by Rod Helmers
“That’s great, Marc. Really great.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, Marc. I know I don’t always give you the credit you deserve. I just get so wrapped up in the details.”
“I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me, babe.”
“Sorry. Wrong time of the month. When does he start?”
“He’s started.”
“Really?”
“I told him we need him right now. I leased him a condo by the causeway for six months. In two weeks I’ll have him believing that he’s indispensable.”
“You’re amazing.”
“So I’ve been told. I’m still pissed about my fifty grand.”
“She came through for us, didn’t she?”
“It just pisses me off. Cash. That’s my money, you know.”
“Big picture, Marc. Big picture.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Big picture.”
“What’s your timetable?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’m guessing that in two or three months Simple Sam will think he’s capable of replacing yours truly. No, in two or three months I’ll have him thinking he can do a far better job than yours truly. I guarantee it.”
“I’m sure he will.”
“In the meantime, I told the Director of Finance and Investments that I anticipate settling our dispute with the Department of Insurance, and instructed him to liquidate all of our high risk assets within three months. I told him to put the proceeds in the money market accounts, and we will redeploy the cash after the final terms of the settlement agreement are in place.”
“Every time I begin to doubt you, you surprise me, Marc.”
“I keep telling you, I have it all under control. Don’t worry about a thing on this end, babe. Have you done your research on the wire transfer thing?”
“I know what I’m doing.” Elizabeth responded coolly.
“What the hell is a Myanmar? It sounds like some sort of candy bar.”
“That’s a Mallomar. Myanmar used to be Burma.”
“What’s wrong with a good old fashioned Swiss numbered account? That’s what they do in the movies.”
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a good old fashioned federal prison?”
“Quit talking about god-damned prison. It makes me nervous.”
“Good, I feel better when you’re nervous.”
“Good for you. Do you know what would make me feel better?”
“We have to be really careful now, Marc.”
“You expect me to be careful for three fucking months? There is no way. My balls are like rocks. And I always seem to confide in the women I sleep with. My therapist says it’s because my mother never showed me any affection. Isn’t that screwed up?”
“I’ll try to work something out.”
“We’ll work something out all right. I gotta go. I’ve got a company to run, you know.”
Dr. Bob often drank at the Green Parrot. A blue-collar dive near his apartment. And he always drank there alone. It was where he went to think. He thought as he walked there. He thought the whole time he sat on the bar stool with the torn vinyl in the corner. And he thought on the walk home. If he hadn’t always ordered the same thing - a tequila rocks - he wouldn’t have remembered what sat in front of him. And he certainly wouldn’t have remembered who sat next to him. But this night would be different. As he started to leave, the man next to him offered to pay.
“Please put his bill on my tab.”
Bob looked over at the man who appeared to be in his late thirties or early forties. He was dressed in black. He was neither large in stature nor heft, but was well sculpted and muscular. The man carried a confident air. Like he knew something you didn’t.
“I’m straight, dude.”
“I know that, Dr. Bob.”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s my job to know things.”
“Okay. I’ll bite. What’s your job?”
“I’m a recruiter. I recruit people.”
“Like a headhunter.”
“I guess you could say that. I prefer recruiter.”
“Whom do you recruit for?” Dr. Bob asked with an exaggerated British accent.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“That must make the recruiting thing quite difficult indeed.” Dr. Bob continued with the patrician inflections of English nobility.
“It’s complicated, but the people I recruit are exceptionally bright. Like yourself. I’ve seen your work. It’s remarkable. I know people who could benefit greatly from your skills, and would compensate you accordingly. And the work is fascinating. Quite unlike your present position.”
“What kind of work?”
“Programming. Very advanced algorithms. Have you ever heard of biodynotics?”
“Have you ever heard of the far side?”
“Perhaps.”
“Man, you guys were all pissed when I hacked those old DOD files. You threatened to prosecute and put me in prison for five to ten.”
“Not my doing. Small minds. I specialize in big minds. Big, beautiful, inquisitive minds.”
“Listen, dude, I’m not into war. I’m a peace-loving kind of guy.”
“What has been the goal of every war this nation has fought?”
“I know. Peace.”
“And why do we prepare for war?’
“I know Latin. You don’t need to dumb it down. Parabellum. If you seek peace, prepare for war. Look. I’ve heard these arguments before. I’m sorry, dude, but I’m really not interested.”
“I don’t believe in high pressure salesmanship, Dr. Bob. I’ve found that it is counterproductive in my line of work. And I’m usually at a severe disadvantage if I attempt to debate my potential recruits. Please accept my card. Should you ever need anything, anything at all, please contact me. Our capabilities are truly unlimited in scope.”
Dr. Bob looked down at the card. It was unlike any card he’d ever seen. It was printed on thick, high quality stock and laminated, but contained only a telephone number and an e-mail address. As Dr. Bob looked up, he found that the man had already left.
Sandi had arisen before dawn to bring five springing heifers into the maternity ward. The fall “springers” and their calves would soon be moved to leased pastures in southern New Mexico. The calves would be wild but ready to graze and grow when they returned to the new green grass of the high country the following spring. After taking Dustin down to the bus and grabbing a quick shower, she stopped by the ranch house and strode purposefully in the door with a huge plastic to go cup in her hand.
