaugural day for the Ditch Witch drill, Orion left Victoria’s early. The rain that had been threatening for a couple of days had held off. But now, as Victoria had predicted, the sky darkened and the smell of rain was in the air. By the time he was halfway to Vineyard Haven, drops were spattering his windshield. He told himself it wouldn’t make much difference. The directional drill was a lot less messy than a trenching excavator. He straightened his back and shuddered as he thought of carrying the corpse of Angelo Vulpone through that sea of mud.
He stopped at the ArtCliff Diner for breakfast before heading to the ball field. At the edge of the field he parked and slipped on his foul-weather gear.
The drill was on its trailer, two-thirds of the way across the field, where the route of the fiber-optic cable diverged from the town’s drainage trench. Orion hiked along the line of red sandy clay that filled the trench. Fine misty rain beaded up on his jacket.
Several men, including Dan’l Pease, stood around the drilling unit.
Dan’l nodded to him. “How’s it going?”
“We’ll see,” said Orion.
“Got a call Wednesday from some guy asking about you.”
“Who was it?”
“Didn’t get his name. Cell phone reception is lousy here, as you know.”
“What was he after?”
“He was fishing around, trying to determine whether you were crazy or not. Damn near told him you were, but I hung up on him instead.”
Orion flipped his jacket hood over his head. The rain was coming down in earnest. “Was it Finney Solomon?”
“Never caught the name. I’d like to see how that drill rig of yours works out.”
“We’ll start her up any minute, now. In this sandy soil, we should be able to drill a half-mile today.”
“Can’t hardly beat that,” said Dan’l. “Watch out for that pressurized sewage pipe somewhere around where you’ll be drilling.” He waved an arm toward a section of the field not far
“I know what it can do,” said Paulson. “What makes you so sure your company is the right one?”
This seemed, to Casper, like the right time to bring up Angelo. “You may have heard of Angelo Vulpone.”
Paulson narrowed his eyes. “Yes, I’ve heard of Angelo Vulpone. He’s dead now and good riddance. My wife committed suicide because of Angelo Vulpone.”
“I’m sorry,” said Casper, stricken. “My God.”
“Angelo Vulpone,” repeated Paulson. “Before he was exterminated I understand he endorsed your project. He put it in writing?”
Casper said nothing.
Paulson stood up. “Leave the prospectus with me. I’ll look it over again. But let me tell you,” he stabbed a finger at Casper, “if I put seven million into your company, I’ll want a voting share. Twenty-five percent.”
Casper stood.
“That’s firm.” Paulson set his glasses on the table and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Red.”
* * *
Casper, still upset over the “Red” dig and even more upset by Paulson’s wife’s suicide, called Orion on his cell phone but got no signal. He then drove to the office.
Orion looked up as Casper came through the door. “Do I dare ask how it went?”
“Arrogant bastard. He’s back to demanding twenty-five percent of the company and voting shares.”
“You told him he was the one who’d benefit?”
“I did.”
“Well, Casper, you tried.”
Casper tossed his attaché case onto a chair. “I should’ve called him ‘Shorty.’”
“Say what?”
“I’m taking the five o’clock flight.”
“You tell him Angelo Vulpone planned to invest?”
Casper nodded. “Paulson’s wife committed suicide. He claims Angelo Vulpone was responsible. I didn’t ask why.”
“No, of course not.”
Casper picked up his attaché case and left. His footsteps faded away down the outside stairs.
* * *
Early on Friday morning, the inaugural day for the Ditch Witch drill, Orion left Victoria’s early. The rain that had been threatening for a couple of days had held off. But now, as Victoria had predicted, the sky darkened and the smell of rain was in the air. By the time he was halfway to Vineyard Haven, drops were spattering his windshield. He told himself it wouldn’t make much difference. The directional drill was a lot less messy than a trenching excavator. He straightened his back and shuddered as he thought of carrying the corpse of Angelo Vulpone through that sea of mud.
He stopped at the ArtCliff Diner for breakfast before heading to the ball field. At the edge of the field he parked and slipped on his foul-weather gear.
The drill was on its trailer, two-thirds of the way across the field, where the route of the fiber-optic cable diverged from the town’s drainage trench. Orion hiked along the line of red sandy clay that filled the trench. Fine misty rain beaded up on his jacket.
Several men, including Dan’l Pease, stood around the drilling unit.
Dan’l nodded to him. “How’s it going?”
“We’ll see,” said Orion.
“Got a call Wednesday from some guy asking about you.”
“Who was it?”
“Didn’t get his name. Cell phone reception is lousy here, as you know.”
“What was he after?”
“He was fishing around, trying to determine whether you were crazy or not. Damn near told him you were, but I hung up on him instead.”
Orion flipped his jacket hood over his head. The rain was coming down in earnest. “Was it Finney Solomon?”
“Never caught the name. I’d like to see how that drill rig of yours works out.”
“We’ll start her up any minute, now. In this sandy soil, we should be able to drill a half-mile today.”
“Can’t hardly beat that,” said Dan’l. “Watch out for that pressurized sewage pipe somewhere around where you’ll be drilling.” He waved an arm toward a section of the field not far
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