by Jan Smolders
“Doesn’t headquarters ask you these questions? Don’t they want the logs?” Frank asked. “Haven’t they insisted?”
The dismissiveness on Doyle’s face made it clear that this was none of Frank’s business. “They’re fully briefed.”
“By you. Just you. Bamboozled by you. Bribed? Blackmailed?” Vince mocked him scornfully.
“You? You too, Davis? You’ll pay dearly for this,” Doyle fumed.
The door to the sitting room opened briefly, then closed again.
An eerie silence enveloped the limited space of the hallway. It made even the vacant, imposing antique hall tree appear uneasy, standing solemnly. Then, a torrent of anger and vitriol overtook the place, as Doyle shrieked, “Out or I get my gun!”
“Let’s go.” Mary already had her hand on the door knob. “Good night, Mr. Doyle. Please say hello to Edith.”
In the car on their way to Mary’s place Vince, from the back seat, stuck his head between her shoulders and Frank’s. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Doyle keeps accusing Joe, his own man. Trying anyway. That’s accusing Supren. He’s cutting off his nose to spite his face. Crazy.”
“Not if he wants to spite his face,” Frank laughed.
“What?” Mary and Vince asked in chorus. “Hurt Supren? Not crazy?”
“Not if he wants to spite his face.” Frank had gone for a chortle as he repeated his sentence.
“Are you serious, Frank? Why would he?” Mary was perplexed and looked back at Vince.
Frank said, “All we know is that he did. But why? Beats me. I just have some wild idea. Too wild, maybe. I joke a lot. I like joking. Playing games.” He started laughing loudly.
“Like when you said you knew the names of the Vietnamese woman and her boyfriend?” Vince asked.
Frank looked in the rearview mirror. “You could say that, but most of what I said was true. I just used some opportune extrapolation. I know it’s a little risky,” he added as he made a left turn onto Maple Road.
Mary frowned, silent.
Frank hurried to the front door, ahead of Mary and Vince, who had started a discussion outside the Explorer as they stepped out of the vehicle.
Joanna embraced Frank passionately and kissed him. “Thank God! You’re back safely!”
Mary noticed tears in Vince’s eyes.
“I’m losing my job, Mary, but I’m so happy,” the young man said, his lips trembling. “Susan and me, we’re a happy couple again.” He wiped his cheeks and stepped into his SUV.
“Give her my best, Vince. And take good care of her.” Mary waved as he drove off.
Chapter 33
On Monday morning around seven, Frank prepared his cereal, skim milk and blueberry breakfast and sat down on his bar stool. With his elbow on the granite kitchen counter, chin resting in hand, he combined spooning with thinking.
When he had dropped off Joanna at her place around ten-thirty last night and wished her sweet dreams, she had said softly, “You too, darling. Dream about me all you want.” She had tapped her index on his cheek and quipped, “But not about that stunning Galinda, remember?”
He had shaken his head vigorously and laughed, recalling their ‘tembleque” conversation a week ago—and how it had ended delightfully in her bed.
“Galinda,” he had said to himself when he arrived at home.
He had googled the name before, as soon as Mary had mentioned it to him. A long time ago. The web had told him Galinda was an actual girl’s name.
Today he had woken up around three and tossed and turned until daybreak. Restless. Last night at Mike’s he had bluffed about knowing the name of the Vietnamese, and it had worked. A little later, on the way back to Mary’s, he had gone out on a limb, another one. Long and thin, this one, he now realized: he had blurted out his provocative “if he wants to spite his face” about Doyle without much thought behind it.
Had he joked too expeditiously? Actually, the words had exited his mouth spontaneously, because his mind was simply working overtime and convoluted. It was dealing with too many thoughts, assumptions and ideas simultaneously.
But something had put him on that strange track: Galinda, the word that kept popping up on his mental screen since his tembleque night with Joanna.
“Galinda” had stubbornly clung to him from the day he first heard the name, but now it reappeared again and again in vivid colors on his screen. Joanna had reignited its flame when she wished him good night yesterday: “No dreaming about Galinda!”
