Beano wondered who the hell Miss Luna was. He knew the sharpers were trying to send him a message, a warning. He was on full alert, but he didn't know what had happened yet as they moved into the main secretarial area of the executive floor.
There was bustling activity everywhere: Bates family sharpers, dressed conservatively, were working on their computers or running folders of oil reports back and forth. Phones were ringing; there were pages over the sound system. Beano heard his own name: "Beano Bates, line two." He looked at Tommy, who, he hoped, didn't know who Beano Bates was. Tommy was devoting his limited powers of concentration to all the frenzied activity. He seemed impressed by the expensive art and the multitudes of scurrying, well-dressed yuppies.
Beano stepped away from him, picked up the phone, and hit extension two. "Go," he said.
"We got problems," Steve Bates said. "We got a mess here. Victoria is trying to set--" Suddenly, a hand reached in and disconnected the phone. Beano looked up and saw Tommy standing there, glaring at him.
"The fuck you doing?" Tommy demanded.
"I was going to page Dr. Sutton, see if perhaps he was here. I thought it would be nice to know what he's up to, since he might scuttle the whole deal," Beano said, his voice dripping snotty sarcasm. He was taking a chance that Tommy wouldn't backhand him here, and though Tommy's eyes flashed crazy, Beano got away with it.
"Get the President a'this outfit, this Chip Lacy prick," Tommy said, flipping open the brochure and pointing to Paper Collar John's picture, under which was the name LINWOOD "CHIP" LACY. Let's go brace this motherfucker."
Tommy grabbed one of the sharpers who was flying past and spun him around roughly by the arm. "Wanna see Chip Lacy," he said.
"Mr. Lacy isn't here."
"Isn't here?" Beano asked, startled.
"No. He had ... Mr. Lacy had a slight coronary last evening. He's in the hospital."
"Who the fuck's runnin' this show?" Tommy growled.
"That would be Miss Luna."
"Miss who?" Beano said, his mind reeling. He couldn't figure out what was going on.
"Miss Luna, the Chief Financial Officer from the Knoxville home office. She flew in for the stockholders' meeting. Excuse me, I've got to get these wildcat-well asset sheets for Mr. Stuart," and the grifter pulled away.
Beano called after him, "Where's Miss Luna?"
"In Mr. Lacy's office, getting ready for the stockholders' meeting," the yuppie said as he turned the corner down the hallway and disappeared.
Tommy looked at Beano and then at the flurry of activity, phones ringing, people running here and there ...
"I've only been here once," Beano said, "but I think Mr. Lacy's office is in the corner, over there." He pointed and headed off.
"Wonder where the fuck Alex is?" Tommy growled, looking around for his attorney. "We don't need him," Beano said, moving off toward the corner office, glad the hairy Armenian hadn't shown.
Seated in the President's outer office was Ellen X. Bates, Steven's wife. Beano knew from the dinner they'd had in Oak Crest that before she married Steve, she'd been an experienced telephone yak and had worked bucket shops from New York to L.A. She had a good gift of gab and a breezy intelligence. He and John had picked her to be a point-out stockholder. It surprised him that she was playing the lesser role of the President's secretary. Something was definitely up.
"We'd like to have a moment to talk to Miss Luna," Beano said.
"I'm afraid that's out of the question," Ellen snapped and continued dialing her computer phone.
Tommy reached over and depressed the switch-hook. "Nothing is out of the question. Is she in there?"
"She is preparing for a very important stockholders' meeting," Ellen said huffily, pulling his hand off the phone.
"That's gonna work out fine, because I just happen to be a very important stockholder," Tommy growled.
"I... I... I'm still..."
"Who fucking cares?" Tommy said, and walked right past her and into the office without knocking. Beano followed.
Standing in the center of the room, holding a large sheaf of papers, her back to them, was Miss Laura Luna. She was talking on a speaker phone when they burst in: "... no other explanation, Alan? One of our major stockholders must be selling for it to drop like this." And then she stopped and turned around.