“I guess that mobile caffeine delivery system means you don’t have time to sit down,” Rodger Rimes commented as she entered the door.
“Sorry, Dad. I’m running late. There are five new heifers in the maternity ward. Can you check on them later?”
“Sure, honey. What’s the big rush?”
“Stuff at work,” Sandi replied as she filled the big mug.
“Sam took the job?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“You okay with that?”
“Guess so,” Sandi answered tersely as she headed for the door.
“Don’t you want something to eat? Breakfast is almost ready.” Betty Rimes shouted after her.
The front door was wide open, and only the screen door was closed to keep out the black flies that descended on the valley before winter. Sandi stepped onto the porch and let the screen door noisily slap shut behind her. Then brought her nose up to the tiny metal squares. Her mouth began to water as the wonderful smells of warm tortillas and chorizo wafted past. She thought about Busta, her dad’s lab retriever, and the way he drooled each morning as he waited for his bowl of food. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned and yelled over her shoulder. “Thanks anyway, Mom. Gotta go.”
The smell of the spicy sausage was still in her nostrils a few minutes later as her truck left the bumpy ranch road, and the mud grip tires began their high speed whine
on the highway. As coffee sloshed around her empty stomach and country music blared on the radio, Sandi began to regret her decision to skip breakfast. As she brought the truck to a stop at the lone traffic light in San Luis, her mental grumblings moved lower and became quite vocal.
PART 2
SPRING 2008
CHAPTER 15
Elmer Winfield Tillis, Jr., didn’t like his name. Neither did his father, who had early on adopted the nickname “T-Bone” - his favorite food and what he had eaten nearly every day of his adult life. T-Bone had grown up on the family ranch outside Orlando. The bounty of the land supplied the table, but not to his satisfaction. His parents were thrifty and sold all of the expensive beef cattle they raised for cash money. T-Bone changed that when he took over.
Cattle ranching had always been a huge part of the economy in central and north Florida, especially before the advent of frozen orange juice in the 1940s. Even after much of central Florida was planted in citrus, T-Bone stuck to what he knew. And then something funny happened in the 1960s. T-Bone’s neighbors began getting very good unsolicited offers for their groves and ranches.
The offers were from different out-of-town parties, but the parcels were concentrated geographically near T-Bone’s place. Most of his neighbors eventually sold, but T-Bone smelled a rat - or at least a mouse. And he was stubborn. Eventually the prospective purchaser gave up on T-Bone and announced its plans. Suddenly the Tillis family was wealthy. T-Bone had struck oil, but never drilled an inch. He owned nearly 3,000 acres surrounded by Disney World.
T-Bone lived until the ripe old age of ninety-one, when he died an unnatural death in Key West. The tour bus chartered by The Florida Cattlemen’s Association had turned on its side and slid down an embankment after attempting to avoid a chicken crazily running around in circles in the middle of Highway A1A.
T-Bone’s only son gave the eulogy at his funeral. He told how T-Bone had once figured out how many cattle had given their lives to produce the steaks he had consumed during his lifetime. It was a lot. Everybody said all that beef would kill him. That a heart attack was just around the corner. Turns out it was a chicken. A single chicken had accomplished what several hundred cattle could not. The moral of the eulogy was to enjoy life, because we’re usually done in by something we never even see coming.
It was odd then, given his dislike of his given name, that T-Bone named his only son Elmer Winfield Tillis, Jr. But he did. And he called him Elmer. Elmer was fascinated by airplanes and flight. When he was fourteen, T-Bone traded a side of beef for three months of flying lessons. Elmer was a natural. He received his single engine VFR ticket at the earliest permissible age of sixteen. By the time he graduated high school, he’d already acquired multi-engine and instrument ratings.
After high school, Elmer told his girlfriend, who called him Winfield, goodbye, and joined the Marines. He became an aviator with the rank of Warrant Officer and went to Vietnam. Lots of close calls, but he always returned with the proverbial shit-eating grin on his face. There they just called him “Tillis”, and that’s what stuck. No first name - just plain “Tillis”. He had left home a fifth generation Florida cracker, but returned home an heir to a fortune. That’s when Tillis realized he was just plain lucky.
Tillis had read that early in the twentieth century, Howard Hughes’ father had invented a new and vastly improved drill bit for oilrigs. Because the bit was in such high demand, and because no one else could make one due to patent protection, he decided to lease the bits instead of sell them. The customers had no choice, and a fortune was made.
Tillis knew everybody wanted their land and they sure weren’t making any more of it, so it seemed the idea applied. He talked T-Bone into long-term leases of fifty years with a provision to update lease payments to market every ten years, and a huge and growing income stream was established. And they still owned the land. Except for five hundred acres, which was swapped in a tax-free exchange for a 25,000-acre plantation near Thomasville, Georgia, about forty miles north of Tallahassee.
