by Nero Blanc
But Rosco had talked to him; then talked and listened some more—the result being that the former truant had returned home, where he’d quickly applied the lessons on competition and ambition he’d learned in New York. At the age of twenty-two, he was currently the manager of Global Delivery’s Newcastle office—the same people who’d just delivered the crossword puzzle Belle had received from Belize.
All these memories flooded into Rosco’s brain as he passed the university and continued down Broadway toward lower Manhattan. Since his 2:00 P.M. meeting with Carl Oclen, Savante’s CEO, was scheduled for the company’s corporate headquarters on Exchange Place, the easier and quicker route would have been for him to take the West Side Highway straight to the city’s Wall Street area. But Rosco actually enjoyed riding down the length of Manhattan Island on Broadway. In his opinion, New Yorkers were always good for a show; nothing slowed them down, and nothing ever would. The drive would probably provide as much entertainment as going to a movie. Anything, and everything, could, and would, happen in New York.
The day had reached ninety degrees and Rosco had removed the canvas top to his Jeep, making it, quite possibly, the only convertible in the city. Open-air automobiles were not a New York thing; who knew what you might find in your lap? And overnight parking with a cloth roof? Forget about it. Or as they like to say in the city’s outlying boroughs: Fuggedaboutit.
“Hey, fella,” Rosco remembered hearing a thick Bronx accent warn him on his last trip. “Youse knows what’s gonna happen to yo’ rag-top afta da sun goes down? Heh, ya don’t wanna know. Betta look for a garage, pal.” The fact that Rosco left no valuables in the Jeep, and never locked it, seemed to make the New Yorker laugh harder. “Hey, ya think anyone’s gonna bodda to see if da door’s unlocked? Where’s da fun in dat?”
Rosco continued down Broadway, through the Upper West Side, past Columbus Circle, and into the Theatre District. The Broadway show marquees hung out over the sidewalks blaring the names of the various “hot” musicals and “brilliant” stars. He began to notice a strange phenomenon whenever he was halted by a traffic light. As soon as a pedestrian would espy the Red Sox license plate on his front bumper, an immediate scowl would form on his or her face. A couple of men even felt obliged to spit into the crosswalk ahead of the Jeep’s grill. Rosco gathered that it was just a gutsy response to the fact that the Red Sox were four games out in front of the Yankees in the AL East. One pedestrian, who seemed to take particular offense, actually walked up to him, looked him in the eye, and said, “It ain’t over till it’s over, buddy boy,” then marched off toward Radio City.
After the Theatre District came Times Square, then the huge Macy’s building, the Garment District, Madison Square, Union Square, and eventually Greenwich Village—where Broadway was considered the western fringe of the famed East Village. The city was so massive, each block so crammed with buildings, and so packed with businesses and residences, that the streets continuously teemed with men and women. Everyone was moving fast; everyone was on a mission; trucks double-parked to discharge goods; dollies rolled along sidewalks; pedestrians dodged out of the way, then sprinted into traffic; car horns blared; and drivers yelled obscenities that were lobbed back at them like tennis balls by those on foot.
Rosco pushed farther south, across Houston Street and into Soho. It was at this point that a parking place appeared directly in front of a deli, and he decided it would be a good idea to get a bite to eat before meeting with Carl Oclen. He snagged the place, dropped two quarters into the meter, and scanned the street, taking in the sights.
“You’re not going to leave your car like that, are you?” The words came from a young woman dressed in business clothes and carrying a stainless-steel attaché case.
Rosco glanced at her in surprise. “What? The Jeep? There’s nothing in it worth taking.”
She laughed; it was a quick, no-nonsense, I’m-too-busy-to-be-talking-to-this-yokel sound. “What about the seats? You don’t think they’ll take the seats?” She marched to the rear of the Jeep, glanced at his tags, said, “Massachusetts! Ho-ho-ho. Figures,” and walked off.
Rosco watched her leave. Out of either stubbornness or pride, he opted not to heed her warning; instead, he stepped into the deli and ordered a pastrami sandwich from the takeout window. Then caution got the better of him, and he brought the sandwich back outside, sat on his front fender, and enjoyed his lunch—al fresco.
