The words SALE and $595 painted in white shoe polish on the windshield established a benchmark for negotiations to commence. Jerry decided to begin with an offer of about fifteen percent off the sale price. Recalling Andy’s sales approach had been a rapid-fire verbal barrage of memorized facts and statistics about the new Studebakers, he decided to have a little fun at the big man’s expense. Turning that tactic around on him seemed like a sure bet to get under Andy’s skin.
“Since we’re friends now,” Jerry said with rapidity, “I can tell you honestly, I like this truck a lot. I like the fact it only has twenty-thousand miles on it—and it is the right color. Fords should all be black, right? But that big flathead V8 probably eats gas like there’s no tomorrow, which is a big negative. After all, I would be using it on the farm, and I don’t want to have to keep coming to town every five minutes to fill it with gas. The four-cylinder engine gets a lot better mileage, which would save me time and money on running back and forth to the gas station. If it had the more economical four-banger in it, I would probably be willing to pay your sales price for it. But—hey, time is money, right? Now since I see SALE painted on the windshield, my guess is you wouldn’t be having a sale on it if it was going to sell itself, know what I mean? Now I’m not even going to mention that this is a Ford and there is a Ford dealer in town that probably has twice as many used Ford trucks as you do. So what do you say we agree on $520 and shake hands on the deal right now?” Jerry thrust his hand out to shake hands on the proposal, but Andy left him hanging as expected. However, this gave Jerry additional opportunity to further goad the big guy, whose face by this time had steadily reddened as he spoke. Knowing it wouldn’t take much more to push Andy over the edge, he decided to go for beet-red.
Andy rolled his eyes, then stared at his feet for a long moment as he resisted the urge to tell Jerry to take a hike.
With his proposal left unanswered, Jerry continued to hold his hand out for a shake on the deal as he continued. “You know, that big flathead has a bigger engine with more horsepower than my new Studebaker? Do you know what that means, Andy? Think lower gas mileage, that’s what, and I just don’t need it on a farm. If I need horsepower, I can always get in the Studebaker and—“
“ALRIGHT!” Andy bellowed, cutting Jerry off mid-sentence, his face now just one shade short of the beet-red Jerry had been shooting for. “I’ll take your offer to the boss. Wait in my office, and I’ll let you know what he says.” Then Andy whipped around and stormed off.
Ten minutes later, Andy returned to the salesmen’s shack to find Jerry behind his desk reclining in his chair with his feet up on the desktop. With eyes narrowed and mouth agape, “Son of a…” escaped Andy’s mouth, thinking this kid was awfully good at getting under his skin.
Andy’s first inclination was to demand that the boy get the heck out of his chair. But then he correctly concluded that the kid was toying with him, so rather than continue trying to go toe to toe with the sharp-witted youngster, he decided to play along and see what happened.
For the first time, Andy recognized the boy was a lot more than a pain in his rear; he was intelligent and resourceful. Someone had given him a lot of line for one so young, and probably for a good reason. Moreover, the money was coming from somewhere. He couldn’t guess where that might be but imagined whoever was paying the bills considered the boy to be capable and trustworthy. Unfortunately, he had let Jerry get under his skin, which he now regretted. Now that he understood the boy better, he decided to see if he could make amends.
Andy plopped down in the customer’s chair across the desk from Jerry, who continued leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed as if he were relaxing in a hammock under a shade tree.
“I hate to wake you, Jerry, but I have an offer for you,” Andy said mildly. Jerry opened one eye but didn’t respond; he was in a state of shock. The angry red face he was used to dealing with had been replaced by one pleasant with a multitude of freckles.
“The boss,” informed Andy, “agreed to split the difference with you again, making it $557.50. I have a sales order prepared for you with the adjusted amount. With tax and license, the total is $574.81. Will that work for you?
Not expecting that much of a discount without a couple of go-arounds with “the boss,” Jerry took his feet off the desk and sat up, scratching his head. Evidently, the game had been called for the day.
