Mr. Kennedy said. He was a large man whose belly lipped over his belt. He wore a broad-brimmed western hat, and his white duck suit was soaked with sweat. “Too grasping.” He clenched a fist to illustrate his point. “Money, always money. I’m sticking out my neck to sell you these planes, Mr. Cohen. Suppose you take them out of the country. That’s against the law. I been reading up on the law. I had a dream and God said, ‘Sell them the planes.’ Only I was awake. My wife testifies to that. She says there I was sitting bolt upright in bed with my eyes wide open—bug-eyed. So I say it’s the word of God. But God respects a man’s right to do business as he sees fit, as long as he don’t skin his customers. And I ain’t skinning you. Taking a fair profit, but that ain’t skinning. Do you know what one of them planes costs new?” They were sitting under the tin awning in front of Kennedy’s building supply store, with the desert in front of them undulating in the heat.
