by Jo Barrett
The Golden Buddha’s stats were volleyed back and forth like football scores. He’d been credited with discovering more than fifty new oil fields, including the Bartlett Shale, which had just made the record books with its sizable million barrels a day production.
Dylan had hired the best because he needed the best. And the Golden Buddha wouldn’t attach himself to any project he deemed “unworthy.” Dylan was giving him a percentage of the well if it “made hole,” and even if it ended up dry, Einrich Von Hearn still stood to make a quarter million dollars’ salary for his six weeks of work.
“Ah hallo, Meester Grant,” Einrich said as Dylan strode toward him. The two men shook hands, and Dylan noticed how much the geologist resembled Santa Claus. His hair was a shock of white, and he sported a bushy white beard and eyebrows.
Dylan couldn’t determine the geologist’s age, but from the crinkles sprouting across his forehead and the laugh lines near his eyes, he guessed Einrich was somewhere in the neighborhood of sixty-five.
“How are we making out?” Dylan asked. He’d been requesting constant status reports that he then disseminated to C. Todd Hartwell, Steve, and, of course, Mr. Deep Pockets, Jonathan Whipley.
Einrich sailed his hand across the air as if drawing an imaginary line. “We are sailing in good wind, but too early for good news!” he boomed.
Dylan couldn’t help but chuckle. In the oil and gas business, delays were de rigueur, and patience a virtue. Einrich probably thought of Dylan as being a bit too in-his-face. Perhaps it was best to leave the Golden Buddha alone inside the mobile command center—doing what he did best.
“How deep are we?” Dylan asked, glancing at one of the computer monitors.
“Fourteen thousand feet and counting!” Einrich crowed. He clapped his hands together sharply, causing Dylan to jump.
“Two thousand feet more and bam!” Einrich clapped. “We have our answer!”
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed,” Dylan said.
“No need for fingers of the crossing!” Einrich hooted, grabbing Dylan by the shoulders and giving him a small shake.
“It will be as it shall be!”
Ah, Dylan thought. So this is why he’s called “the Golden Buddha.”
“So you’re telling me the path to enlightenment is right outside this window, hey Einrich?” Dylan smiled, motioning out the window of the mobile command unit to the giant drilling rig that sat like a rocket ship in front of them.
“Exact!” Einrich said, whipping his finger through the air like a maestro at the symphony.
“I guess I didn’t need to wear my lucky T-shirt, then?” Dylan pointed to his shirt.
“Not so nice shirt, I agree.” Einrich laughed and poked Dylan in the arm. “This shirt good for boy, not for man.”
Dylan glanced down at the eagle emblazoned across his chest and realized he did look foolish. Who was he trying to be? Kurt Cobain? Bono? The rock star of the oil and gas industry?
“Next time, I’ll wear my Speedo,” Dylan promised.
The Golden Buddha tugged at his white beard and guffawed up at the ceiling.
Forty-nine
Shelby Lynn Pierce and Bo Harlan were officially “an item,” according to Holly Drash, the gossip columnist at PaperCity magazine.
The pair had been spotted dining in a private corner booth at Café Annie, and according to one of the waiters on duty that night, Bo Harlan had given Shelby Lynn an orange Hermès gift bag—the contents of which could only be guessed, but many surmised that he’d given her the gold and white crocodile clutch from the new fall line that she’d been seen carrying everywhere.
This crocodile clutch was now perched in a prominent position on the table next to Kathleen.
“I love your handbag,” Kat said.
Shelby Lynn smiled coyly, leaned over, and planted a kiss on Bo Harlan’s ruddy cheek. “Bo has impeccable taste for a man.”
Kathleen smiled and raised her wineglass in a silent toast to Wild Bo Harlan. She was sitting at the head of the tasting table that had been arranged by the French caterers she was about to hire for the Annual Foundation Dinner. The goal was to taste every item on the menu to determine which would be the best for serving at the biggest fund-raising dinner of the year.
Shelby Lynn had suggested a cheese course consisting of Brie, blue, and “the other stinky one.”
Kat knew that more than half the women at her event wouldn’t dare touch a piece of cheese, so she countered with tureens of tomato consommé, the warm pear salad, followed by a sorbet palate cleanser, and possible entrees of duck au jus, veal, or chicken paillard.