Beano had never seen her before. She was a middle-aged, overweight, Janet Reno-sized woman, about five foot eight. Miss Luna was wearing a black pant suit that failed to disguise her immense girth. She had a double chin, and her half glasses were hanging from a chain around her neck. Her stout legs bulged in the loose-fitting pant suit. Beano wondered who the hell she was; then she spoke again and he recognized her. His heart sank. There's no way we 're ever going to pull this off.
"Get out of this office," she said. "I'm preparing for a shareholders' meeting. You can't be in here."
"I'm the only fucking meeting you got that counts," Tommy said and he closed the door behind him, cutting off the noise of the busy office outside. Then he moved to her desk and disconnected the phone.
After John had left to go home to be with Cora, Victoria called the number he had given her. It belonged to a family member named Smart Bates, no X. He was in Los Angeles working on a TV show. Stuart Bates, like Carol Sesnick, was one of the few Bates family members who wasn't on the bubble. Stuart did special-effects makeup for a Space Odyssey television show that was being made on a soundstage in Hollywood. When Victoria told him what she wanted, he had said it was impossible. He needed to make body molds and cure them; he needed to get the correct skin tone to do the makeup. "Two days, working round-the-clock at the very least," he told her... besides, he had a TV show to do. "What time does this have to happen?" he finally asked.
"Eight-fifteen, tomorrow morning," she said. "Beano Bates is running the sting."
"King Con?" Smart said; his voice seemed to hesitate, slightly in awe.
"That's who's running it. We could sure use the help. One of our main inside men just went down."
"Okay, I'll do the best I can," he'd said.
He phoned in sick and chartered a plane, which she said she'd reimburse him for. Stuart had flown up to San Francisco with all of the equipment he could carry. Victoria had next phoned the FBI. "Let me talk to Grady Hunt," she said, and in a minute he was on.
"So far so good," Grady bragged. "Everybody's in town, Tommy and your boyfriend are at the Ritz. Whatta you want?"
"You said I had to call, so I'm calling."
"Then gimme something I don't know, like where's the old duck with the gray hair going? He got on a plane for New Jersey. I got a team set to pick him up in Atlantic City."
"John Bates is going home. Don't follow him, his wife is dying. He's out of the play."
"Boo-hoo and whoop-de-do," Grady said.
"Don't follow him, okay? He's just going to sit at the hospital with his wife. I'm meeting a guy tonight named Stuart Bates. He doesn't know what's going on either. He's doing me a favor, so don't jam him up. He's not part of it."
"Nobody seems to be part of it," he said. "We got a first here, a crime with no criminals."
"I'll call you in the morning before it goes down," she said, and hung up on him. What a jerk.
She'd picked Stuart Bates up at the airport at eleven-thirty, and they had gone directly to a motel that was a few blocks from the Big Store. He'd asked for a room with a bathtub. Once they were inside, he had insisted that she take off all her clothes. She had hesitated, but then thought, What the fuck, and threw caution and her clothes away. She stood naked before him. He looked at her beautiful body and tried to decide which areas to pad.
"I'm gonna give ya the cellulite transformation, a big stern, and thunder thighs," he said. Then he handed her a robe. He poured three bags of plaster of Paris into the tub and had her sit on a chair in the bathroom with her head tipped back in the sink while he made a face mold.
"Okay," he said, "I'm going to give you body padding. I brought s
ome in the huge suitcase. Try it on; we'll probably have to tailor it, but you'll wear it under clothes so it should work. Your hands are going to be tough, a real giveaway. Hopefully, he won't look at them too closely. We'll get a pant suit for you to wear, with pockets. Keep your hands in your pockets to hide them. I don't have time for the hand appliances. I'll do chin, cheeks, and neck. You can look through that suitcase for a wig."
They had started at twelve-fifty in the morning, and seven hours later the sun was up, and he was just applying the finishing touches. She was sitting in a motel bathroom four blocks from the Perm Mutual Building while he fine-tuned the eye makeup and powder-dusted the glued-on appliances. She watched in fascination; he had transformed her into a fat, middle-aged woman with three chins. In high school, Victoria had developed a very funny imitation of her history teacher, Miss Laura Luna. She had been rather large and had a breathy but slightly squeaky voice. Victoria needed a new persona so that Tommy wouldn't recognize her. She decided to resurrect Miss Luna.