“Can I see it?” Jerry asked, referring to the sales order. Andy handed the document over then watched calmly as Jerry reviewed the figures. All seemed to be in order, so without looking up at the salesman, Jerry signed it and handed it back with a smile.
“Is a check okay?”
“Of course, Jerry, your check is always good here,” Andy responded warmly, smiling. Jerry looked at Andy suspiciously, wondering what was going on with him. What had changed? Had he paid too much? After writing the check and handing it to Andy, Jerry was at a loss for words.
“Thank you for your business, Jerry,” Andy said with genuine appreciation, then stood presenting his big paw for his customer to shake. As they shook hands, a truce was called, and the war ended without a shot ever having been fired.
“If you’d like, we can make the delivery later this afternoon. Enjoy your new truck, Jerry; it’s a nice one. And if you ever need anything else, just ask. I’ll be right here.”
“Ummm…yes, alright. That would be great. Ummm, thank you, Andy.” Jerry offered a hesitant half-wave, then ambled out scratching his head wondering what had just happened.
The next day, Saturday, was a busy one for Jerry. The old farmstead had been neglected for decades, which was something he intended to remedy. He drove the truck to town, picked up some hand tools and a lawnmower, then made a couple of runs to dump. The truck was handy, and he liked driving it. The more he looked at it, the more he drove it, the better he liked it. By the end of the day, he felt like it would be his first choice for short runs; however, the Champion would still be the better choice for highway driving.
That evening Stone barged into Jerry’s house, again unannounced and without knocking. The big man informed him that he would be called on to help with the “personal business” in Pasadena he had mentioned earlier.
“This might take a few days,” Stone advised. Since they would be staying at least a couple of nights, Jerry would need to make reservations for two rooms at a hotel. He should also have his bag packed and be ready to go first thing Monday morning. Stone would explain more on the way there.
Jerry was concerned that he was spending too much money, especially with the pickup truck’s unauthorized purchase. The truck, tractor, implements, and tools added up to a significant sum of money. The truck was parked in the driveway, where it was impossible to miss. And yet, Stone hadn’t mentioned it, which led Jerry to believe he didn’t care about it. When he handed the boss an envelope full of receipts, Stone simply grunted and shoved the envelope in his hip pocket without looking at them.
The fact that his expenditures had gone unquestioned didn’t sit well with Jerry. He didn’t know what to think. Jerry was accustomed to being held accountable for even the most insignificant expense. He had diligently compared price and quality with every purchase he made. The records and receipts were all there. Believing the boss would scrutinize the receipts privately bothered him, too. He felt like he was being relieved of the opportunity to defend his expenditures.
Jerry wanted to sit down and discuss his plans for the farm. He hoped to have the opportunity to explain related expenses in detail. However, when he invited Stone to sit down with him and discuss his plans, Stone simply said: “You have the ball. Run with it,” then left without further discussion on the subject.
Well aware the boss was a man of few words, Jerry knew he shouldn’t expect lengthy conservations with Stone on any subject. But didn’t everyone care about what things cost, regardless of how much money they had? Sure, the boss was wealthy, but Jerry felt like it was his obligation to conduct himself in a b
usinesslike manner. But how could he do that without the worry of being second-guessed when he wasn’t allowed to explain expenditures in person?
Jerry found himself confounded by Stone’s lack of diligence. The situation was, without a doubt, different than anything he could have imagined. In less than two weeks, this man had turned his life upside-down. Perhaps, he reasoned, this was simply the nature of working for a man like Stone. Maybe I should just roll with it, he thought. Why fight it if the boss is okay with it?
But could he get used to it? Could he really be so lucky to have been rescued from the Cherry Motel, and Sargent Gerald Dunne by a super-rich benefactor who simply didn’t care what things cost? It seemed too good to be true! And what appeared to be too good to be true was most likely just that—too good to be true.
Chapter 11
Ammon. February 2431 BCE.
