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 barbecued-ribs Vergo. It's an honour to do business with you. 
You'll be hearin' from me just as soon as I got somethin' to tell you.'
  'Okay, Stanley,' Randolph said patiently.
  Stanley swung out into the evening traffic while Randolph, clutching his Vuitton 
overnight case, mounted the polished marble steps of the Clare Cottonseed building. Most 
of the cartel companies had moved into high-rise blocks but Randolph had preferred to 
stay in the ten-storey, brick-faced building that his grandfather had erected in 1910. He 
liked the heavy, banklike style of the place, with its carved stone gargoyles and 
decorative cornices. He liked the mahogany and the marble and the dim, amber Tiffany 
lamps. They reminded him of deep-rooted Southern prosperity, of scrupulous manners and 
unscrupulous wheeler-dealing. Besides, it took only three minutes to get from his 
tenth-storey office to the doors of the Cotton Exchange and only another three to reach 
Erika's German restaurant on South Second Street.
  He unlocked the huge front door and the night security guard came to greet him.
  'You should have rung the bell, Mr Clare. I'd of let you in.'
  'That's all right, Marshall. Is Mr Sleaman upstairs?'
  'He came back just about twenty minutes ago, sir. I want to say that I'm awfully sorry 
about the fire, sir. I knew Mr Douglas real well.'
  Randolph crossed the echoing marble-clad lobby and pressed the button to summon the 
old-fashioned, wrought-iron elevator. It clanked its way slowly upward until it reached 
the tenth floor, where Randolph got out and walked quickly along to the end of the 
corridor. Two massive oak doors led into his office, which was almost fifty feet square, 
with windows facing north towards the Cotton Exchange and west towards the gleaming 
confluence of the Mississippi and the Wolf.
  The sky was already the colour of blueberry jelly, and two or three lighted riverboats 
drew herringbone patterns across the surface of the Mississippi.
  Randolph dropped his overnight case on the big hide-covered Chesterfield beside his 
desk and stripped off his coat. His Tiffany desk lamp was already alight and his 
secretary, Wanda, had laid out a file for him on Raleigh's production statistics together 
with Telex reports on the severity of the damage and an interim report on the fire by 
Neil Sleaman, his executive vice-president in charge of the No.2 processing plant.
  He quickly leafed through the reports and then pressed his intercom to see if Wanda was 
there.
  'Mr Clare, you're back!' she exclaimed.
  'Would you come in, please?' Randolph asked.
  Wanda bustled through the door with her shorthand pad. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed 
girl, very pretty in a way that reminded Randolph of Priscilla Presley, and with an 
exceptional figure. Randolph had not hired her for her looks, however. She was bright and 
she was creative, and she was also the daughter of one of the most productive cotton 
farmers in Mississippi, Colonel Henry Burford of Burford's Delight Plantation. Randolph 
was still buying cottonseed from Colonel Burford at 1980 prices: one hundred twenty-nine 
dollars the ton.
  'What happened to the limo?' Randolph wanted to know.
  'Herbert called in about ten minutes ago. He said he'd had some kind of a brake failure 
out on Lamar. The way he told it, he was lucky he didn't get himself killed. He called 
the airport as soon as the tow truck arrived and he had them try to page you, but you 
must have left by then.'
  'Well, as it happened, I hailed myself a cab,' Randolph said. 'But is Herbert okay?'
  'He says so. A little shaken up, I guess. The car's okay too, apart from a dented 
fender.'
  'You can replace a dented fender. You could never replace Herbert.'
  'Well, that's for sure,' said Wanda. 'Would you care for a drink? Or some coffee maybe?'
  'Canadian Club on the rocks, plenty of soda. And would you ask Mr Sleaman to come on 
up?'
  Wanda hesitated and then said, 'We're all real upset about the accident, Mr Clare. 
Those people out at Raleigh, Mr Douglas and all, they were like family.'
  'Yes,' Randolph said, 'they were.' He ran his hand tiredly through his hair. 'I called 
their wives this morning from Quebec. I'll be going around to see them in the morning. 
Perhaps you can arrange for some flowers.'
  He paused for a moment and then said, 'It was very tragic,' even though 'tragic' seemed 
hopelessly inadequate.
  Wanda went across to the rosewood side table to pour Randolph a drink in a heavy 
crystal glass. Randolph sat behind his desk and rocked back and forth in the high-backed 
leather chair, sipping at his whisky and rereading Neil Sleaman's reports. On the wall 
behind the side table hung a large oil painting of Randolph's father, a magnificently 
white-maned man in a cream linen suit with a huge flowering orchid in his lapel. Randolph 
was not so sentimental that he ever stood in front of his father's portrait when he was 
in trouble and asked him what he should do. That was strictly for old Dick Powell movies. 
But all the same, the old man's deeply engraved face gave him reassurance that sometimes 
things had gone just as badly in the past and that from time to time, they would probably 
go just as badly in the future. Tragedies have to be faced, wounds have to be bound.
  Neil Sleaman came into the office without knocking, one hand extended in sympathetic 
greeting for the whole time it took him to cross the thirty feet of pale-gold carpet 
between the door and Randolph's desk. When the handshake finally arrived, it was dry and 
far too forceful, as if Neil had wiped his sweating palm on the seat of his pants before 
he stepped in and psyched himself up to be earnest and direct.
  Neil was thin, black-haired and heavily tanned from his recent vacation in Bermuda; a 
sharp-faced young man who fancied himself a snappy dresser, and by Memphis standards he 
was. Pale locknit suits, high-collared shirts and the inescapable bolus necktie. Randolph 
had employed him from Chickasaw Cotton, one of the smaller processors. Personally he did 
not care for the way that Neil tried too hard, but Neil was aggressive and efficient and 
he could get things done.
  'I don't know what to say to you,' Neil told Randolph, shaking his head. 'I simply 
don't know what to say to you.'
  Randolph set down his drink. 'Medicinal,' he said. 'Do you want one?'
  Neil shook his head even more vigorously.
  'Who's out at Raleigh now?' Randolph asked.
  'Tim Shelby's in charge just for the moment. He's kept about twenty men on the night 
shift just to keep things running, but he's had to send most of the rest of them home. We 
can't function until we get the boilers repaired.'
  'How long is that going to take?'
  'Week, week and a half.'
  'Make it a week.'