held her hand over the phone. She returned to the phone. “Don’s up, I’ll call you back in an hour.” A short pause allowed the other caller to finish her remarks. “OK. You too. Bye.” She returned the phone to its holder and reached for the coffee pot. “How about some scrambled eggs and bacon? They’re already made.”
Over Don’s breakfast and Susie’s third cup of coffee, they sat on the porch discussing familial topics first and then the oil extractor project. The early morning sun cast Susie’s hair prettier than a reddish Georgia peach.
“Tom’s genuinely excited about it.” Susie took a quick sip. “He said your ideas and the basic system are good. He wants to see how well it works in the field.” With a slight twinkle in her eye, she continued. “Of course, you know Tom. He’s already talking about tweaking it here and there. After we went to bed, he got up and went to his office to start on his magic act.”
Don pushed his chair back and stretched his legs beneath the table. A wry smiled formed on his lips. “He’s one hell of a man.”
She answered. “He is. He really is.” She turned serious, adding, “But you also ought to know that he may be more impressed with you than you are with him.”
Her remark caught him off guard. Bouncing his abject failures in high school, his numerous stints in small town Texas and California jails, and a youth consumed in drinking more than his body could handle, Don felt inadequate in responding to her comment. He swallowed hard and let it go, not even giving himself credit for eventually serving in the US Navy and later graduating from Texas A&M as a civil engineer.
Susie patted him on the arm, breaking the unexpected emotional surge enveloping him. He blinked away forming moisture.
“He’ll be back later this afternoon. He can’t wait to work some more.” She got up and took Don’s plate. “He left some notes for you on the drafting table. Said they would be the starting point for your work tonight. How about another cup of coffee?”
Tom crested the pine trees at a steep angle, the J-3 partially hidden by the sinking winter sun. He dropped first, then abruptly lifted the right wing and gunned the engine, flying diagonally across the grassy runway at no more than ten feet. Fifty feet away from Don, Tom gunned the engine again and pulled hard. The Cub responded, arcing up at a forty-five-degree angle directly over Don’s head. Don smiled and waved a can of beer toward the sky. Five minutes later Tom returned the plane to the hangar, grabbed a couple of beers, and made his way to the pond. Another warm winter day graced the countryside.
“They still biting?” asked Tom as he popped the top of a can of beer and handed it to Don. He grabbed a pole and sat down on the bench next to his younger brother.
“Caught a couple of eaters but didn’t have the heart to do them in. The day’s too nice to kill catfish.”
The bobber jerked, then disappeared beneath the water. “Hot damn. Here we go.” Don yanked the rod up briskly, hooking into another eater. The catfish fought heroically, but couldn’t throw the hook.
“Give me your beer.” Tom laughed at the sight of Don refusing to give up on either the fish or the beer.
Don relinquished the can, exclaiming out loud, “Sucker’s a five-pounder if he’s an ounce. Hang on.” Good news for the fish; on this day his captor would give him a pardon. Don removed the catfish from the hook, held it up for one last look, and kissed the fish’s open mouth before tossing him back in the pond.
Both men leaned back and relaxed.
Tom thought out loud. “I wonder what Jack’s life would have turned out to be?”
Over forty years had passed since Jack, the middle brother of the Seiler family, died in a rice paddy near the hamlet of Vo Dat, Vietnam. Over the years Tom and Don kept him alive through story after story. Tom’s question had been asked hundreds of times before. Over the years the questions had changed from ones of anger to ones of nostalgia.
“He’d be sitting right here with us. Probably would’ve caught the biggest fish in the pond.” Rapid flashbacks of time spent with Jack danced through Don’s mind. A particular scene of Jack at age eleven and Don at age three playing football—with a sock for the football—in the front yard came to mind. Jack was always Princeton and Don would be assigned team names of Georgia, Duke, Army, and Texas. Of course, Don never won. His attention returned to the pond and the time of day. “But since I already got the big one, guess we can call it a day.”
Heading back to the office, Tom and Don reminisced over a few more stories.
Tom and Don parked the golf cart at Tom’s office. Inside, two work desks, one for Tom and one for Susie, occupied the middle and back of the office. Beige filing cabinets, holding folders for almost three thousand cases, lined an entire wall butting the garage. Two drafting tables stood side by side between built-in bookshelves housing reference books. Aircraft pictures hung from the other walls. A model of train engine #65776 from the famous Missouri–Kansas–Texas railroad, the Katy line, sat on the window ledge. One hundred feet away an actual caboose, renovated for the pure enjoyment of grandchildren, rested quietly in front of some pine trees.
While Tom pulled a second stool to one of the drafting tables, Don spoke. “Tom, what I need from you is good advice. I don’t want to eat your lunch as far as time goes. Let’s go over this tonight and then I’m headed back tomorrow. Deal?” He pulled a folder full of drawings from his briefcase.
Tom replied. “Not no, but hell no. From what you’ve told me, you could be on the brink of something big. Not just for you and Elam, but for the entire oil industry.” He turned serious. “And I’ll tell you what else. It’s my American civic duty to eliminate our oil dependency on corrupt, scum-sucking, banana dictatorships. Read that as Hugo Chavez, et al.”
Shaking his head, Don laughed out loud. “Tell me how you really feel.” Then he turned serious. “But you’ve got—”
Tom interrupted, “I’ve got plenty of other work to do and I’ll do it. But this is more important than any case I’m working on.” He began rolling his sleeves up and turned to the folder. “We’ll work on this for the next two hours, then I’ll throw your ass out. Tomorrow we’ll do the same as today. After that you can head back to California and give me the weekend to tinker with it. That’s my final offer.” He finished rolling his right sleeve, cocked his head, and leaned toward Don to shake hands.
Tom’s argument was rock solid. Don reached back, grasping Tom’s hand. “It’s a deal.”
Eight
Thursday, New Year’s Eve
Houston, Texas
Elam pulled into the parking garage at the JP Morgan Chase Tower using the Travis Street entrance. He followed the directions received over the phone and on the third level found a reserved parking space with his name on it. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all. He crossed Travis Street, stopping only long enough to take a look at the fifty-five-foot steel and cast-bronze sculpture, “Personage and Birds.” The sculpture was not your run-of-the-mill nude; it was a collage of multicolored triangles, cylinders, and rods. Elam thought to himself, That looks stupid. He walked in the building.
A security officer noticed Elam staring at the elevators. “Good afternoon, sir. May I help you?” Eyeing the rugged, somewhat disheveled man peering up at him, the officer couldn’t help but think of directing him to the shelter on Chenevert Street. But he had seen his share of confused eccentrics walk into the JP Morgan Chase Tower, so he remained courteous and helpful.
“Sure can. Name’s Duquette. Elam Duquette. Got a three o’clock meeting with Mr. Miles.” Elam