Erlin’s conclave lodge was a recent addition to the growing hamlet. Built on the local clan’s traditional summer gathering grounds, it was an edifice that marked the settlement’s ascension from a
no-account wide spot in the road to relevance as a town. The conclave hall, built of river rock and massive timbers, dominated the river’s south side beyond the stone bridge.
The council had decided its construction should be made the focus point of the summer gathering grounds, solidifying their claim to both sides of the river. Focusing growth beyond the bridge also made strategic sense if they were ever forced to defend the vital bridge and village from invaders.
While the conclave hall was nearly large enough to hold the entire population of Erlin, the elder council room was a late addition used for both civic and judicial purposes. Unfortunately, the council room was only large enough to hold twenty to thirty people comfortably. On the morning of the inquest into Jotham’s death, over one hundred people were pressed together in the small room. A gallery of interested ones overflowed the council chamber and into the street.
When Ammon entered the council chamber, all heads turned, and the room fell instantly silent. At that moment, the sensation of nakedness hit Ammon hard, as if he were some sort of curious seldom-seen creature on display for the very first time. The heat of a hundred sets of eyes boring into his soul stripped him of his resolve. But the malice in Riordan’s burning gaze was what cut the deepest because Ammon was unable to dissuade his heart from condemning himself for robbing the old man of his youngest son.
Ammon joined Hethe and Abiah, who already had taken their place before a five-elders council seated behind a long wooden table. Elymas, also a council member, would hear the arguments, judge the matter, and render a binding decision. The seat of judgment was situated at a right angle to the council, providing an unobstructed view of both the councilmen and those questioned. Overhead an impressive iron lantern hung from the timbers above, lighting the room with a yellow glow.
The raucous crowd filled the room far beyond its intended capacity. With hundreds talking at once and pressing in on one another from outside, no one heard when Stren, chief of the elder council, called the meeting to order. When that did not affect the crowd, Stren climbed on the tabletop and repeatedly shouted, “QUIET!” until the racket subsided. By the time the din died down, the red-faced Stren was furious. Only after his face returned to its usual color did he speak.
“This inquest has been called together by Councilman Riordan regarding the death of his son Jotham, a huntsman,” declared Stren. “This afternoon, we will hear the testimony of the eyewitnesses here.” He held out his hand, motioning to the three hunters facing him. “Then the council will make a recommendation to the judge in this matter. Before we begin, we ask all onlookers to remain silent. Do not comment unless you are called on by name. Any interference from spectators will be dealt with severely,” he warned.
Stren motioned to the doorway upon completing the announcement, where a pair of well-armed men stood beside the open door. Nothing more needed to be said about why the soldiers were present.
“Councilman Riordan,” he said, retaking his seat, “you may begin.”
The Erlin court had strict rules that few had dared to break. Unruly onlookers could be fined for speaking out of turn. On occasion, unruly observers had been ejected and beaten by the guards for disorderly conduct. On one occasion, a defendant was publicly whipped for threatening a council member. Since then, no one dared speak once the council had been called to order.
However, since there was no rule against murmuring, the citizens of Erlin considered it their sacred duty to exercise that privilege at every opportunity. While murmuring was deemed to be standard operating procedure, oohs, ahhs, and snickers were frowned upon, although grudgingly tolerated.
Ammon didn’t need anyone to tell him Riordan wanted him dead. That was evident from the moment I entered the building, he nervously told himself. He cocked an eye at Riordan, saw the councilman spying on him, grinding his teeth in anger, so Ammon turned quickly away. The old man never took his eyes off Ammon; his gaze was unyielding, his watery eyes a mixture of contempt and condemnation. So, Ammon was not surprised when the old man ignored his fellow hunters and concentrated on indicting him.
“Ammon, you are a hunter?” Riordan spat the word “hunter” as if he was a low-born gutter rat. However, Ammon was not about to allow the old man to discredit him for his chosen occupation.
“Yes, as was Jotham,” Ammon snapped.
“Tell me how you murdered my son Jotham,” Riordan fired back.
