Power Down

by Ben Coes

  But not for long. As they moved into the dining room and the alcohol took effect, Dewey strangely found himself growing more sober, dwelling on the prospect of another bloody night on Capitana.

  “Something bothering you?” Pablo asked. “You seem put out.”

  “Two men were killed last night,” Dewey said.

  Pablo did a double take.

  “What? Are you kidding?”

  “No. Knife fight. Bloody as hell.”

  Pablo shook his head in sympathy. “This is terrible. If there’s anything—”

  “I may need you to take some men tomorrow. Move a few troublemakers out of here.”

  “I’m at your service. I’ll take anyone you want.” Pablo stared at Dewey. “Including you. You look tired, my friend. Maybe you need a break. When was the last time you spent some time in Cali?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “That’s what I thought. What do you say? Take a weekend, a week. You really do look like you could use the rest. How about it?”

  “I can’t. Not with the situation on the rig. Some other time.”

  They ate dinner and managed to drink two bottles of red wine in the process. They spoke no more of what they’d discussed before. At just after midnight, Dewey returned to the platform and walked back to his office.

  The sky, even now, at a quarter past midnight, had a strange paisley glow to it. Part of that no doubt was the burn off from the flare stacks, the orangey, smoke-filled heat waves blurring and lighting their way into dissipation far off, to the east of the rig. But part of it, too, was the horizon. At this time of year, the light never seemed to die.

  Dewey watched for a few moments as a crew of men on deck moved some of the duct manifolds to a different part of the tanker. Finally, as they finished and walked away, Dewey looked back to the horizon. He tried to clear his mind. He had to stop thinking about what might or might not be happening, if only for a few minutes.

  Slowly, in the big chair, Dewey drifted off to sleep.

  Suddenly, he awoke; a knock on the cabin door. He’d been asleep on the chair for hours. The lights were still on. His eyes refocused, looked slowly around the room. His head ached from too much wine. He leaned forward, stood up. He walked quickly across his office to the door.

  “What is it?” he asked as he opened the door. It was one of his foremen, Baroni.

  “You better come.” Baroni’s forehead creased sharply with concern.

  “What is it?”

  “Jonas.”

  Dewey stood and looked at the clock on his wall. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  He put his boots on and followed Baroni. The sound of the sea slapping against the platform combined with the steady hum of the oil coursing into the hold of the Montana. It was dark outside, but the deck lay awash in halogen light.

  They walked quickly along the side of the big tanker.

  “Why isn’t anyone watching the loading?”

  “I’ll show you why.”

  They passed the hotel and scaled the east stairwell to the sea deck. Ahead, a small group of men was gathered. Red lights from the lower deck cast a muted glow on the scene.

  Dewey felt as if he were walking in slow motion.

  “I went to hit the head a few minutes ago,” said Baroni as they arrived at the scene.

  Dewey pushed his way through the circle of men. On the floor of the bathroom, the body of Jonas Pierre lay contorted against the toilet, sideways. His hands were tied behind his back. His big blue eyes stared out blankly, bulging and red. A band of wire dug deeply into his neck, making his face appear almost blue. He’d been strangled to death.

  Dewey said nothing as he knelt over Pierre. He was all of thirty years old. He had a family in Florida, a wife named Emily and two daughters.

  “Wire cutters,” he said quietly. “Someone get me a pair of wire cutters.”

  A minute later, one of the men handed Dewey a pair of wire cutters. He reached down and cut the band of wire at the nape of the neck. He let Pierre’s head fall back into his hands then laid it gently on the steel floor. Leaning forward, he softly pushed Pierre’s eyelids closed.

  “Wake up Barbo,” Dewey said without looking up from the floor. He shut his eyes and rubbed the space between them as he thought. “Tell him to have Jonas prepared for burial. Tell him the men are taking the body down to the riser. Have him meet us there with the weights. Right now.”

  “Okay.”

  Dewey stood up.