Bo Harlan was focusing on tasting all the deserts and was deftly gobbling up the chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce. He looked thrilled when Shelby Lynn stuck out her pink tongue and licked chocolate off the tip of his nose.
Aunt Lucinda was polishing off the bread basket and commenting favorably on “the butter.”
“It’s not margarine, it’s real butter,” she announced, dunking her bread into the butter plate and sipping her Earl Grey tea. She was wearing her island wrist bangles, which jangled each time she moved her arm.
Kinkaid Whipley was drowning herself in wine. She’d “tasted” six out of the nine bottles. But instead of pouring herself the typical tasting portions, she’d gone ahead and filled her glass each time.
Kat had recently befriended Jonathan Whipley’s wife inside the small gym at the Royal Arms, and the two had bonded instantly.
Kat was pleased when Kinkaid Whipley turned out to be down-to-earth, funny as heck, and a little on the chubby side for Houston society standards. The doughnut heir’s wife was a solid size twelve, and Kat was thrilled to see that she wasn’t one of those plastic surgery stick figures.
Kinkaid Whipley spoke with a heavy East Coast accent, and when she said things like “water,” it sounded like “wooder.”
She also called Shelby Lynn “fatso,” which was an obvious joke, and everyone except Shelby Lynn thought it was hugely funny.
Shelby Lynn Pierce looked dazzling in her outfit du jour—a knee-length gold and white Pucci dress, and gold Jimmy Choo stilettos. Around her neck, she wore a diamond and gold choker that looked like it was straight out of a Sotheby’s catalogue.
Shelby Lynn picked at her salad plate and scraped the goat cheese to the side. “I don’t know why they need to dump so much cheese on these salads.” She wrinkled her nose and pushed the plate away.
“For a woman so dead-set on wanting a cheese course, you sure do hate cheese,” Kinkaid Whipley said, raising her wine-glass and gulping back another large “sip.”
“Salads are supposed to be healthy,” Shelby Lynn said. “Otherwise it’s not salad.”
“Do you eat ranch?” Kinkaid asked, taking another swig of wine. “Ranch dressing has more calories than cheese.”
“Duh,” Shelby Lynn said, drumming her perfectly manicured nails on the tabletop.
“Ladies, ladies. Be nice,” Bo Harlan instructed, running his hand through the white streak in his hair.
Kathleen knew that the oilman was thrilled to be invited into the mix, especially as the only man at the tasting table. As if his opinion about the caramel sauce was of top importance.
“You women sure are feisty when it comes to your society dinners,” he said, throwing his arm over Shelby’s thin shoulders.
“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em,” Shelby Lynn said, kissing Bo again.
“So tell me, Bo,” Kathleen said, plucking a strawberry off one of the desert plates. “What makes you such a fine poker player?”
Bo Harlan’s face lit up and he sat back in his chair and crossed his burly arms over his chest. “Well, ladies. It’s like this,” he said. “You’ve gotta know when to hold ’em. And know when to fold ’em.”
“You think we’re stupid, don’t you?” Kathleen asked.
Shelby Lynn plugged her manicured finger into Bo Harlan’s chest. “I want you to know that the best poker player I’ve ever s
een is sitting right here at this table. And it ain’t you.”
Bo Harlan’s eyebrow curled up. “And who might this mysterious card shark be, my dear?”
Shelby Lynn pointed her finger across the table at Aunt Lucinda, who was quietly minding her business and munching her bread.
“Don’t you be pointing at me, child,” Lucinda said, through a mouthful of bread. “Kathleen is way better than this old lady.”
Shelby Lynn swung around in her chair. “I didn’t know you played cards, Kat?”
“I used to play with Pa Pa.” Kat shrugged.
“You up for a quick game?” Bo Harlan asked. He pushed the plates out of the way and pulled a deck of cards from his jacket pocket.
“I don’t know, Bo. I heard you cheat,” Kat said, and then giggled a bit to make it seem as though it weren’t true.
“Person who told you that was a person who lost fair and square and can’t stand the reality of it,” Bo Harlan drawled as he expertly shuffled the deck.
“Who’s in?” he asked abruptly.
