by JF Freedman
Kate nods yes.
Laura stands. “I’m leaving town for a few weeks. I’m going to Rome, to stay with some friends. Mother and I agreed I needed to get away for a while, until this blows over. I’m leaving tomorrow,” she adds in a tone that carries self-guilt with it.
“That’s a good idea,” Kate agrees. Rome. Why didn’t she think of that herself?
“Will you be okay?” Laura asks solicitously. She’s itching to cut and run but she doesn’t want to appear impolite. “Is there anything you need?”
“No.”
“Well …” Laura lingers a moment at the door. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m back.”
“Fine. Great.”
“You were right. It’s over. I should have listened to you. You wouldn’t be …” She turns away, unable to look Kate in the eye as the full extent of her complicity suddenly comes clear to her.
“Yes.” She’s tired. Really tired.
Laura blinks. “Bye,” she finally manages to choke out. The door shuts silently. Kate closes her eyes.
It’s always big news when a spokesman from one of the oil companies calls a press conference in Santa Barbara. It usually means they want something to be changed, and for people in the community, particularly those in the environmental movement, it can only be change for the worse. That’s a given.
This press conference has an element of intrigue, because a new player is being introduced. According to the release put out by the local office of Rainier Oil, someone named Blake Hopkins is to be introduced to the community as the new manager of the company’s office here, the main office on the central coast. And along with this introduction there is going to be a surprise announcement of a new undertaking by his company.
An additional point of interest: the announcement is going to take place on the beach north of town, near the section of the Sparks property which was donated to the university and The Friends Of The Sea to establish their school of oceanography.
The beach is crowded: important environmental players, all five county supervisors, the local press. Standing slightly to the side are Miranda, Dorothy, and Frederick Sparks. Miranda looks especially fetching in a short-skirted dress that shows a lot of cleavage. Not many women around can dress like this without looking cheap; she’s one of the few.
Marty Pachinko sidles up to her. “So what’s going on here?” he wheedles, trying not to look at her protruding breasts.
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” she answers, smiling brightly. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”
“Don’t be so suspicious all the time, Marty,” Dorothy chides him. “Everybody has their good side.”
“I’ll believe that about an oil company when I see it.”
“Keep your eyes open, then,” Miranda says, turning her back on him.
Everyone seems to be in place. Miranda steps forward to the microphone. “Something nice is going to happen here today. Something very nice. So without further ado, I’m going to let Mr. Hopkins have the floor.”
She steps aside for Hopkins, smiling as he slides past her.
He nods to her, nothing more, then glances at Frederick, who’s blissfully checking out the situation. Poor bastard, Hopkins thinks. She’s a great lady, but I sure wouldn’t want to be married to her. What the hell; what you don’t know can’t hurt you, he guesses.
“This is an unusual place and an unusual way to introduce myself,” he begins. “My name is Blake Hopkins, and I’m the new project manager for Rainier Oil. I’ll be officially moving down here next month from San Francisco, where I’ve been working at company headquarters, so if anyone knows of a nice rental, preferably on the beach, please let me know. I love the beach here, it’s one of my favorites.”
He smiles, easily.
“There are a lot of changes happening in the oil business. Hopefully, changes for the better. Ways to improve on what it is that we as a multinational corporation have to do: to keep our company profitable, to make sure this country has an adequate supply of domestic oil, and also, perhaps most importantly for you folks here today, to constantly develop new technologies so we can mitigate the impact of oil production on the environment. What we are looking to do at Rainier Oil is to continually decrease the threats to the environment from what is an essential industry, not only in this country’s interest, but for the entire world.”
“This joker’s a better spin doctor than James Carville,” Marty Pachinko stage-whispers out of the side of his mouth to the woman standing next to him, another committed environmentalist and ally.
“In the near future I hope to address some of those issues,” Hopkins continues. “Today, I have something different I want to say. Something about which there will be, I would hope, no controversy.”
He turns and faces the Sparks family. “We applaud your generosity in granting a portion of this property to the university to build a world-class oceanography teaching facility here. It’s the type of wonderful philanthropy to one’s community that civic-minded people should, but rarely, do.”
“Thank you,” Miranda answers.
“Oil companies can be civic-minded, too,” Hopkins says. “I know that sounds strange to some of you, but it’s true.”
He stares out into the crowd. A majority of those here today take that exact position.
He loves it. He loves to come into a situation and turn people’s perceptions upside down.
“I’m here today to make a gift on behalf of the Rainier Oil Corporation. I am speaking for our board chairman, MacAllister Browne, whose idea this is. This project is something he feels strongly about, on a personal level.”
He pauses briefly. Everyone is waiting for the punch line.
“Rainier Oil is going to underwrite the construction of this facility,” Hopkins announces, his voice low, even, virtually emotionless.
There is a moment before what he’s said sinks in: then it hits them. The crowd is stunned, particularly the environmentalists, with Marty Pachinko, their spokesman, being the most astounded.
For a few seconds Marty is speechless; then he finds voice. “What’s your agenda?” he shouts out. “The real one, not the hidden one!”