  “Baroni, I want all the foremen at the burial. Go wake ’em up. Other than finishing the loading of the Montana, Capitana will cease pumping operations immediately. Everyone is to remain in their quarters, except for the foremen and your crew. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dewey knelt down. He remembered the Gerber combat blade he’d given Pierre. Pierre still wore the sheath, but it was empty. He searched the dead man’s body for the knife. It wasn’t there.

  “Keep an eye out for a black knife, double serrated, six-inch blade, hilt wrapped in tape. It’s mine. Jonas had it.” He looked at the men standing outside the door. They were silent. He could see fear in their eyes.

  “You four carry the body down to the platform riser.”

  He walked back to the cabin. He went to the bathroom and turned the tap on, splashing cold water on his face. He looked quickly in the mirror. His eyes were bloodred and large purplish bags were under his lids. He looked like shit.

  He closed his eyes, leaning forward into the sink. He tried not to think about Pierre. He knew, though, it was his fault. Dewey had gotten him killed the moment he asked him to help out, the moment he gave him the knife. He shook his head in shame and regret. He splashed more water onto his face. He had to stay strong.

  They buried Pierre as the dark of night was beginning to ashen into the predawn. All twenty-four foremen stood on the platform riser as Barbo rolled the winch handle and let the young man’s body, weighted now and wrapped in tarp, slide with a small splash into the beckoning sea.

  Dewey looked up. There were no crewmen watching this time. He walked to the stairs and stood on the second step so that he could see his men.

  “Have your night crew stay on until the Montana’s done loading,” he said to Baroni.

  “Got it.”

  “I want the rest of you to conduct a room-by-room search of the hotel. Every room, every bunk, every drawer of every cabinet, dresser, every bathroom, every man. Work in pairs. Put a piece of tape on the door of a finished room. Any man complains, take them immediately to the brig, on my orders. Any trouble, any fights, violence, whatever, pull the alarm switch next to the door. If anyone attempts to fight, use whatever means necessary to subdue them. One in each pair, you carry something with you, a hammer, wrench, knife, whatever.”

  “What are we looking for?”

  “Signs of struggle. Bloodstains. Pierre had a big gash on his head. He may have head-butted someone. Maybe he got in a swing on his attackers. Look for a black eye, a bloody lip, broken nose, whatever. And find my knife. It’s a Gerber, six-inch blade, double serrated. The letters D.A. are engraved on one side. The word GAUNTLET is engraved on the other.”

  Dewey turned and walked alone up the steps to the central deck then back to his office.

  An hour later, Baroni knocked on Dewey’s door. “Anything I can do?” he asked.

  “I want to speak with Esco. Can you get him?”

  “Sure.”

  In a few minutes, Esco entered Dewey’s office.

  “Morning,” said Esco.

  Dewey didn’t answer him. He didn’t even look at him. He stared out the window at the Montana and behind the tanker at the growing orange of sunrise.

  “Who killed Jonas Pierre?” Dewey asked.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Pierre is dead? What happened?”

  Dewey turned from the window. He took three steps across the floor of his office and leaned into Esco’s face.
r />   “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told you to put a lid on this, goddamn it. Now I’ve got no choice. If I don’t have a name in one hour, I’ll order you and every other roughneck of Arabic descent off the rig for good. You’ll all be in the Montana’s brig when it leaves this afternoon.”

  Esco shook his head. “This is unfair, Chief.”

  Dewey ignored him as he continued to stare at Esco. He reached his hand out slowly and placed it gently around Esco’s neck. “If I find out you knew who killed Pierre, I will personally break your neck with my own hands.”

  Esco remained impassive. “I told you I don’t know who killed him. I told Serine’s friends what you asked. I’ll ask what they know. Why do you blame me? I didn’t want Pierre killed. I just want to work.”

  Dewey removed his hand. “Get out of my office. You have one hour.”