“Wait a sec. Don’t we have to bet on something?” Kinkaid Whipley asked. She squirmed in her chair. Grabbing one of the wine bottles off the table, she poured herself another generous “taste.”
“We can play for fun. Or we can play for quarters,” Bo Harlan said, pulling some coins from his pocket and dropping them on the table.
“I don’t think so, Bo. Who do you think you’re dealing with? A bunch of scared little girls?” Shelby Lynn said. She took off her diamond stud earrings and her huge diamond cocktail ring and set them on the table. “Count me in,” she said, giving Bo Harlan a killer femme fatale look.
Kathleen smiled to herself. Some women were vixens and some were damsels. Shelby Lynn Pierce was definitely the former. She had more Sharon Stone in her than anyone, which was why Tate the Cheater had been shunned by Houston society and had fled to Florida or Cabo with his Asian mistress.
Kinkaid Whipley pulled a checkbook from her purse and ripped off a blank check. “My husband’s going to kill me,” she said.
Bo Harlan glanced over at the Duchess. “You in or you out?” he asked.
Lucinda waved her hand as if shooing a fly. “I don’t have blank checks or diamond earrings.”
“How about a year of home-cooked meals, Lucinda?” Shelby Lynn suggested.
Kinkaid Whipley rubbed her palms together. “Ooh, I would love to win a year of home-cooked dinners. Then I could lie to Jonathan and tell him I cooked them myself!”
Bo Harlan shrugged his bullish shoulders. “Why not?”
He turned to Kathleen. “And what are you betting, Ms. King?”
Kathleen paused. “If you win, I’ll let you cochair the annual dinner and put your name on it. So the dinner will be known as the ‘King-Harlan Annual Dinner.’”
Bo Harlan smiled broadly and bucked out his chest. “You sure you want to do that? You’re changing history, here.”
Kathleen reached over, took the cards from Bo’s hand, and shuffled them like a Vegas dealer. Bo watched in amazement as she flicked the cards around the table quickly to each of the women. Lastly she turned to Bo and said, “And what might you want to bet, my dear?”
“I don’t know, Kathleen. Is there anything you want?” Bo asked, winking at her.
Kat knew the oilman was just trying to be flirty in front of Shelby Lynn. She had planned this little card game from start to finish, so her response was quick.
“I want the Clarissa #7,” Kat said, looking Bo Harlan straight in the eye.
“So that’s what this is about. Your boyfriend sent you to do his dirty work?”
Kathleen dealt Bo his cards. “He doesn’t know a thing.”
“Look. I don’t blame Grant Junior for being burned up over this, but his daddy lost that oil well to me a long time ago, and real men don’t shirk their gambling debts,” Bo Harlan announced. He picked up his cards, organized them into a fan, and surveyed the hand he was dealt.
“You know as well as I do that Butch Grant suffered from problems,” Kathleen said.
“Problems he created,” Bo Harlan huffed.
“There’s no denying that,” Kathleen said. “But the Clarissa #7 has sentimental value.”
“Ain’t that sweet. I swear you women would go so much farther on this planet if you remembered the main principle in business.”
“What’s that?”
“It all comes down to money, honey.”
“You don’t look as if you’re hurting for money, honey,” Kathleen said.
“Who says I had to be hurting?”
Kathleen chewed on her bottom lip. “Perhaps I don’t know the main principles of business, but I do know when right is right, and wrong is wrong.”
“You’re in over your head, Kathleen. But I have to admit, you’re one courageous broad.”
Kathleen smiled sweetly at Bo Harlan. “Just shut up and play cards,” she said.
Fifty
Since Kat was spending the afternoon at her tasting lunch, Dylan decided to hit the links. He, Wyatt, Steve, and C. Todd Hartwell rolled to the seventh hole in their golf cart. It was one of those picture-perfect Texas days, the sturdy sky filled with puffy white clouds. A cool breeze swept past Dylan’s cheeks as he jumped out of the cart and headed for the green.
He was wearing his favorite golf outfit—the red shirt preferred by Tiger Woods, along with tan pants and his white golf shoes. Wyatt was wearing shorts, which was odd because he usually preferred to cover up his prosthetic leg. C. Todd Hartwell was wearing flip-flops instead of golf shoes, and an Astros World Series baseball cap.