After he finished with his sandwich and pickle, he walked to the corner and tossed his paper wrapper into a trash can. When he returned, a man was sitting in the passenger’s side of the Jeep, pawing through the glove compartment.
“Something I can help you with?” was all Rosco could think to say.
“This your car?”
“Yep.”
“Jeep, huh?”
“Sure is.”
The man stepped back onto the sidewalk, gave Rosco the once-over, and said, “Just lookin’ for some change, man. Got any you can spare?”
Nonplussed at the reply, Rosco forked over a dollar, then climbed into the Jeep and continued down Broadway toward the Wall Street area. Street parking was nonexistent so he pulled into an underground garage that advertised a rate of six dollars.
“How long ya gonna be?” the attendant drawled.
“About an hour. Six bucks, right?”
The attendant merely grunted. “Nah, man, six is for the first twenty minutes. An hour’ll be closer to twenty, twenty-five. Longer’s more … Leave the keys.”
Rosco opened his mouth in protest, then thought better of it. “Leave the keys … Right.”
The Savante offices were on the thirty-third floor of a gray granite building on the corner of Broadway and Exchange Place. Rosco entered through a revolving door and moved over to a bank of elevators marked FLOORS 30–40. He stepped into a car as the door slid open and pressed 33. The car shot upward, and he walked out into an expansive waiting area only seconds later.
Savante appeared to take up the entire thirty-third floor. A chrome and teak reception desk sat in the center of a waiting area furnished with minimalist pieces crafted from similar materials. Rosco approached the receptionist and said, “I have a two o’clock appointment with Mr. Oclen. I’m Chuck Balboa … With the Back Bay Film Project?”
“One minute, please.” The receptionist tapped an intercom button. “Candie, Mr. Oclen’s two o’clock is here. The gentleman with the Boston film company … and accent.”
The voice on the other end came back with, “Ask him to have a seat. We’ll be with him in a moment.”
The receptionist pointed to a couch on the assumption Rosco had overheard Candie. When he sat, his exposed ankles were given a sour and unapproving glance.
He shrugged, said, “Hey, I spend too much time on ‘the Coast’—what can I say?” then picked up a copy of Crude, a trade publication dedicated to the oil business. The magazine was five months old, leading Rosco to wonder why it hadn’t been replaced with a newer issue. But upon closer examination, he realized the man on the cover was no other than Carl Oclen himself. He was standing on the bow of a supertanker in a pose that surreally appeared to mimic the movie Titanic. Behind Oclen stretched a long and lusciously verdant coastline that Rosco guessed to be in the Gulf of Mexico while inside the magazine was a lengthy article entitled “The Midas Touch: Swimming in Liquid Gold,” profiling the Savante Group and Oclen.
According to the article, Savante’s CEO had been born in rural Texas, dropped out of high school, and had worked as a wildcatter in the Iranian, Saudi, and Southern California oil fields. He’d moved up industry ranks and was one of the premier explorers and developers of the offshore drilling in California’s Santa Barbara area before cutting out on his own to create the Savante Group, Inc. Over the years the company had branched out, and now had controlling interests in supermarkets, banana imports, Florida citrus groves, a fast-food chain, a popular breakfast cereal, and infant and toddler foods, formula, and “hygienic supplies.” Ocle
n, himself, also owned a minor league baseball team in Texas.
“Mr. Oclen will see you now,” a young woman said as she approached. She looked more like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader than a secretary, and her heavy Texas accent only seemed to cement that image.
“You must be Candie,” Rosco said as they walked down the hallway, wondering what had happened to the snooty assistant who’d arranged today’s meeting.
“Why, yes. I am.” Am came out like aay-em.
“You’re not the person I spoke with when I made the appointment.”
“You mean Jules?” The name sounded as if it would go a long way in a jewelry store.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get the man’s—”
“I’m sure it was Jules. He handles all Mr. Oclen’s appointments … Jules and I perform very different duties for Mr. Oclen. Mr. Oclen believes ‘the staff should suit the task’—or is it the other way around?”
“I guess it depends on whose staff you’re talking about.”
Candie continued in her molasses-sweet drawl. “I understand you-all are in the film business?”