Galinda. He had often wondered who the man was at the other end of the line when Doyle had his roaring “Galinda” discussion. A “Jim,” Joanna had said. She and Joe had partially and unwittingly overheard it. “Jim.” From what Joanna had told Frank about the relaxed timbre and the wording of the conversation, the man had to have been an old buddy of Doyle’s. But the latter had reacted with swift and inexplicable anger against poor Joanna because she had had the nerve to knock on his door during his loud, friendly conversation. Why was Doyle so irrationally upset about that innocent knock?
Frank recalled that Mary had told him about another instance when Doyle reacted brutally without real provocation: when Edith spoke of Jim Duncan from Lumberton on the steps of the Chamber building. Doyle had rudely admonished his wife in Spanish. He apparently thought that Noredge people wouldn’t understand him, and likely never imagined the possibility that Mary spoke fluent Spanish. Or he was simply too angry to control himself.
Doyle had seemed overly sensitive, twice, about his connection to a person named Jim. Could that Galinda man have been Jim Duncan? The Viola boss? Was the fracking world that small? Was this Jim Duncan the same man who, during Frank’s job interview at Viola, had acted as if he didn’t know Mike Doyle, although for some reason Frank always had thought Doyle had worked for the man at one time?
Did Jim Duncan lie to me? Why?
Half-way through his meal, Frank got up, opened up his iPad, went to the Google site and typed “Galinda Jim Duncan” into the box. Hundreds of articles and sites popped up featuring Galindas and Duncans galore, but no connection between them. He tried “Galinda James Duncan.” Apparently no romance between Jim or James Duncan and a beautiful Galinda ever made it onto the web. Why would it anyway, a trivial affair? He gave the Mike Doyle-Galinda connection a try, with little conviction. No success. He gave up.
The clock said ten and he told himself he was a fool for wasting a beautiful morning. He looked in the mirror, rubbed his stubble and decided to go for a jog out east on McKinley.
He couldn’t get his thoughts off Doyle. As he ran faster and faster, anger spurring him on, the townhouses and then the luxurious residences flew by him unnoticed and at shorter intervals. His absentmindedness cost him a slightly twisted ankle because he failed to notice a sudden dip in the sidewalk. By the end of his run he had thought things through: Joe and Mary’s suffering—physical, emotional and financial; Noredge; Carrollton. Frank was convinced they weren’t accidents. “They’re damn crimes. Not serendipity. Crimes. Mike’s,” he mumbled while breathing heavily. “Too much points in that man’s direction.” But why? Someone tell me why….
Who could answer the question? Who would? Who was hiding the truth? Hiding something? The man who had probably lied to Frank in Houston? Duncan? The man Doyle didn’t want to be heard associating with, Duncan?
Frank decided he would fly to Houston to see Viola and get himself an audience with Duncan. It certainly wasn’t a foregone conclusion that he’d make it into the man’s corner office again, but he bet on Yolanda, the sophisticated receptionist in the Viola lobby. She had shown keen interest, twice, in chatting with him when he went to meet Duncan late July. I bet she might just find a way to sneak me in, he chuckled inside. She’ll have to. After all, Viola’s big honcho had shown real interest in him for Colombia. Frank would express his continued interest in the job. “Despite an offer from
another major company,” he would tell Duncan with a straight face.
He would also drop in at Supren, a short taxi ride from Viola, and express his concerns about the goings on in Noredge and Carrollton and, last but not least, his loss of severance. It wouldn’t be easy, though, to get into the right offices at Supren: he was a fired employee. That wasn’t the exact legal term, but it was reality.
He had barely toweled off after his shower when his phone rang.
“We’re going to Houston,” Vince said, snickering. “Tonight.”
“We? Tonight?” Frank was puzzled.
“Doyle and me. Supren woke up, I guess. About time. No, too damn late. I don’t know whether I can stand being in the same room as that guy,” Vince quipped.
“Did he ask for the meeting?”
“Are you kidding me? He hates their guts, and vice-versa I’m sure.”
