'Well, we're doing our darnedest, sir, believe me.'
  'You estimate the final damage at over three million and production losses at over one 
million, correct?'
  That kind of depends on whether we lose the Sun-Taste margarine contract as a 
consequence. We were on full capacity, just keeping up with the delivery schedule. By the 
end of the week, we'll be eight hundred fifty tons behind, and I don't see any chance of 
catching up.'
  Randolph thought for a long time, tapping the rim of his glass against his teeth. 
Sun-Taste was America's fastest-expanding new margarine company and the Clare Cottonseed 
board had been jubilant when the firm had landed the contract late last year to supply 
all of SunTaste's hydrogenated oil. To Randolph personally, it had been a vindication of 
his cost-cutting policies, and to the company as a whole, it had represented a solid new 
foundation for expansion and profit. There had been talk of 'substantial' pay hikes, and 
the junior executives' offices had suddenly been discreetly littered with Cadillac 
brochures.
  'Have you talked to anyone at Sun-Taste?' Randolph asked.
  They called this afternoon. Obviously they wanted to know if we were going to have any 
difficulties in delivering the full quota.'
  'And of course you told them there would be no difficulties at all.'
  'Of course.'
  'Have you tried shopping around to see if we can make up the difference by buying from 
somebody else?'
  Neil shook his head again. 'Whoever we go to, sir, is bound to charge us a pretty hefty 
premium, quite apart from the fact that their prices are higher than ours to begin with. 
I thought I'd better wait and discuss it with you.'
  Randolph finished his drink, rattled the ice cubes around for a moment and then 
abruptly stood up. 'Let's go take a look at that factory,' he said. 'Do you have your car 
here?'
  They went down in the elevator to the basement parking level. Neil adjusted his necktie 
in the elevator mirror and slicked back his hair. He never once took his eyes off 
himself, even when he was talking.
  'I was on the point of falling asleep when they called me this morning,' he said, 
tilting his chin slightly to improve his three-quarter profile. I took out that girl who 
works behind the salad bar at the Pirate's Cove.'
  I'm not sure I know her,' Randolph replied. He hated stories of sexual conquest.
  'You must have seen her. Very long blonde hair, all the way down to her fanny. Terrific 
body. And do you know what her name is? Can you guess what her name is?'
  I have no idea, really,' Randolph said. He tried to be charitable and put down Neil's 
chattering to nervousness. All the same, three men had died and the short-term future of 
the company was at serious risk; he didn't honestly want to discuss Neil's latest bed 
partner, however devastating she was.
  'Her name is Jeff, can you believe that? A girl who looks like that, called Jeff?'
  'Well, I wouldn't go out with her if I were you,' Randolph said. 'Not with a girl with 
a name like that.'
  'Oh, really?' frowned Neil. 'I thought it was pretty cute. Her mother called her Jeff 
because she always wanted a boy.'
  As the elevator arrived at the basement, Randolph said, 'There were two famous 
comic-book characters, one of whom was called Jeff. You wouldn't want to be called what 
the other one was called, would you? Because that's what would happen if you dated her.'
  Neil did not quite know how to take that remark. He followed Randolph awkwardly out of 
the elevator and then hurried to catch up so he could show him the way to his car. 'It's 
right over there, the silver MK-Seven.'
  Night had fallen out on Cotton Row as Neil's car reared out of the basement rampway and 
into the street, but Memphis glittered with life. They drove past Beale Street, where 
W.C. Handy had made the blues famous, now renovated and brightly alive. They drove as far 
as Union Street and then headed east, past Overton Square, and took Interstate 40 towards 
Raleigh.
  'I'm sorry,' Neil said. 'I shouldn't have said anything about Jeff. That was bad taste.'
  'Forget it,' Randolph told him, staring out at the Tennessee night and wondering how 
Marmie was coping. The boys would take care of her, he was pretty sure of that. John was 
fifteen now and Mark was eleven. And even though Issa was always arguing with her mother 
now that she was thirteen and on the very edge of womanhood, he knew that she was kind 
enough and courteous enough to make sure that the remaining days of their vacation would 
go well. He ached to be back in Canada, beside Marmie, but he knew where his 
responsibilities lay.
  Neil said, 'The fire department won't commit itself.'
  'What about the police?'
  'Same story. There was an explosion in the wintering plant but no particular reason to 
suspect that it was caused deliberately.'
  'No particular reason to suspect that it wasn't either.'
  Neil glanced at him, his sharp profile illuminated green by the lights on the dash. 
'You don't really think that somebody tried to bomb us out of business?'
  Randolph grasped his knee and made a face. 'Don't ask me. That just happened to be the 
considered opinion of the cab driver who brought me from the airport.'
  'The cab driver?' Neil laughed. 'What would he know?'
  'I don't know. Cab drivers listen and learn, don't they?'
  'And this particular cab driver thought that this fire was started on purpose?' asked 
Neil. The diamond ring on his right pinkie suddenly sparkled as he turned the wheel.
  'Well, who knows? In any case, he promised to keep his ears open in case he heard any 
gossip from any of his fares. Apparently he picks up Brooks executives quite regularly.'
  'And you overtipped him for that favour?'
  'I guess you could say that. A hundred bucks.'
  'A hundred bucks? What's the guy's name? We ought to employ him in our accounts 
department.'
  Randolph shrugged. 'I don't know. Stanley somebody. Wait a minute ... he said no 
relation to the barbecued-ribs restaurant.'
  'Vergo,' said Neil smartly.
  'That's right. Stanley Vergo. And what a philosopher. His pet theory seems to be that 
Elvis never died, that he was only pretending in order to avoid his fans.'
  'I've heard that theory before,' Neil said. 'Some people have the same theory about 
Adolf Hitler.'
  They arrived at the processing plant. The buildings and the surrounding storage tanks 
covered over eighty-eight acres that were surrounded by miles of chain-link fence. The 
driveway was landscaped with mature magnolias blossoming like soft curds of cream, and 
the offices were set in a picturesque Victorian mansion with a white-pillared portico and 
fan-shaped skylights. But behind the stately facade there was one of the most modern and 
functional cottonseed-processing factories in the whole of the South, with a highly 
advanced solvent-extraction facility for extracting the crude oil out of the seeds, and a 
special research department for exploring ways in which the seed hulls that were left 
over could be converted into lacquers and resins and other profitable products.