“That’s right. We’re shooting a little thriller up in Boston right now.”
“I used to do some acting in Houston … But nothing you might have seen … The films were more of the adult variety.” Candie appeared to think for a moment. “I’d be happy to audition for you—if that might be of interest. I can read from a play … or, you know … extemporize?”
“I’d hate to take you away from your duties here at Savante, Candie, but when we reach that point in production, I’ll be sure to have the casting people get in touch.”
She gave Rosco a sugary smile and opened a mahogany door that led to Carl Oclen’s inner sanctum. “Mr. Balboa’s here, Mr. O. The movie director …”
Oclen’s three-sided office faced south, west, and north and consumed nearly fifteen hundred square feet, its windows affording a sweeping view that included the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River, and nearly all of lower Manhattan. The CEO’s desk was almost as large as Rosco’s entire office while the man sitting behind it was clearly the same person who’d graced the copy of Crude in the waiting area.
Impeccably sculpted hair that had probably been enhanced into a lustrous chestnut color, a physique that cried out personal trainer, and a suit that looked as if it would cost more to replace than Rosco’s aging Jeep, Carl Oclen was the picture of wealth. He was on the phone and waved for his guest to take a seat. Instead, Rosco walked to the window and looked out over the tip of Manhattan. Thirty-three stories below sat Trinity Church. The church was illuminated by a single ray of sunlight; an untouchable beacon of peace in a cavern of vast skyscrapers.
Oclen dropped the telephone receiver into its cradle, stood and moved alongside Rosco. “Hell of a view, isn’t it? I was at this very desk when those vermin took out the towers. What did they think? They’d break New York? Break New Yorkers? Break America? Not in a million years, pardner.” The Texas drawl had been smoothed into an all-purpose good-ole-boy twang, but Rosco guessed the accent could just as easily vanish—or thicken—depending on the circumstances, or the guest.
“As a film person I’m always looking at the visual; camera angles, interesting locations, et cetera.” Rosco extended his hand. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me on such short notice. I had a meeting set with Exxon, but they canceled out on me at the last minute.”
“Happy to do it. Especially when it means beating out the competition.” Oclen smiled. It was not a warm and fuzzy expression.
“I have a good notion to dump their credit card as a result of the mix-up … Unfortunately we get caught up in a film slate, and any little thing can throw us off schedule.”
“I’ve always been a bit of a movie buff, Mr. Balboa, so, like I said, I’m happy to help out.”
“Please … Call me Chuck.”
“All right.”
Rosco noted that the first-name-basis invitation wasn’t reciprocated as Oclen walked back to his desk and sat. “What can I do you for, Chuck? I believe Jules mentioned that the picture you’re making is an action-adventure … something to do with oil imports?”
Rosco sat in a brown leather chair opposite Oclen. He also smiled. “Well, let’s start with this: Is it possible that a company like Savante could smuggle cocaine into the United States on its oil tankers?”
Oclen’s face turned to stone.
CHAPTER 26
Rosco remained focused on Carl Oclen’s hard, unwavering stare, hoping to garner information, but the eyes revealed nothing.
“Sorry,” Rosco finally said, “that was just a little ploy we directors like to use—Actors’ Studio stuff; mention something deeply personal, something shocking, and then gauge the reaction. It helps me with my actors … I learn what’s real and what isn’t—emotionally speaking … I get to know what I want to use down the road. I get to learn what buttons to push …” Rosco was weaving his story from whole cloth, but it was sounding pretty good to him—pretty believable, too. Or so he hoped.
Oclen’s expression softened slightly, but only slightly.
“Anyway,” Rosco continued with another sunny, L.A.-type grin, “I’m getting ahead of myself here. The screenplay—as Jules correctly inferred—is an action-adventure tale about a DEA agent on the trail of drug smugglers: i.e. The Bad Guys. My writer has the cocaine shipments entering the U.S. on fishing boats … I’m sure you heard about that load the Coast Guard pulled off a Belizian boat a while back …? Our timing is perfect on this.”
“I … did read something on that, yes. It was in Daily Finance …” Oclen’s tone remained cautious.
