Chaingang

He could have passed for a southern Methodist preacher on his vacation, or an insurance man from Moline—with “Chartered Investment Consultant” on his business card—until he opened his mouth to speak. As soon as he introduced himself and they started schmoozing “for serious,” all glad-hander images were quickly dispelled.

This Christopher Sinclair was one smart, tough cookie. He knew his real estate. And he smelled like Big Bucks.

“You recognize this ground?” he'd said, partially unfolding a copy of a land abstract. A circle was drawn across the squares and rectangles of property lines, a circle in red, smack dab in the middle of some of the best black-dirt cropland in all of North Waterton.

“Sure do."

“My party wants to buy it."

“I've got bad news,” Sam said, smiling. “No way.” He shook his head. “It's not available."

“Doesn't matter,” the silver-haired stranger whispered. “We're going to buy it.” He obviously hadn't understood.

“No. See this here.” Sam gestured at the parcels of land that represented maybe four thousand acres between the river and East Waterworks Road. “These are some of the biggest farms in this part of the state. You've drawn a circle through the farms of maybe a dozen big landowners. They'd never part with any portion of that land in a million years."

“Ten."

“How's that?"

“Ten big landowners. Well, ten landowners. Some are fairly big. Some aren't. My party is well aware of who owns this chunk of ground."

“No. They'd never sell these parcels. Not a one of them.” Sam had already begun to lose interest. He decided he'd see if he couldn't salvage something out of the luncheon date. “What did your party want the ground for—if you don't mind saying? I've got some mighty fine properties that would do just—"

“Hold it, Mr. Perkins.” He cut him off immediately. “Don't try to sell me. We're way ahead of you. We know precisely what holdings you have, who you represent, the real estate you're peddling, and so forth. You don't get the picture yet. We want you. We want a piece of ground. We're going to have you take serious cash offers to the ten individuals whose names appear in this summary.” He handed a thick sheaf of papers across the table. Sam was already shaking his head. The guy apparently couldn't understand English.

“You're wasting your time. You've drawn a circle that cuts off prime corners of Augie Grojean's riverfront property. That ground was part of a family dispute that took four years to settle in court. That family wouldn't sell that ground for all the money in the world. I mean—Russ Herkebauer? The Herkebauers are one of the oldest families in this county. Russell's brother owns the bank here, for God's sake. That's the Genneret Ranch you've got circled. Doyle Genneret could set fire to a wet elephant with hundred-dollar bills, Mr.—” he'd already started to forget the man's name—"Sinclair."

But within the next thirty seconds Sam Perkins knew that he'd misjudged Christopher Sinclair, and for the first time he began to believe in business miracles.

“I hear you, Mr. Perkins—Sam, if I may? Look here, podna.” He unfolded the sheaf of papers. “All those elements have been investigated.” He tapped the sheaf with a manicured nail. It was a blur of words about a fifteen-hundred-acre property twenty-five miles to the south. “The Grojean family has just about farmed out that ground by the river. They've got problems even making a crop on some of that ground. If they doubled their present production for the next fifty years, they couldn't touch what this piece of land produces annually. We own that. We'll trade it for the ground we want. The family will fight to sign the deal. Herkebauer would love nothing more than to take his wife and go to Florida and retire. He's holding on for his two sons. Here's the figure we'll give him, and—see—look at the payout mode. The boys will each get a settlement in managed T-bond accounts, big-time trust accounts. Mr. Herkebauer will think he's died and gone to Heaven."

Sinclair took him through the rest of the stack. Big money was behind this deal. And they'd done their homework.

“I'm not sure you need me, Mr. Sinclair."

“Chris, please."

“Chris. I mean—you've already got this all engineered."

“You know how it is, Sam. Some persons of means like to be circumspect. Careful. Keep everything nice and discreet. My party wants you to handle it because you're the known, local person to do it—you're friends with these men and women. Known most of them all your life, right?"

“Mm-hmm. That's true."