Death Trance Read Online Free PDF Page B

sweat, and that unmistakable coolness of river.
    They drove along Front Street, known to the citizens of Memphis as Cotton Row. Randolph said, 'Here. This is the one.’
    'Clare Cottonseed?’ the driver frowned. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed forehead with the back of his hand.
    'That's me,’ said Randolph.
    'You mean… you're Clare Cottonseed?’
    'Handy Randy Clare in person,’ Randolph smiled.
    The cab driver reached behind with one meaty arm and opened the door for him. 'Maybe I ought to apologize,’ he said.
    'Why?’
    'Well, for sounding off, for driving like an idiot.’
    Randolph gave him twenty-five dollars in new bills and waved away the change. 'It's hot,’ he said. 'We're all acting like idiots.’
    The cab driver counted the money and said, Thanks.’ Then, 'Didn't one of your factories burn last night? Out at Raleigh?’
    'That's right.’
    'Is that why you're here?’
    "That's right,’ Randolph said again. 'I'm supposed to be fishing in Canada.’
    The driver paused for a moment, wiped his forehead again and sniffed. 'You think it was deliberate?’
    'Do I think what was deliberate?’
    "The fire. Do you think somebody torched that factory?’
    Randolph stayed where he was, half in and half out of the taxi. 'What did you say that for?’
    'I don't know. It's just that some of the people I pick up, they work for other cottonseed companies, like Gray-son's, or Towery's, and none of them seem to think that Clare's going to be staying in business too long.’
    'Clare is the number-two cottonseed processor after Brooks. Saying that Clare is going out of business is like saying that the Ford Motor Company is going out of business.’
    'Sure, but you know how things are.’
    'I'm not so sure I do,’ Randolph replied cautiously, although he had a pretty fair idea of what the man was trying to suggest. It was no secret in Memphis that Clare Cottonseed was a political and economic maverick. All the other big cottonseed processors in the area were members of a price-fixing cartel that called itself the Cottonseed Association but which Randolph unflatteringly referred to as the Margarine Mafia. Randolph's father, Ned Clare, had rarely upset the Association, even though he had always insisted on remaining independent. Ned Clare had kept his salad-oil and cattle-cake prices well up in line with the Association's, but when Randolph had taken over the company, he had wanted to expand and economize and he had introduced a policy of keeping his prices as low as possible. The members of the Association - especially Brooks - had made their displeasure quite clear. So far, however, their hostility had been expressed politically rather than violently, but Randolph had recently begun to wonder when political push might escalate into violent shove.
    'Listen,’ the cab driver told him, 'I believe in what you're doin', right? I believe in free enterprise, free trade. Every man for himself. That's the American Way as far as I'm concerned. I mean… I'm not sayin' it's a fact that somebody set light to your factory. Maybe I'm talkin' out of my ass. But, well, given the circumstances, it ain't totally beyond the bounds of possibility, is it?’
    'I don't think I ought to comment on that,’ Randolph replied.
    The driver said, 'How would you like it if I kept my ears open? I'm always drivin' them other cottonseed people around. Junior veeps, mostly. They're the ones who talk a lot.’
    Randolph considered the offer for a moment and then said, 'All right, you've got it, you're on.’ He reached into his pocket for his money clip and handed the man fifty dollars. The driver snapped the bill between his fingers and said, 'Grant, my favourite president. After Franklin, of course.’ When Randolph handed him another fifty, he grinned and said, 'Basic math. Two Grants equal one Franklin.’ He reached across to the window, shook Randolph's hand and handed him a business card. 'See there? My name's Stanley Vergo. No relation to the