Stuart had picked up some size 15 clothes and she had selected a dark blue pant suit, with pockets. It also hid the leg and stomach padding, which were held on with Velcro. The whole contraption weighed over thirty pounds.
She was sweating under it as she cabbed the four blocks to the Penn Mutual Building and took the service elevator up to the twenty-fifth floor. Her FBI tail didn't recognize the woman who hurried past them to the cab stand. Instead, they stayed and watched the empty motel room. She dashed into the President's office just two minutes ahead of Beano and Tommy. Now, with almost no time to get set and settle down, she was face to face with Tommy Rina.
"I'm sorry, I can't meet with anybody right now," Victoria told the ugly mobster.
"Hey, lady." Tommy took a menacing step forward. "Who the fuck you think you're talking to?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," she said, in her breathy soprano. "I've never seen you before in my life. But I'm going to insist you leave my office or I'll have to call Security. I'm preparing for a meeting with our million-dollar shareholders and I only have a few minutes to review Mr. Lacy's notes."
"I own a million dollars' worth a'this oil company," he said, and he yanked open his briefcase and thrust the stock certificates at Victoria.
She looked at them." This is only a hundred thousand shares. The stock is trading at just under six. That means the market value of these certificates is only about six hundred thousand."
"The fuck," Tommy said, "y'mean I'm still losing money?"
"Please leave my office," she said insistently.
Beano pulled Tommy aside and whispered to him, "If the stock goes down, that's good for us. Means we can buy more for our money. Forget the first million," he whispered, "we're talking about billions."
Tommy pulled back and looked at Beano. Finally he seemed to connect to that. He nodded.
Beano thought he needed to slow the pace slightly. He had never played a mark who had less understanding of business. "We're interested in buying control of this company," Beano said to Victoria.
"And just who might you be?"
Beano thought Victoria's makeup was a bit too heavy. At one spot, it looked like it had been put on with a trowel to cover the neck appliances. Then Tommy said something to Victoria that jerked him back.
"Don't I know you?" he blurted. "We met someplace before?"
"I'm sure not," Victoria asked.
"Yeah ... yeah, I'm sure. Florida? You ever been to Florida?"
"What do you mean, you want to buy the company?" she said, abruptly changing subjects. "That's hardly possible at this point."
"Miss Luna, is it?" Beano said and she turned to him. "I know you've got a bunch of angry stockholders convening here this morning. These people want their money back. I happen to know they all hold Class-A Preferred Stock, same as Mr. Rina here. And somebody, some insider, must be selling it fast to push the price down like this."
"I can't discuss insider business," she said.
"Now the other stockholders can't sell without flooding the market and driving the price to nothing. Since they're all stuck holding this plunging stock, I think they're going to want you to liquidate assets. If they vote this morning to do that, then you're going to have to start selling stuff like the Tennessee land, and if that happens on top of this falling stock price, even the Vancouver Stock Exchange is going to panic and freeze everything, maybe even de-list the security. You're in a horrible fix, Miss Luna. You should be treating us like saviors. We happen to be the only buyers in a market full of sellers," Beano grinned.
"I still don't know who you are," Victoria said.
"This is Mr. Rina, a respected businessman. I used to work here until I was fired for doing my job. I'm a geologist, Dr. Douglas Clark."
"Oh, yes. Seems to me I read that termination slip. So now what's your story? You trying to buy the company and teach us all a lesson?"
"I'm trying to offer a solution, not a lesson."
"I'm sorry, but I don't think selling you the company at a distressed price is a very good business solution ... at least, not this morning. As the corporate CFO, I'm empowered to negotiate deals for FCP&G, but I hardly intend to take advantage of that power until Chip Lacy gets better and can offer his opinion."
"What's she saying?" Tommy asked, leaning forward in his loafers like a railbird at the Aqueduct finish line.
"I happen to know this company is falling apart," Beano exploded at her, losing his temper. "You people haven't been bringing in new wells. Your field development costs are killing your cash flow. You haven't even been paying your bills. Don't stand there and preach to me about good business solutions."