“Right. I guess everyone did … Anyway, that’s my point; fishing boats have been done to death. You got storms—been done; whales—been done; old ships; new ships … You heard of Moby Dick, right? The Old Man and the Sea? I mean, who hasn’t? Classics, both of them … Apparently they were books first. Anyway, what I’m thinking is this: Everyone’s got storms; everyone’s got fish. What I need is a fresh angle … So, here’s the deal: We give this script a quick rewrite and change the venue to an oil tanker. Plus, we get all that testosterone stuff—guys on a mother of a boat, polished steel, uniforms, a bow slicing through the sea … And I mean a big bow. I saw that picture of you on the cover of Crude, out in the lobby”—Rosco cocked his thumb over his shoulder—”and I’m thinking: Is this a dynamite setup or what? I mean, like that’s the money shot right there—”
“And what is it exactly you want from me … Chuck?” The tone was still frosty although Rosco sensed he was making headway. Everyone liked to imagine they had movie star potential.
“Just a little background, really, so that the color rings true for the audience. I’m placing my action down in the Gulf of Mexico … pretty places, fab food—the crew has to eat, know what I mean? So I’d like to stay with those locations … And I’ve booked gear for December …” On the assumption that all film directors behaved like Woody Allen, Rosco moved his hands in jerky motions as he talked. The nervous movements, as well as what his attempt at Hollywood-speak were clearly beginning to win Oclen over. “I figure we can have an American oil company drilling off the Mexican coast—”
“Whoa, hold up there, Chuck.” Oclen’s small smile had turned decidedly smug. “Let me tell you how things work down in the Gulf. First of all, once you get south of Texas, I hate to break it to you, pal, but it ain’t America no more. Enchiladas or no enchiladas… The rules change. Big time. The oil and natural gas industry in Mexico is one hundred percent government controlled. You’ve got to be solidly outside of Mexico’s territorial waters if you want to start sinking wells. And if the water’s too deep, you’re talking a floating rig … first tropical storm that rips up the coast is going to take your rig straight to New Orleans to join the Mardi Gras parade.” The CEO chuckled at his own witticism. “Look what happened to that baby off of Brazil. Adios, amigo. Davy Jones’s locker for everyone on that baby.”
&nbs
p; “Is that the same with the other countries down there? Belize? Guatemala? Nicaragua? All government controlled?”
“Look, Chuck, each nation sets different policies; and any oil company—be it owned by the Brits or the Dutch or whoever—has to obey local government regulations. Look at Alaska. And that’s the U.S. of A., for pete’s sake … You’ve got to pick up a few politicians along the way. It’s not like the old days when you could just buy a tract of mineral-rich land, cross your fingers and pray for the mother lode … Latin America’s different, sure. None of the owl-huggers we have up here. The rules are more flexible, but you still have to deal with governments—”
Rosco interrupted. He tried to look crest fallen. “Damn … That’s bad news for me … So we don’t get any Mexican oil here in the States?”
“I didn’t say that. But what you’re talking about there is transportation. That’s another ball of wax all together … Now, I deal with Pemex. We all do. The company’s the government monopoly south of the border. We transport Mexican product up to New Jersey all the time. It’s contract work. Subcontract, actually … But to be honest: Most of our imports are coming from Venezuela now. And I’m working on some Cuba stuff—but that’s off the record.”
“But you do have tankers coming from the Gulf?”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay,” Rosco said, watching Oclen’s reaction closely, “this is only hypothetical … the hypothetical back-story to my plot—that’s the … um … that’s the reason for making the film … Now, suppose someone—like yourself—owned an oil tanker, and wanted to smuggle drugs into the country. It would be pretty easy, right?”
Oclen’s expression again darkened. “Look, Chuck, I’m trying to help you here … I don’t know what it’s like in the fishing business; I don’t know what the boat owners are into, but I can tell you one thing: They don’t have the kind of money invested in their vessels that I have. A shrimp captain goes out into the Gulf …? Hey, one quick cocaine drop can make his day. He can pay off his boat’s mortgage in a weekend, so maybe it’s worth the gamble for him. But Savante? I have millions tied up in a single tanker. You think I’d risk letting the DEA impound one of my ships, all of my ships, just to pick up what amounts to little more than pocket change for me? Not on your life.”