  Dewey went to the cafeteria. It was empty. He made a pot of coffee, then found some bread, peanut butter, and jelly and made himself a sandwich, even though it was early morning.

  After eating, he walked to the Montana, climbed the gangplank to the deck, and took the elevator to the bridge.

  The Montana’s captain, Pablo, stood at the bridge with two other men.

  “Morning,” Dewey said as he entered.

  “Dewey. Morning. How you feeling? My head’s a little sore.”

  “Mine too.”

  “We’re almost topping. Should be able to push off by ten, eleven at the latest.”

  “I need a word,” said Dewey.

  Two officers walked out of the bridge area to the next room.

  “Another man died last night. A good friend.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A foreman, name of Pierre. Kid from California.”

  Pablo shook his head. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry.”

  “Well,” said Dewey, “the situation’s different now. I think they were trying to send me a message. Yesterday Pierre helped me keep some of Serine’s men in line. This has to stop now, and I’m going to need your help.”

  Pablo nodded. “Of course. How?”

  “It looks like I’m going to need you to take some men to Buenaventura after all. More than I thought.”

  Pablo rubbed his chin. “How many are we talking?”

  “A few dozen.”

  “That many? Who are we talking about?”

  “Serine’s crew. All of them.”

  “Hmm. That could be tough.”

  Dewey looked at Pablo. “Why?”

  “That’s a load of guys.”

  “I don’t care if you tie them to the rail or make them swim in the fucking oil. We have a situation that is threatening the livelihood of this rig. That means your livelihood, and mine too. If I need your help in removing that threat, I expect to receive it.”

  “But why Serine’s crew?” Pablo asked. “Why not Mackie’s?”

  Dewey gave him his trademark glare.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” said Pablo quickly. “You know that. But I just wonder, why the Arabs?”

  “I can’t exactly explain it,” said Dewey, thinking of Jim Mackie’s last words. He softened his tone slightly. “If I’m wrong, I’ll be the first to apologize. But Jim Mackie tried to tell me something. Something was going on that I don’t understand yet. Mackie was a good man. He wasn’t a thug. Serine killed him for some reason. And now Serine’s men have killed again. It stops here, Pablo. That’s it.”

  Taking Pablo’s nonresponse as a grudging assent, Dewey rode the elevator down to the deck and headed back to his office.

  He sat down at his computer. He had to let Dallas know now. For the next fifteen minutes, Dewey drafted a memo that described the events leading to the three deaths aboard the rig. He called the deaths the result of ethnic tensions. But as he wrote, he wondered about Serine’s death in the infirmary. At first it had seemed obvious that Mackie’s buddies had taken their revenge on him, but now Dewey wasn’t sure he believed it. He couldn’t explain his suspicion. It was illogical, yet something in his gut told him the Irish didn’t do it. Could one of Serine’s own crew have done him?

  He finished and sent the memo without speculating formally, then tried to put it out of his mind. Next he wrote a pair of letters, one to Mackie’s widow and the other to Pierre’s. He looked up Serine’s emergency contact on his employment sheet; he hadn’t listed anyone.

  Dewey walked out of his office to check on the progress of the searches. Nothing had turned up yet.

  As he went back to his office he looked at his watch. Esco’s hour was nearly up. Maybe he’d been too harsh on the engineer. Why should it be Esco’s responsibility to find out who killed Pierre? Glancing at the tanker, Dewey also thought about Pablo. He felt bad about that interchange too. He’d have to find some way to make it up to him. When this was over. When the whole mess was behind him.

  Suddenly, the deck phone rang. He picked it up. It was Baroni.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought you should know. Sing saw Esco and a few others arguing with Jonas last night, before he was killed. It was pretty heated.”

  “Why’s he only telling you this now?”

  “He’s terrified. He was hiding in his bunk.”

  The anger climbed up Dewey’s back as he looked out the window. He stared at the deck outside the hotel. There, on the deck, he saw Esco.

  Anger rose like boiling oil in his chest and head. He marched out onto the central deck.