T-Bone decided that with the family finances assured, it was time for Tillis to get a college degree. It would be a first in the family line. He was sent off to The University of Florida at Gainesville with instructions to get a business degree. While Tillis was most often in search of carnal knowledge, he did display a natural aptitude for the intricacies of finance. But he was best known to professor and student alike as a generous and popular host. Many alumni would harbor fond memories associated with a Tillis kegger.
As his fun-filled years as an undergraduate came to an end, Tillis decided he might just stay a few more years and get a law degree. But purely for defensive purposes. This caused T-Bone a great deal of consternation because he truly despised lawyers. Since it was understood that Tillis would never actually “be” a lawyer, a large contribution was made to the Agricultural College in T-Bone’s name. Despite its initial period of ambivalence, UF reconsidered and invited Tillis to continue his leisurely stroll through the hallowed halls of academe.
In 1967 the Florida Legislature created The Bureau of Law Enforcement, which was renamed The Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE) a few years later. It was essentially a combined FBI and Secret Service at the state level, and coordinated federal and local law enforcement. A major part of its charter was to investigate serious fraud and economic crimes.
Tillis heard about the FDLE as he neared law school graduation, and knew it was for him. He enjoyed his time as a student, but missed the excitement of his former military life. This new organization seemed as if it might make use of all of his talents, and he wouldn’t have to leave his beloved home state.
T-Bone especially liked the idea of his son chasing down white-collar criminals, which might well include some lawyers. T-Bone had become a major statewide political contributor, and the Governor returned his call in prompt fashion. The Governor was told about a perfect recruit for his relatively new organization, and Tillis was soon invited by the Commissioner of the FDLE to submit his application. The Commissioner warned him that the salary probably wouldn’t touch what he could make in the private sector, but Tillis didn’t care. Immediately upon graduation with no honors, he joined the FDLE as a Special Agent.
Several years later Tillis acquired the nickname “Could’ve-Been”, although it was never spoken within his earshot. He had excelled as a Special Agent. He knew the law and understood finance. But most importantly, he had the knack. He had the instincts. When offered a Special Agent in Charge position, Tillis turned it down. After T-Bone backed a dark horse for governor who won, Tillis was offered the Commissioner’s position. He passed. T-Bone gave a boatload of money to the unsuccessful Reagan quest for the Republican nomination in 1976, and to his successful run for the presidency in 1980, and Tillis was offered an assistant directorship of the FBI. Tillis politely demurred.
Tillis liked what he did and derived a great deal of satisfaction from his work. He had no interest in becoming an administrator, regardless of the rank. He didn’t need the money and he didn’t have an ego that required stroking. If power was about doing exactly what you want to do, then Tillis was a powerful man. He just lacked a title that reflected it.
Tillis brought the King-Air in low over Longleaf Plantation and executed a shallow left hand banking turn to line up for a straight-in approach to the small private airport just outside the city limits of Thomasville, Georgia. He was looking forward to a relaxing long weekend, a well-marbled steak, and a nice bottle of wine. As the King-Air tires chirped, Tillis looked out upon several privately owned jets. Heirs to the private rail cars that once brought wealthy industrialists from cold winter environs to their plantations in the South.
In the nineteenth century, Thomasville was literally the end of the line - the rail line. That fact combined with the gorgeous terrain of rolling hills and heavily forested and well-watered valleys conspired to make a Thomasville plantation a necessary acquisition for any proper capitalist baron of the day. The abun
dance of bobwhite quail gave rise to a gentlemen’s sport with all the rules of etiquette of a foxhunt in Old England.
Tillis did not look upon the jets with envy. He was a traditionalist, and preferred propellers. But nostalgia had its limits, even for Tillis. The King-Air was a turbo prop - the propellers weren’t powered by finicky and unreliable piston powered engines, but by jet turbines. This allowed for reverse thrust upon landing - the propellers could be brought to a prompt stop and their rotation quickly reversed as the wheels touched pavement, bringing the aircraft to an alarmingly sudden halt when necessary. His King-Air was also the overpowered short version, enabling the plane to leave the runway after traveling only a few hundred feet. All this meant that Tillis could land and take off from short Florida airstrips that the pilot of a jet could never dream of utilizing.
After taxing to his hangar and shutting down the aircraft, Tillis dialed in the numbers on the combination lock and shoved the heavy hanger door aside, revealing a showroom new 1968 convertible Camaro SS. Although the vehicle appeared stock, it had been updated with all of the technological improvements of the past forty years. The top had been left down, and he quickly filled the small backseat with five moving boxes containing subpoenaed records on a case he was working, and fired up the 396 cubic inch power plant.
Although Tillis owned a penthouse condo in centrally located Orlando, which had been stylishly decorated by a former girlfriend and well-known interior designer, he considered Longleaf Plantation home. The property was named after the slow growing but rock hard longleaf pine that had once blanketed the region. The majestic tree was nearly harvested out of existence during the 1800s, but the founder of Longleaf had replanted much of the acreage and the towering pines were now fully matured. The same owner had built the one-hundred year old stone “cottage” that enclosed nearly six thousand square feet of living space, all of which had been renovated with careful attention to the original plans and period detail.