“To improve the environment, the same as yours,” Hopkins answers.
“If you really want to improve the environment, pull your oil rigs out of our channel!” Pachinko fires back.
Miranda comes out of the blocks like she’s been shot out of a cannon.
“For godsakes, Marty, what is wrong with you?” she cries out to him, her voice trembling with indignation. “This company wants to give us a multi-million-dollar check to do something worthwhile. What is it, if an oil company wants to give us money it’s no good?”
“It’s blood money,” he answers hotly. “That’s why.” Even before the words are out he wishes he had kept his mouth shut. This could have been done a better way, less public. All of a sudden Rainier Oil is the good guy, and he’s the heavy?
“It is not blood money,” Miranda answers him, her voice aggrieved. “We don’t like what the oil companies have done here on the coast, either, but that’s history. This gift is now, and we’re taking it,” she states defiantly.
“Yeah, well, look how they got it,” Pachinko answers lamely.
Hopkins regains control. “We don’t apologize for what we do,” he says calmly. “Oil makes the world go round. We donate money to good causes,” he adds. “This is a good cause.” He pauses. “I’m sure this gesture comes as a shock to you,” Hopkins says, with the slightest touch of a smile. “You must have reacted without really hearing what I was saying; a common mistake people like you make about people like me,” he adds, his smile broadening a bit.
Pachinko starts to answer; then he catches himself. This isn’t a winning situation. He should shut up, for now at least.
“However,” Hopkins continues, “to answer your earlier challenge: we are, in fact, developing a plan that will eventually enable us to pull our rigs out of the channel.�
�
Pachinko can’t believe his ears. “What’s the catch?” he stammers.
Hopkins looks at him, still smiling enigmatically. “The catch. There’s always a catch, isn’t there?” Then he turns serious. “We have a plan. A plan, not a catch. Not some gimmick, or something dirty and underhanded. An idea, a concept, a philosophy. A plan. Which we will propose to this county when we have all the answers to the questions we’re currently raising amongst ourselves.” He turns to Miranda. “Please take this gift,” he asks her.
“We will,” she assures him.
The following day Miranda is swarmed by reporters from every newspaper, magazine, television, and radio station from Los Angeles to San Francisco. They all ask the same two questions:
Q: “Why is Rainier Oil doing this?”
A (Miranda): “I assume it is because they are a socially responsible corporation that wants to improve the quality of life in this area, especially since they’re intimately involved, with their long-term oil extractions.”
Q: “Are there any strings attached?”
A (Miranda): “No.”
She elaborates: “For a long time, but particularly since the Exxon Valdez tragedy, the oil companies have been looking for ways to boost their image, especially in the area of marine life and the management of the sea in general. They’ve made a lot of money out of our ocean, and I emphasize the word ‘our’—your ocean and mine. So this is a way of giving something back. They didn’t tell me that, but that’s my guess.”
She’s asked how long the grant negotiations have been in motion.
“Not long,” she replies. “They called me after we declared our intention and asked how they could get involved. It evolved from there very quickly. They were completely open and aboveboard—a pleasure to deal with.”
The broken ribs hurt like hell but Kate is up and walking, first from her bed to the toilet and back, then down the hall to the nurses’ station. The nurses smile at her, and she smiles back.
“Just don’t tell any jokes when I’m around,” she cautions.
They laugh at that. She bites her lip so she won’t.
She’s been in this hospital for three weeks. Tomorrow she will be discharged. She and Cecil talked about that two nights before, during his daily visit.
“Stay at my place,” he said. “You can’t take care of yourself,” he logically pointed out.
“I don’t want to be a burden on you, especially when it’s your busiest time of the year.” She hates being dependent on anyone, especially when she cares about them.
“You’re an ornery one,” he observed.
“It’s my nature.”
“Think about it.”
She did. She had an internal debate, and she tried to keep self-pity out of it. Part of her feels she would be weak by accepting his offer; another part thinks she’s growing up, that by receiving a gift she’ll be allowed to give one back.
When he returned the next night she had decided to take him up on his offer. She would stay a couple of days up there and see how it was.
There’s a knock at her door.
“Come in.” She’s sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, thumbing through The New Yorker, the afternoon sunlight through the sheer cotton curtains dappling her face and shoulders. Her eyes are clearer, the color is coming back into her face. Her shattered cheek and broken nose, however, are covered with a protective mask.
Miranda Sparks enters. “Hello,” she says.
“Hello.” Kate is surprised. She doesn’t get up.
“I apologize for not coming earlier.” Miranda stands just inside the door frame.
“I didn’t expect you to come at all. You certainly didn’t have to. Thank you for those,” she adds, looking at the bureau against the wall, upon which sits a large bouquet of fresh-cut flowers. A bouquet from Frederick and Miranda Sparks has arrived every other day.
“You saved my daughter’s life.”
Now Kate rises—stiffly. “Come in. Would you like some juice? There’s some in the refrigerator,” she says, pointing to a small cube box in the corner.
“No, thanks.”