“Great! Good luck, buddy. I wish I could be a fly on the wall. Enjoy!” Frank’s pulse rate had doubled. I’m not going to be in that room, but I’ll make sure I won’t be far away. One way or another he would get a few words in at Supren, whether they wanted to hear them or not. And he would see Jim Duncan, welcome or not. He’d fly to Houston tomorrow. No, tonight. Whatever the hotel bill is. He called Viola and asked for Yolanda Turner.
“She’ll be in at two-thirty. Do you want her voicemail?” the operator asked.
Shit. “No, thanks. Could you just tell her…no, no message.” He didn’t feel he could ask for Miss Turner’s cell phone. It would be a long wait until three-thirty Eastern.
At three-forty he got through to Yolanda. He helped her remember who he was, an easy task. “The guy from Ohio” description wasn’t even needed. He told her he would appreciate a few minutes with Mr. Duncan.
“And it has to be tomorrow, Mr. Anderson?” She sounded disappointed.
“If at all possible, Yolanda.”
“I’m so sorry, but Mr. Duncan is traveling. How about next week? It would be great to see you again here.”
“Can’t do, Yolanda. I should see him tomorrow. In person.” He lowered his voice. “My future at Viola may depend on it.”
“Oh my God! We do want your friendly smile here, Mr. Anderson.”
“Thank you, Yolanda.” He sighed loudly and waited, mentally directing his energy at her through the phone.
She broke the silence, her voice a mere whisper. “Listen, I’m not supposed to do this, but I know you’ll treat this information discretely.” She paused.
“Of course, Yolanda.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Duncan are at the Greenbrier. You know that chic place in West Virginia? They’re attending a working session of Interoga, the worldwide association of oil and gas companies. They’ll fly home on Saturday. Please don’t tell anybody I gave you this information.”
“My lips are sealed. Count on me. I know that association. Actually, I now remember reading that the Interoga meeting was going to take place this week. Mr. Duncan won’t be surprised that I try to find him there. Thanks again for telling me he’s attending.”
“I’m so glad I could be of some help to you.”
“I won’t forget your kindness, Yolanda. Hasta la vista.”
He hung up and called Mary on her cell. “Our Galinda-boy is at the Greenbrier til Saturday morning. I’m going to catch him.”
“Doyle?” She turned the radio down.
“Duncan. We should leave tomorrow morning. Early.”
“We? Duncan?”
“Yes and yes. You’re Mike’s number-one victim. You suffer from polluted water as we all do, but you’ve also been fired and almost lost your husband. You’ve been threatened by Mike, can’t pay your mortgage because of him. And I forgot the bullying your kids have to endure. I need you there when I smack Duncan in the face with the truth. Make him hear and see what Mike has wrought, with his help, I think.”
“Hmm. I see….”
He pictured her rubbing her chin.
He pushed a little harder. “Jim Duncan told me in Houston, in July, that he didn’t know Mike. You remember you told me about Doyle’s ‘cállate’ bark to his poor wife, right? Mike didn’t want the name Jim Duncan uttered, correct? Jim. That’s one. Then the Galinda discussion Joe and Joanna overheard. Mike was furious about it. Because it was Duncan at the other end of the line? It was a person named Jim. See? Both Mike Doyle and Jim Duncan act as if they don’t know each other. But I bet that they do and that the Galinda guy was Duncan. I’m going to confirm it.”
“And then?”
“Then we’ll…there must be a reason why they’ve been lying. We’re going to find out what it is. ‘It’ may be something ugly.”
“And you think—”
He pictured her deep frown and her glance at Joe, whose cough he had heard. “The same as you, I bet. That ‘it’ may explain Doyle’s strange behavior.”
“‘Strange?’ Does he deserve that euphemism?”
Frank understood the lack of conviction in her voice and her feelings about making up a story for her absence from school. “I smell success, Mary. But I need you there.”
“Jimmy and Andy—”
“Call before school hours and leave a message. Say you must urgently visit a very ill relative in West Virginia.” He laughed. “We’ll need four to five hours each way. Shall we leave at six? Before the kids can ask questions?”