Steve, well…
When Steve had first arrived at the golf course, it took every ounce of Dylan’s self-control to keep from laughing. Mr. Louisiana was sporting what could only be described as “the Artist Formerly Known as Prince Golfing Outfit.” Bold white pinstripes ran everywhere across his royal purple golfing clothes. His golf shoes were gold. His necklaces were gold. He was wearing a white beret turned backward on his head, and huge white sunglasses with rhinestones on the rims. His golf clubs were custom made, and he hoisted a custom white and purple golf bag that matched his outfit to a T.
“Here comes Fancy Fart,” Wyatt had said.
Dylan had punched his brother hard in the arm to shut him up.
“You gonna stand there and make love to it, or you gonna swing?” C. Todd Hartwell said.
Dylan pulled his driver from the golf bag and stepped up to the tee box. He arched backward and hit a beautiful swing, watching the ball sail two hundred and fifty yards past the sand trap and bounce onto the green.
“Killer shot, man,” C. Todd Hartwell mused. The oilman had been drinking beer since they’d arrived at the Plattsville County golf course, and now his breath smelled heavily of Michelob.
“This golf course blows ass,” Steve muttered as he stepped up to the tee box.
He’s right. Dylan surveyed the rocks and weeds strewn over the course. The Plattsville County course wasn’t fancy like the well-manicured clubs in Houston, but Dylan had chosen it based on proximity.
He wanted to remain close to Tangled Spur, and while the course wasn’t in spitting distance, it was just a few miles from the drill site.
Dylan waited as the other men took their shots. Wyatt was terrible at golf because he couldn’t concentrate. But Dylan’s younger brother plied the men with funny stories of all the hot Vegas chicks he’d “bagged.”
The four men were having a grand ol’ time. They drove the cart to the clubhouse, which was really just a hot dog cart, and ordered a round of dogs and cold beer. C. Todd Hartwell produced a box of Cheerios from his golf bag.
“Got milk?” he asked the guy working the hot dog cart.
“Water, beer, and soda,” the man replied.
“I’ll take a Dr Pepper,” C. Todd said. He popped open the soda can and ate the Cheerios dry from the box.
“You on a diet, dawg?” Steve asked, scratching the chest hair creeping
out of his shirt.
“Don’t ask an oilman about his drill routine,” C. Todd said. He and Dylan both shot each other knowing looks. They’d both been in the oil business long enough to know that superstitions—even in the form of eating Cheerios—were a respected art form.
Dylan squeezed mustard onto his dog and took a bite. His cell phone buzzed in his pocket, and he realized it was the Golden Buddha.
Not good, he thought as he held the phone to his ear.
“We are having some difficulties!” Einrich Von Hearn was shouting into the receiver.
In the background, Dylan could hear a loud whirring noise—the sound of heavy machinery pushing its limits.
“I’ll be there in a jiff!” Dylan shouted, as a large, booming sound came over the phone line.
“Too late!” Einrich shouted as the phone went dead.
Dylan dropped his hot dog. He ran to the edge of the golf course and stared in the direction of the Tangled Spur Ranch. In the distance, he caught a plume of smoke rising into the air.
“Motherfucker,” he murmured.
The other men followed his gaze.
C. Todd Hartwell dropped his box of Cheerios, stomped on it, then kicked it hard across the ground.
“We’re lost. Ain’t we?” he said.
Dylan gritted his teeth. He could kill himself for not wearing his lucky eagle T-shirt—even if he did look like a rock star wannabe.
“Let’s go find out,” he said.
Fifty-one
The poker game was going on its fifth hour. Shelby Lynn Pierce had lost her diamond stud earrings and cocktail ring to Bo Harlan, but he’d promptly given them back to her as “a gift.” She’d allowed the oilman to slip the ring on her finger, and then proceeded to kiss him full on the mouth in a lusty, wet kiss that only Shelby Lynn could pull off.
Kinkaid Whipley was too drunk to continue and had pushed in her markers early. She’d ripped up her blank check in front of everyone and said, “Not today, chumps.”
She and Shelby Lynn Pierce were now giggling and drinking wine in the corner of the room while Kat and Lucinda gave Bo Harlan a run for his money.
