Read Death on the Mississippi for Free Online

‘personal inducement success factor.’ I call it nabbing my nuts.”
    â€œThat has a certain vivid alliteration to it,” Bea said.
    The construction foreman’s voice dropped to a whisper as he looked past them toward the water. “I’ll tell you a couple things about my house. My wife and I built it with our own hands. It took us nearly three years working nights, weekends, and vacations. The kids were small then and I wasn’t even a journeyman carpenter, so money was short. I dug the foundation by hand. I mean with a pick and shovel. Our sweat built that place for twenty thousand and now it’s worth a quarter of a million. I got two kids, one will come to work with me next year and learn the business that way. The other one is real bright, college material, and is going to be a civil engineer or maybe even an architect. A second mortgage on that house is going to pay for that kid’s college, no matter where she wants to go. Dalton isn’t taking that away from me with his asshole games and toilet barge boat, and that’s a promise.”
    â€œDoesn’t Pan have any influence with him?”
    â€œShe’s a fucking space cadet.”
    â€œShe keeps insisting that someone is threatening Dalton,” Bea said. “And today someone shot at the boat.”
    â€œI’m not surprised,” Sam snorted. “The guy’s fucking me, his wife in more ways than one, Kat Loops, the public at large, and anyone else stupid enough to get near the loony bastard.”
    â€œYou sound pissed,” Lyon said.
    â€œMister, I’m not just pissed. I got complete kidney malfunction.”
    â€œHey, you guys!” Pan Turman ran up the walk toward them.
    â€œOh, Christ,” Sam said. “It’s time to play Dalton says.”
    â€œDalton says we’re all to go to the ballroom,” Pan said breathlessly as she tried to regain her wind. “He has something to show us.”
    â€œDoes Dalton say who’s to supervise this fucking job while we play his damn games?” Sam said.
    Pan hooked the foreman’s arm in hers as she led him up the path toward the large building. “Oh, Sam, you’re such a grizzly bear.”
    The southerly wall of the ballroom was mostly glass, with sliding panels that opened out onto a wide veranda that overlooked Long Island Sound. The ceiling was a maze of molded figure reliefs, many parts of which had broken off and fallen to the cluttered floor. The walls were water stained, and plaster, leaves, and old newspapers littered the floor.
    The restoration was well under way. Scaffolding reached high up the walls and contained several painters who were carefully chipping and sanding the orante molding. Lyon noticed that several of the younger workers had Walkman radios either hooked to their belts or sitting nearby. Luckily they used earphones so that the sound of heavy-metal rock was mercifully absent.
    â€œThis is my favorite room in the whole resort,” Pan said. “Later I’ll show you the decorator’s drawings of what it will look like when it’s finished.”
    Sam Idelweise began to impatiently riffle through a sheaf of blueprints. “Where’s laughing boy?” he muttered.
    â€œI’ll go get him,” Pan said and hurried out.
    â€œOh, my God!” It was a strangulated gasp from one of the men working near the ceiling. The young painter scrambled down the ladder. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt, paint-splattered, cutoff jeans, and carried a blaster with an earplug. He reached the bottom of the ladder and faced them with a look of horror on his face. “It’s coming! Jesus, they’re finally on their way.”
    Sam scowled at the young worker. “No breaks for the second coming, Harold. You wait for lunch like everyone else.”
    Harold ripped the earplug from his head and threw it at Idelweise. His mouth opened and closed several times before words