A cry rose up from the onlookers, which Stren instantly silenced. Dismayed by the crowd’s reaction Ammon turned to look at them, his eyes wide. Such a pointed question caught him off-guard, and he reacted as if struck by a tremendous blow. It hurt, but Riordan’s question implied malicious intent from the outset. Of course I killed Jotham, he thought, but there was nothing vengeful or deliberate about it! Admitting murdering the boy in this context would be damning. Ammon was desperate for the truth to be known.
“I didn’t murder Jotham,” he responded. “He attacked me with a knife, without warning, and while I was unarmed. I used my knife to defend myself. If he—”
Ammon was cut off mid-sentence by Riordan, who bellowed, “Did you hear? This—hunter admits to murdering my son! And he confessed to using his own knife to commit murder! This butcher should be beheaded!”
Murmuring from the crowd reverberated so loud that Stren had to stand to silence the onlookers. “If spectators cannot remain silent,” he bellowed, “we will close the doors and make this session private! Is that understood?”
Instantly the room grew silent. Riordan continued without pause. “We have two witnesses here to the murder—Hethe and Abiah, both of whom are Ammon’s friends. Hethe, tell us, did you witness Ammon murder Jotham?”
Hethe gulped, his eyes widening. “I was there and saw everyth— ”
Riordan interrupted: “This man saw Ammon commit the murder!” he roared, waving his arms, playing to the crowd.
“But it wasn’t murder!” Hethe tried to explain. “Jotham attacked Ammon with his knife while Ammon was still unarmed. He was forced to defend himself!”
“Oh, I see,” Riordan slyly nodded, taking his time, pacing in front of the council table. “And who killed Jotham?” he whispered.
“Ammon won the knife fight in self-defense,” Hethe insisted.
“So, you are saying Ammon killed Jotham, am I correct?” Riordan asked, a little louder now.After a pause, Hethe answered. “Yes. But it was—”
Riordan drowned his answer out as he thundered, “Did you hear it? This man witnessed the murder! Ammon’s own friend admits he committed murder!” Murmuring once again threatened to bring Stren to his feet, but his harsh expression quieted the room, this time without a word.
Ammon gasped for air as if kicked in the gut. His heart sank as he listened to Riordan distort Hethe’s words at will. The accuser turned everything Hethe said into an accusation. Ammon bit his lip as his friend did his best to defend him, only to have his words used
as an impeachment. Riordan continued his attack.
“Abiah! Tell me what you saw. Who killed Jotham?”
Abiah gaped at Ammon. The young man had seen the way Riordan twisted first Ammon’s words and then Hethe’s. No doubt the old man was skilled at twisting the truth to meet his own needs. Thus far, the councilman had succeeded in making the fight seem like something it wasn’t. He wanted to avoid the trap into which his friends had fallen. Cleverness would be required on his part to prevent his own words from suffering the same fate.
Abiah knew the truth meant nothing to Riordan, but the truth meant everything to his friend on trial for his life. The accuser was biased, and vengeance was his only goal; there was no doubt about that. Abiah saw how effectively Riordan defeated the opposition and sought a way to turn that around on him.
Abiah set his jaw tight, his mind deep in thought. Ammon had simply defended himself, he thought. No question about it. Moreover, Ammon was fortunate to have survived since he was unarmed when Jotham lunged at him with the knife. Simply claiming Ammon won the fight in self-defense might not be enough to convince the judge of his fellow hunter’s innocence, so Abiah chose his words carefully.
“It all happened very quickly. Jotham—”
Now raging, Riordan spoke over him, drowning his words away. “That is not what I asked you! Answer the question!” he screamed directly into the boy’s face. “I’ll ask you again. DID - YOU - SEE - AMMON - KILL
- JOTHAM? That is the question I asked you, and I expect you to answer that question directly!”
The words caused Abiah to set his jaw even tighter. “Why am I here?”he shouted, angrily glaring over Riordan’s shoulder at the councilmen while holding his hands up in a gesture of bewilderment. Then he took a step back to make breathing room and spoke to Riordan.
The Rings of Hesaurun Page 29