“How large?”
“A few acres. Satisfied?”
In both men’s imagination, they had already come to blows.
“That’s the size of a small town,” Osborne said. “A lot of cash to get out of the way.”
“What do you mean, cash?”
“Don’t try to bullshit me, you know what I’m talking about. You must see a few suitcases changing hands, I guess?”
“You surely don’t think I’m going to reply to a question like that?” Wheaton retorted, twisting his big fingers.
Osborne breathed cigarette smoke in his face. “How long has this project been under construction?”
“No smoking in my office,” Wheaton said, scowling.
“Try stopping me. Answer my question.”
“About three months. What of it?” His face was turning red with anger.
“I noticed at the site entrance that the state is financing half the project. Seventy million dollars, that’s a lot of money.”
“That’s not my problem,” Wheaton retorted in exasperation. “I just have to meet my deadlines, that’s all.”
Osborne leaned across the desk. “Who did this land belong to?”
“How should I know?”
“Who handled the purchase?” Osborne insisted.
“Good God, are you deaf or what? What exactly are you looking for?”
He was starting to get worked up. That made two of them.
“Joanne Griffith was murdered,” Osborne said. “She was working on this project. Are you too dumb to see what I’m getting at?”
Wheaton gritted his teeth.
Just then, an explosion rang out. For a brief moment, the floor of the prefab shook.
“What was that?”
“Dynamite,” Wheaton replied. “The shale is too hard for the bulldozers.”
A black cloud passed through Osborne’s brain. “You mean you’re blowing up the hills?”
“Yes. It clears space.” He seemed to find that exciting.
“Show me the plans.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I’m asking you nicely,” Osborne said, in a honeyed tone that didn’t suit him.
“I don’t give a fuck! Now get out!”
There was a drawing board strewn with papers to the right of the desk. Osborne took a step toward it, but Wheaton, quicker than anticipated, intercepted him.
“I told you I don’t know anything. Now just fuck off out of here!”
Osborne swiveled and delivered an uppercut to the liver that left the man speechless. He took advantage of this to glance at the plans: a luxury hotel, restaurants, a casino, beach bungalows, a riding club, tennis courts, an elaborate swimming pool, a palm-lined promenade, a small marina, thermal baths. There was even a planned extension, to be used for tertiary activities: now he knew why the golf course he had glimpsed was so close to the site.
Wheaton was still huddled over the desk, grimacing with pain, the breath slowly coming back to him.
Osborne left the hut.
A cloud of acrid dust was rising over the hill. The explosion had left a massive crater. The workers were now running over its eviscerated sides, closely followed by bulldozers, diggers, and dump trucks. The demolition experts stood back, gauging the damage. Clearly pleased, they took off their hard hats and inspected their plans.
The ridges of the hill were carpeted with bright-green grass. Osborne’s heart beat faster when he realized that the sides were terraced, and recognized the typical form of a pa: a fortified Maori village.
They were dynamiting what had once been Maori villages.
* * *
