Runcible said, “Sharp, what do you say?”
The man said nothing.
“Come on,” Runcible said. “Are you going to play some kind of big time game, or are you going to take into account the lives of living human beings who work here and live here?”
Sharp said, “This whole business has to be looked into.”
“Why?” Runcible said.
“It could be vital new material for the field.”
Runcible said, “You mean you might make your fugging reputation on it. Isn’t that more what you mean?”
The man said nothing.
“Okay,” Runcible said. “You go ahead and research this; you bring a bunch of ninnies like yourself in here and fart around and dig up what you can, and maybe you will dig up something; maybe you will finally find out that you’ve got a bunch of degenerates living around the turn of the century who got some bone disease by working in the lime pits. Miners get a disease. Factory workers get a disease. Maybe you can even prove the crap that did it to them is still in the water, only maybe not so much now because we have pipes instead of wells. And maybe you can even get people to stop moving out here because they don’t want to wake up some morning and discover that their faces have swelled up and they’re deformed and can’t eat and talk and look like something out of the pages of the Britannica that walked the earth forty million years ago. Or forty thousand. Whatever it is.”
“There’s a lot in what Runcible says,” the sheriff said.
“True,” Sharp said. “We can conduct a quiet study. We don’t have to broadcast it.”
“You think those fugging newspapers will let you keep it a quiet study?” Runcible said. “Those big time sensational yellow San Francisco newspapers?”
“We still have to go ahead,” Sharp said.
“You turd,” Runcible said.
“Easy, now,” the vet said. “Take it easy.”
Runcible thought, Yes, you’re all turds. You’re all of you on my turd list. And by god it’ll be another forty million years before you get off. That goes for all five of you. Who needs you.
When they had got back across the Ridge and were getting near the highway, Runcible broke the silence and said,
“It wouldn’t be any skin off my nose to leave this area. I’ve done every god damn thing in the world for this place. I’m tired. The hell with it. I’ve had all I can stand of hick farmers standing around up to their waists in sheep shit.”
No one said anything to that for a time, and then Seth Faulk said, “Sure, you can move on and open a realty office somewhere else. You can always move on.”
“Meaning what?”
“You weren’t born here,” Faulk said. “You don’t have any real ties here. The only reason you’re here is for the profit. The fast buck. Everybody in town knows that.”
Wharton said, “That’s untrue. There’s no truth in that.”
The sheriff, at the wheel, said, “Be quiet, Faulk.”
“No,” Runcible said. “I like to hear the jerk. Listen, Faulk. You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to stop advertising in that boring moronic once-a-week sheet of yours, and you know what’s going to happen then? You’ll go out of business.”
“The hell I will,” Faulk said.
Wharton said, “What really is the worst that can come of this?”
Runcible said, “Everybody will move out of here, and this will become an abandoned area.”
“I doubt if it’ll go that far,” Christen said. “There’ll be a scare for a while, but maybe we’ll get a new water supply out of it.”
“You’re nuts,” Runcible said. “Real grade A nuts.”
When they got to Runcible Realty he opened the car door and stepped out without a backward look. The car drove off and he went on to his own car. As he got into it he realized that he still had on the old workclothes that he had worn for the digging. His trousers were caked with dirt.
Going to the office, he unlocked it and entered. In the back he had several suits hanging up in the closet; he took off the work clothes, put on a clean shirt, a tie, and then a pressed, fresh suit that was a favorite of his. Then he locked up the office and went to his car.
The hell with looking like that, he said to himself. Like a bum. Like one of those fruit pickers or oyster farmers.
The suit made him feel better, but not much better.
This is really lousy, he said to himself. This thing really has turned out bad. That moron Dombrosio. That grade A moron.
As soon as he had got home he went into his study and picked up the telephone book. To his wife he said, “Listen, what’s the name of that guy who owns the water company? Do you remember?”
From the kitchen, Janet appeared. “I—forget,” she said.
He managed to get hold of the water company repairman at his home. From him he got the name of the owner of the company. The owner, an elderly retired man, lived in Sonoma County, in Fountain Grove. Doesn’t even live in Marin County, Runcible thought to himself as he sat by the phone while the operator made the connections.
Presently a gruff male voice said, “Hello.”
“Mr. Neroni,” Runcible said. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner.”
“Who is this?” the old man demanded.
“My name is Leo Runcible,” Runcible said. “Listen, sir, I have some business I want to talk to you about. Urgency in this matter is of the essence.” He stared at the wall on the far side of the desk. “I’d like to see you tonight.” Glancing at his wristwatch he said, “If you don’t object I’ll drop over to your place about eight this evening, and we can get this expedited. Is that satisfactory?”
The old man said, “We were going out to the movie.”
“This can’t wait,” Runcible said. “It involves the net worth of your Carquinez Water Company. The West Marin Water Company,” he corrected, glancing down at a water bill.
“I see,” Neroni said. “Well, I’ll tell you. That doggone water company. Want me to be frank?”
“Yes I do,” Runcible said.
“I’ve been losing money in that company for ten years straight. I’ve never made any secret about that.”
“Yes, that’s my understanding,” Runcible said.