“The school…they may find out I’m lying.”
“Why worry about them? You’ve already been—”
“Fired.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t immediately find a less bitter word.
“Joe—”
“You want me to talk to him first?”
“He heard you. He’s nodding and laughing. And making a big fist.”
Chapter 34
Mary and Frank had barely gotten out of her driveway Tuesday morning when she was overcome by guilt. “I may have ruined it all, for my entire family,” she lamented, sobbing. “Who knows how Supren will treat Joe once he’s more or less recovered? If the way they deal with me on medical bills is any indication, I don’t see much hope. In a few days I’ll see my last paycheck and then we may soon end up on welfare.” She took another tissue and blew her nose. “Sorry, Frank. I must tell somebody.”
“No problem, Mary. Believe me, this is not the end of our story with Supren. We still may come out victorious and the Chamber and the mayor red-cheeked. That’s why we’re headed to White Sulphur Springs. Greenbrier here we come!” He raised a fist and smiled encouragingly at Mary.
“But most of Supren’s big bosses are in Houston.”
He shot her a jovial nod. “We’ll get to them too. Later. They might not be as bad as we think. Mike has tried to bamboozle them, kept them in the dark about the disasters he’s created for us. But right now, he’s in Houston with Vince. The chickens are coming home to roost. You might get a courteous call from Supren. With apologies.” He tapped her on the shoulder. “And then from the school board! Then the mayor. We may see them falling like dominoes!” He offered her a little plastic box. “Care for a mint?’
“Thanks. You’re trying hard to make me feel better, Frank. I hope you’re at least half-right. I have to scrape by on the few thousand dollars we have in the bank. My property has lost at least twenty percent, compliments of Supren, but my mortgage hasn’t dropped.” She laughed scornfully.
“Banks like fracking money, but don’t want to hear about shrinking home and land prices.”
“Andy needs new soccer shoes. He’s growing like a weed. I had to tell him to wait. I may ask a friend for a hand-me-down.” She sighed.
“He’s becoming quite a guy. Good kid. Jimmy too. You can be proud.” Frank spoke firmly, nodding.
“They are.”
His words were encouragement for Mary. The real thing. Her boys were her pride. That was a fact—not so
me dream in the future that needed a carefully phrased description prefaced by lots of contingencies. This, the boys, was now. This she had. This kept her marching.
They took a break in the Parkersburg area, over half way on Interstate 77. Fresh autumn air welcomed them on their way from the car to the McDonald’s entrance. Once they opened the door, grease and detergent odors took over.
“We’ll hit Charleston pretty soon. Then Interstate 64, less than an hour of it,” Frank explained as he attacked his Quarter Pounder.
Mary nodded. “And then? How are you going to find Mr. Duncan?”
“One way or another, Mary. Easy. I remember him from Houston. Tall, more than rotund, bald, sixtyish.”
She laughed. “Easy? I bet eighty percent of the men at the Greenbrier this time of the year fit that description!”
“Okay, but he looks exceptionally…sixtyish.”
“That’ll do it,” she said without batting an eye.
Frank had an incoming call. “Oh, you? Vince?” He switched to conference. “Mary’s with me.”
“Guess what? Doyle’s a no-show. No message. Houston guys are asking me. How would I know? You seen him?” The young man panted heavily.
“Nope.”
“Thanks, got to go. Sorry.”
“Understand. Take care, buddy.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Doyle chickened out.”
Frank snickered. “If Vince knew where we’re headed….”
A few minutes before noon the majestic main building of the Greenbrier appeared. Massive, white. The awe-inspiring structure kept Mary and Frank silent as they drove up the long, flowerbed-lined stretch from Main Street to the entrance.
“Pictures don’t do it justice,” she marveled after a while. She had seen it on postcards.
“Almost a hundred years she’s been around in this shape, the grand dame,” Frank said.
“So much history!”
Joe had googled the Greenbrier last night. “An old thing,” he had told Mary. “They say it’s been around since 1778. I wonder how many times it’s burnt down. Seven hundred rooms and twenty restaurants. You might get lost.”
