The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing Read Free Page B

Milton Cumberland, had been ruthless in his tactics and immensely successful. It was a lot to live up to.
    Clint leaned forward in the chair. “And you believe Green Man can resolve these issues for you?”
    “I do. You’re small, you’re local, and your name is above reproach.” Dean flashed that smile of his and gestured to the side table. “Hey, you haven’t tried the coffee yet. It’s fresh-ground shade-grown organic Hawaiian Kona. Those cookies are baked fresh daily in a shop around the corner.”
    Clint poured himself a cup. Odd, now that Dean had invited him to drink it, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t wanted any. He inhaled the rich aroma, took a sip, sat back, and tried not to moan in pleasure. He popped a cookie. It melted in his mouth, a perfect complement to the best cuppa joe he’d ever tasted.
    Dean cleared his throat again, calling Clint away from paradise. “My only concern is that this mall project is somewhat larger than anything you’ve done to date. There’s a deadline of June twenty-first, and frankly, I don’t see it happening with the manpower Green Man currently has at its disposal.”
    The second cookie turned to powder in Clint’s mouth. There it was, the other shoe that was always waiting to drop-kick his ass. Experience made it easier for him to calmly take another sip of coffee while he formulated his response.
    “You’re right, this project is somewhat bigger than what Green Man’s built in the past, and with construction being what it has the last few years, I have had to thin the crew some.” Corporate-speak for the grim task of laying off his crew, good people, one by one until he was down to the bare essentials. He hoped hiring again would help him forget what that had felt like. “Filling it in won’t be a problem. I’ve got a solid call-back list, and the union locals here have plenty of qualified people looking for work.”
    “Unions? No wonder your resources have been stretched.”
    Dean’s voice was light, teasing, as if they were old friends, or at least as if they were back to where they’d been a few minutes ago. When someone in Dean’s position was generous enough to offer his advice, it couldn’t hurt to consider his ideas.
    Clint set his cup down. The funny itch in his finger had returned.
    His father was a union man. Clint had never considered running anything but a union shop.
    He consciously sat deeper in the chair, smoothed his best tie, and said, “You don’t need to worry about Green Man. We do top-notch work, and we can meet your deadline. Feel free to leave the construction details to me.” And don’t even think about telling me how to run the company I built from scratch with more sweat and blood than your silver spoon could shovel in a hundred years. “Now, are there any other details to work out, or shall we get this contract signed so I can get started?”
    Clint studied the other man. Cumberland’s lips were pressed together, those pudgy fingers of his steepled on the hand-rubbed finish of his desk, his carrot-colored exclamation-point eyebrows hovering over fierce blue eyes at odds with the rest of his good-natured face. Trying to figure out what he was thinking was like trying to read a calm lake mirroring a bright sun. Dean Cumberland wasn’t as simple as he appeared to be.
    When Dean finally pushed back his chair and laughed, Clint couldn’t say why the sound set him on edge when it should have relieved him. He knew his answering smile was weak.
    Cumberland only grinned more widely. “Sure, sure, whatever you say. You’re the man I want. Why not take a look at the list of construction workers J. Milton has on hand? When you compare their cost with the unions’, you’ll understand what I’m talking about. See for yourself.”
    This time, Dean’s pleasant voice overrode the faint itch in Clint’s finger. Surely, there was no harm in looking, right? He could hardly afford to insult the guy.
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