“I wish somebody would take it off my hands. All it amounts to is a yearly tax write-off. Is that what you want to do? Bid for it? Put in an offer? I’ll sell it to you; you don’t even have to come over here, if that’s what you want to find out. We can settle it right now on the phone, or I can give you the name of my broker and you can come to an agreement with him.”
Tilting all the way back in his chair, Runcible said, “Frankly, Sir, I doubt very much if the West Marin Water Company is worth buying.”
“If you don’t want to buy it, what do you want? What is this about?”
“I’ll see you at eight,” Runcible said. “Possibly we could work out some kind of transaction. I have highly valuable unimproved land I could make available. On the Bolinas Ridge. It could be subdivided, if roads were put in. Of course, that would take a businessman with real acumen and an ability to see the forces at work in the future.”
They talked further, and then Runcible rang off. The man was definitely interested; no doubt of that. And well he might be.
Going from his study to the kitchen, Runcible said to his wife, “Who would you consider the most prominent rancher in the area?”
“I wouldn’t want to say,” she said tremulously. “Maybe Enrico over on the lagoon. Or Reilly.”
“They’re going to have to put up,” Runcible said.
“For what?”
“For the Carquinez Water Improvement Association.” He reported back to his study and shut himself in. First he called Bill Baron, the reporter on the San Rafael Journal, whom he had known off and on for years, and who had been giving him sympathetic coverage on the Neanderthal find. “Listen, Bill,” Runcible said, as soon as he had hold of him. “You want something? You really want something? I’ll give it
to you. Get yourself set. It’s the water.”
“What’s the water?” Baron said.
“That skull. That so-called Neanderthal skull. If I didn’t respect you and think so much of you I wouldn’t be sitting here now. I’d be out somewhere having a short and well-earned respite. So remember me. Will you?” He paused. Taking a deep breath he let out a long noisy sigh. “It isn’t a hoax and it isn’t a scientific discovery. It’s a medical fact that has to be dealt with in a resolute and immediate manner. There’s some kind of toxic substance in the soil that gets into the bones.”
“I see,” the reporter said, with interest.
“What we’re doing,” Runcible said, “you understand, there’s been a long time since this bone ailment cropped up. But we have to take precautions. We’re dealing here with the country. We have to recognize that. Otherwise, there’ll be a lot of hysterical fat-assed people running around crying head for the hills.” He stared up at the ceiling. “We’ve formed a group of public-spirited responsible people in the area and we’re going to buy the water company. It’s in outside hands right now, incidentally. It needs work done. Lots of work. We’re going to have a brand new water system, new pipes, new pumps, absolutely the best purifying system imaginable. Regular inspection—the works.”
“And who’s going to put up the money?”
“The prominent people in the area,” Runcible said. “The men who count. The men who care about the future of this area. Don’t worry about that part.”
“You have their commitment already?”
Runcible said, “I don’t need their commitment. I know them.” He gave the reporter the whole story, all the details he could think of. And then he hung up and sat for a while.
It’s now or never, he decided. Using the number on his desk list, he dialed George Enrico, at Red Dam Ranch.
When Enrico answered, Runcible said, “This is Leo Runcible, and you’re going to be sorry you heard from me. I’ll tell you why. Do you have a minute? You better have, George. Your cows’ lives are involved in this, that’s why. What do you use, incidentally? Well water or piped water or what?” He leaned back until he was comfortable in his chair. “Evidently the water around here is contaminated.”
Enrico said, “Everybody knows that.”
“We have to buy the damn water company and remake it,” Runcible said. “There’s no choice. I’ll tell you why. You can listen; it’s worth your valuable time.”
After he had talked to Enrico he called Thomas Reilly and then, one after another, the other big ranchers in the area. He finished barely in time to get out of the house and into his car for the drive up to Fountain Grove.
As he started up his car, Janet came out of the house after him. “Your dinner,” she said anxiously. “Can’t you eat?”
“No,” he said. “I can’t.”
I know they’ll come through, he said to himself as he drove. They’ll chip in; they have to. It’s in their interest. Common sense, sheer practicality, will swing it.
And if they don’t, he said to himself, then I’ll have to. I wonder if I can. He thought, I wonder how much it will cost to rebuild the water company, from top to bottom. Forty thousand dollars? A hundred thousand? Five hundred thousand?
Jesus Christ, he thought. They just have to chip in.
And I know they will. My intuition tells me they will.
18
At their Christmas Eve party, Janet Runcible became drunk and talked to everyone about personal problems. To a new couple that had moved into the area she told the news that she and Leo were overdrawn at the Novato Bank to the tune of three thousand dollars.
“It’s already been thirty days,” she said, leaning past two men who were talking together. Painstakingly keeping the attention of the new couple, she continued, “And Harry—that’s our banker—called and said that he thinks so much of us we can go another sixty days if we want. It’s a form of loan. He has that much respect and confidence in Leo.”
The new couple nodded and listened, but it seemed to Janet that they were not too interested.
“Excuse me,” she said, then, and, getting to her feet, she walked carefully past them, into the kitchen with her empty glass.