  “Esco.”

  The older man turned.

  “Come with me.”

  “I don’t know the answer,” Esco called back, shrugging. “I told you. No one knows.”

  Dewey glared and said nothing. Reluctantly, Esco followed him to the office. Dewey closed the door behind him.

  He stepped in close to Esco.

  “Why did you lie to me about Jonas?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t you dare lie to me twice. You were seen arguing with him just before he was found dead.”

  “That’s not true. I liked Jonas. We argued about the way we’re being targeted, that’s all.”

  Dewey took a menacing step toward Esco. He didn’t know what to think anymore, but he knew he didn’t trust him. He felt the anger boiling over; he wanted to take a swing at the man, to beat the truth out of him.

  Footsteps came from the hallway outside the office. Dewey’s door swung open.

  It was Chuck Walters and another foreman, Victor Wrede, holding something in his hand.

  “We found it in Pazur’s bed. We’ve got him in the brig.”

  Wrede handed it over, black-taped hilt first. He glanced down at the blade and saw the word GAUNTLET.

  6

  THE PENINSULA HOTEL

  FIFTH AVENUE AND FIFTY-FIFTH STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  “Listen, you son of a bitch, I’m going to say this one more time. We’re not for sale. Not at your price. Not at any price. It’s that simple.”

  The speaker, Nicholas Anson, stabbed his right index finger into the air like a dagger, hitting the air dramatically in sync with each syllable. Anson was angry, and it revealed itself in his voice and his eyes; the creases around his eyes furrowed deeply as he delivered his message.

  He knew the fundamental importance of leaving absolutely no trace of doubt or wavering in his position. Anson Energy, the fifth-largest energy company in the United States, was, to put it as plainly as possible, not for sale.

  It was 6:12 A.M., and Anson was standing on the heated marble floor in the ridiculously oversized bathroom in his suite at the Peninsula Hotel in New York City, in front of the big mirror, alone, talking to himself. He was buttoning his blue shirt, wrapping a tie around his neck, getting dressed for what he knew would be a defining day in his long, difficult, amazing career.

  “I don’t care how much you’re offering,” he whispered, leaning up close to the mirror. “This company ain’t for sale.
”

  After a quick breakfast, Anson’s limousine dropped him off on West Street, in the heart of Wall Street. As he walked into the entrance, Anson couldn’t remember how many times he walked Wall Street’s corridors in his long career. For good or bad, Wall Street was an incontrovertible fact of life for a CEO of a public company. It was your most hated enemy and it was your best friend, your ally and your adversary. It had financed Anson Energy’s rise and it would be there, God forbid, if his company faltered, like a vulture, ready to pick through the scraps of his life’s work without apology.

  The front entrance to Goldman Sachs was nondescript, elegant, empty. It was an entrance so austere that only the most prestigious financial institution in the world could get away with it. That, of course, was what made it so pretentious. This plain, unadorned space seemed to be saying “Fuck you, buddy, we’re so powerful we don’t need to impress you or anyone else for that matter.”

  Anson took the elevator to the fifty-fourth floor and the office of Patrick Perry, a managing director at Goldman, and chief investment banker for Anson Energy.

  Anson had known Perry for more than two decades. Perry had handled Anson Energy’s first debt placement, a tranche of high-yield bonds totaling $45 million, a laughable amount of money today, but a creative and crucial piece of financing that allowed the small oil exploration company to acquire first six oil leases, all near its Pecos in the Permian Basin of West Texas. All of them were dusters—dry as the desert, containing less oil than your average backyard swimming pool, except for one, a rocky old section of land they called Saranox 66, a piece of land the owner threw in with the other five leases because he thought it was a dog. A piece of land that struck it big less than a year later and turned Anson Energy into a player.

  Perry and Anson liked each other. Anson had grown to rely on Perry’s sage advice, and Perry, in turn, had risen at Goldman on the back of Anson Energy’s astounding growth.