Kate thinks Miranda feels awkward; she isn’t in control of the situation. It gives her some small pleasure.
“I won’t stay long. I know how dreary it can be when people hang around your hospital room when all you want is to be left in peace and quiet.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I came to tell you if there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all …”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
The sunlight pools in the center of the room where they stand on the small throw rug like two figures in a Vermeer painting.
“Anyone would have done what I did, under the circumstances,” Kate says, making her point again. “It wasn’t anything heroic.”
Miranda smiles. “If you insist.”
They haven’t come close to touching, not even to shaking hands. As Miranda turns to go, Kate says one more thing to her.
“I’m not working for Laura anymore on this,” she says. “In case you didn’t know. I’m done with it.”
“We all are, I hope to God.”
“I don’t know about anyone else. I just know about me. I’m putting it behind me and moving on with my life. I’m lucky to have one, and I’m going to start taking better care of it.”
“You should,” Miranda says gently, “after what you’ve been through.”
Kate shrugs. “Whatever. I’m quits with it, that’s what I wanted you to know.”
Miranda nods. “As I said, if there’s anything I … we … can do for you, anything at all—”
Kate cuts her off with a shake of the head. “I’m doing fine. I want to stop thinking about it. Everything about it,” she says with emphasis, to make her point, “and everybody.”
Miranda walks to the door. “Goodbye, then. I hope to see you again.”
“I don’t doubt we will. It’s a small town.”
She waits, standing in the center of the small room until Miranda takes the three steps that get her out. Then she sits back into the chair, sagging against its worn embrace, worn out from her brief, charged encounter with this woman who has to control everything and everybody.
She can walk fine but they take her out in a wheelchair anyway, it’s SOP. The nurse who is pushing her hums a tune from Evita, which has been running at the Lobero for a month.
“Glad to be going home?” she asks cheerfully.
“Glad to be getting out of here.”
“Boy, you think I don’t know what you mean? I love my work and I love the people here and the patients, too, but I am so happy to leave when my shift is over. This’ll drain you,” the nurse informs her. “You start thinking everybody in the world is a sick person, you start thinking you’re a sick person yourself even when there isn’t anything in the world wrong with you.”
Kate knows exactly what she means. It’s what a cop can come to feel—that everyone in the world is a bad person, a criminal, at least potentially, until you start thinking you’re a criminal yourself, when you aren’t. It all gets hard and certain and then you become the judge and jury and then all hell breaks loose. Goddamn civilians. If she heard that expression once when she was on the force she heard it a thousand times. She came to believe it herself. Deep down she still does—some of the time, anyway.
“We’ve got some paperwork for you to sign,” the nurse says as she wheels Kate into the accounting department. “Insurance forms. Won’t take long.”
She parks Kate’s wheelchair next to the counter. “Blanchard,” she tells the clerk. “Recovery 4. Checking out.”
The clerk pulls Kate’s file up on the computer. “It’s already been taken care of,” she informs Kate. “You don’t owe anything,” she adds as the computer prints out the bill.
What? “Let me see that.”
She stands out of her wheelchair and grabs for the document as it’s coming out of the printer. “Who paid th
is?” she demands.
The clerk types into her computer. “Mrs. Sparks. She came in here yesterday afternoon, said she’d been visiting with you, and wanted to clear your bill. She gave us a check.” She scans the machine for a moment. “It cleared this morning.”
If there’s anything I can do for you, anything at all …
Cecil is in the lobby, waiting for her. She’s glad to see him. Taking him up on his offer was the right move. She needs support now, a strong shoulder to lean on. If that makes her a defenseless little woman for the moment, fuck it. He looks great to her.
14
HIGH STAKES
WHEN FREDERICK SPARKS PLAYS serious poker he plays privately, behind closed doors. He plays for a lot of money with other high rollers, some of whom are professionals. He is not; he is a passionate amateur. He has been gambling for decades, since he first caught the bug in college. The game is in a penthouse suite at one of the newest and most opulent hotels in Las Vegas. Down below, dozens of stories, on the huge football-field-sized floors in casinos up and down the Strip and in town, tens of thousands of people are throwing their money at the slots, the blackjack and craps tables, the roulette wheels. Lose five dollars here, win ten there. Lose five hundred there, win a thousand here. The house isn’t concerned with how much someone loses as long as he (or she; half the gamblers are women, especially at the slot machines) can cover the bet; but if someone starts winning big, especially at the card tables, they zero in on him or her via the surveillance cameras located in the ceiling—watching for card counters, or conspiracies between a gambler and a dealer. Anything suspicious, the offending player is quietly but firmly escorted from the table to a private meeting. Usually they leave the premises without further ado. Sometimes they need a little persuading; but one way or the other they don’t stay, and they don’t come back—the house keeps close watch to make sure of that, and they let all the other places in the city know, too.
None of that applies to men in the penthouse. They don’t cheat. It’s unnecessary—either they’re too good to have to or they’re too rich to worry about it, or both. And second, if anyone ever got caught cheating in one of these games, the consequences would be a hell of a lot worse than merely getting kicked out the door and told to stay out.