Half of the new couple, the young wife, appeared in the doorway and asked if she could help. She was a short, rather heavy-set young woman, with a pretty face marred by makeup. Her husband had been transferred to this part of the country by the Federal Government; he did something connected with ocean surveys.
“Martha,” Janet Runcible said. “You know, when you get to know my husband better you’ll understand what a wonderful fabulous person he is.” She smiled at the younger woman, waiting to see on the girl’s face an answering smile, one of sympathy and understanding.
As many people had showed up at the Christmas Eve party this year as any of the years before; the Runcible house was filled up with talk and people and motion. The front door opened and shut, as someone either arrived or left; she could not see which.
Martha Leghorn said, “l like your husband very much.”
“But you don’t know him.” Janet said. A mood of deep sorrow overcame her as she stood at the sideboard pouring Djinn—their mainstay drink, these days; gin with angostura bitters—from the half-gallon jug into her glass.
“He seems to know about so many topics,” Martha said, seating herself at the table. “I feel so ignorant. All I know to talk about is—well, I don’t know. Somebody said something about Shakespeare, and I remember I read Macbeth in college.”
“May I refill your glass?” Janet said.
“No thank you,” Martha said. “Bob doesn’t like me to drink too much.” She lowered her voice. “He’s always saying I drink too much when I’m out. He’s very strict. He comes from the South, you know. From Atlanta. They’re very straitlaced there.”
“Where were you born?” Janet said.
“In Modesto,” Martha said.
“Do you like it here? Isn’t it beautiful here?” She felt, then, the beauty of the countryside, the Ridge, the fir forest, the ocean. “This is a paradise,” she said. “You’re so lucky you moved here. And when you get to know the people better you’ll find they’re just wonderful. So friendly. So helpful. There isn’t a thing they wouldn’t do for you.”
“We like our house,” Martha said. “Your husband saw to it that we got a good one. He went over the foundation himself.”
Janet said. “To Leo nothing is more important than that the people who come to him and depend on him are happy.” Putting down her glass, she went over to the girl and took hold of her hands. “You must be happy. I want you to promise me. To us it’s the most important thing in the world.” And, as so many times before, tears sprang up to her eyes.
Standing at the window. Sherry Dombrosio gazed up the hill at the lights of the Runcible house. She saw all the cars parked; she heard the noise. “Quite a party this year,” she said.
“Why not?” Walt said. “He serves good liquor. He knows how to get people to show up. But I’m not interested in getting people that way. By bribing them.”
Sherry said, “I don’t see how he can afford it. Isn’t he supposed to be on the ropes? The girl at the grocery store told me that his bill is three months overdue. He hasn’t paid them since last October.”
“Sure he’s on the ropes,” Dombrosio said. “But he’ll recoup. His whole life is like that. He’ll borrow, or get hold of some land and speculate on it. That kind of person never gives up.”
“Who would lend to him?” Sherry said. “He has no assets, now that he sold that land on the Ridge. At least that’s what I hear. But of course you’re always hearing so many rumours about him and no one can ever pin him down or get the truth out of him.”
“He’ll get some pal who’s a banker to back him,” Dombrosio said. “They all work together—they buy off one another.”
“He couldn’t use his water company as an asset, could he?”
“No,” Dombrosio said. “I
t’s too encumbered. You saw that article in the News.”
Turning from the window, Sherry wandered aimlessly about the living room. Her great stomach—she had been pregnant now for five months—swayed out ahead of her, and she at last sank down in a chair. The restless, fretful frown that he had seen so much of late had once again appeared on her face. In the end, she had not taken happily to quitting her job. But a pregnant woman could not make the drive into the City, let alone hold the kind of public relations position that Lausch had wanted her for. On her last day at work, that evening when she had got home, she had become hysterical. He had never seen her really so before that. For a week she had avoided him, lying in bed until almost noon, hurling dishes at him during meals, shutting herself in the bedroom as soon as dinner was over.
Too bad, he thought as he watched her. Tough luck. The biological heritage betrayed you, didn’t it? Woman’s weakness. They say smart employers are wary of that, of hiring women because of that. I don’t blame them.
“God, I feel nauseated,” Sherry said. “I should be over that by now, the sixth month. I’m so bloated—I’m nothing but a big bag of gas.”
“Can I get you anything?” he asked.
“No,” she said shortly.
“Some ginger ale.” He went to the refrigerator and opened it. “What about a piece of pie?” he said.
“I can’t eat starch. I’m supposed to lose four pounds by the end of the month. And it’s almost the end and I still weigh one hundred and forty-five pounds.” She stared down morosely as he walked past her with his piece of pie. “Do you have to eat that in here?” she demanded. “Couldn’t you eat it somewhere else? You know I can’t stand to see you eating when I can’t. It’s unfair.”
He said, “It was your idea to get pregnant.”
“No it wasn’t. It was yours.” Her eyes flashed in fury. “I didn’t want to; I never wanted to at any time.”
“Too late now,” he said.
Too late, he thought, to wish you had your old figure back. And your job. It isn’t natural for women to work anyhow, he said to himself. This is natural, this gigantic bulk, this pregnancy. It should have happened a long time ago; then there never would have been the trouble between us in the first place.