"I think you need to get ahold of yourself, Dr. Clark. You were fired for meddling in a financial matter that was not your concern. Now, obviously, you're harboring the fantasy of buying us and firing everybody to get even. Revenge and retribution? Is that the plan?" she said, her voice rising in indignation to match his.
"The West Coast Platform Drilling Company was hired by me!" Beano screamed. "Donovan Martin was my friend. We had a contractual obligation to him, and all I did was--"
Then the door opened and Teo X. Bates entered the room. He was tall and broad shouldered. He had been doing land scams in the Phoenix area and flew in to work Beano's sting. Following Teo into the room was a driveway specialist from Simi Valley, California, named Luther X. Bates.
"Everything okay in here?" Teo said, looking suspiciously at Beano and Tommy. "We heard shouting."
"Perhaps these gentlemen would like to leave now," Victoria said.
"I own a hundred thousand shares a'this company," Tommy said. "I ain't goin' nowhere."
Victoria looked at him unpleasantly, then seemed to relent. "Maybe if you'd wait in another office for a minute. Perhaps I can arrange for you to be included in the preferred stockholders' meeting."
As Tommy turned to leave, Beano gave Victoria a lingering look. She held it for a minute, then winked at him and shrugged. Tommy pulled him out of the office. It was then that Beano saw Alex Cordosian standing there, out of breath. He had just arrived.
"They're gonna let us in the stockholders' meeting," Tommy grinned.
"The reason I'm late is I've been making some calls. You can't just walk in here and buy this place. I can't get any banking information on this outfit. You don't know what the debt obligation of this company is.... What if they owe a hundred million against a bunch of devalued assets? You're gonna be liable for all their loans." Tommy blinked his lizard eyes at the Armenian attorney. "What if there are outstanding claims by other subs?" Alex continued. "What if there's hundreds of millions in lawsuits pending? You don't know what you're buying. You could be buying a long-term headache. I'm determined to point these things out to you," he lectured. "You can threaten me, but I owe you my best judgment. Your brother would never plunge blindly like this, believe me." That sentence, more than all the others, snapped Tommy's eyes wider.
"Did you check on all that Tennes
see land, did you call about that?" Beano asked hotly.
"Yes, I talked to the Clerk in Fentress County. The company does have a land grant title for the acreage, and I did feel better when I confirmed that, but there's no current value for the land listed. The land grant goes all the way back to the Civil War."
"There's more value here than they even begin to suspect," Beano whispered intently, turning Tommy so Ellen seemingly couldn't hear. "Don't forget all that oil in the ground. The largest stratigraphic trap ever located." He led Tommy away from the secretary's desk and out of earshot.
But Alex kept following and buzzing, "How much is the oil field really worth? You don't know, nobody knows. You don't even really know there's crude down there, you just have this guy's word for it. What if it's just a pocket well?"
"A what?" Tommy asked.
"It's no pocket well," Beano corrected. "Are you kidding? I've worked the seismics on this acreage for eighteen months. We've got at least a six-acre pool down there. The flow pressure tests were incredible."
"I saw it. I saw the oil," Tommy said.
"How much?" Alex asked. He was cooking now, he could see indecision clouding Tommy's narrow thoughts. "Did you see a billion barrels' worth, like he said?"
"You don't have to see it. I know it's there. That's what geology is about," Beano hissed angrily.
"I didn't see it," Tommy said, "but I got a decanter full."
"Oh, a decanter. Well, great, that's gotta be worth about two bucks. You can't do this."
"Look, you," Beano said, leaning in on the lawyer, who pulled back in fear. "I don't need all this sarcasm from you. I worked to prove that field for almost two years. You don't know what you're talking about. In half an hour this opportunity goes away."
"I've been in a few oil deals in my life, and they're not done like this. This is nuts. I called some friends of mine back east this morning. They think this company went bankrupt in the late seventies."
"Bankrupt in the seventies?" Beano sputtered.
"I'm not saying you shouldn't buy this eventually, just slow down. Joe never buys stuff quick. He always says, 'If there's a clock anywhere in the deal, then let the buyer beware.'"
King Con (1997) Page 31
