The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set

by Thomas Scott

  They called him City. He drove a fancy car that never seemed to get dirty, and wore expensive suits with pinstripes so subtle they acted like eye magnets. His hundred dollar haircut looked like it had been photo-shopped from a magazine cover.

  “You’re talking about fracking, aren’t you?” Charlie said.

  City gave them an answer that said absolutely nothing, the kind of answer a politician might give a TV reporter when asked to state their position on congressional term limits. “We prefer to call it by its proper name, which is hydraulic fracturing, and it has been used as one of the key methods of extracting unconventional gas resources since 1947. They don’t tell you that on the evening news, do they? All they talk about are the dangers. Well, let me tell you something gentlemen, natural gas extraction by way of hydraulic fracturing is the future of this country. Without it, we’ll be right back where we were in the seventies…at the mercy of the Middle East, or worse, the Russians. Everyone thinks Putin is just a figurehead, but I’ll tell you just as sure as I’m sitting here, they’ve already claimed the Arctic Circle as sovereign territory and even with the mid-terms out of the way, we’re coming up on a lame duck session. The bottom line is this: Washington is afraid to even blink, let alone try to stare down the Russians. Or maybe they just don’t care. I’m not entirely sure. But the industry is concerned. Very concerned. They are in fact, as concerned as I’ve ever seen them and I’ve been in this business a long time.”

  “Fuck a bunch of Russians,” Charlie said. “I don’t give two shits about the Russians…or the Arabs. We export more food to them than we keep for ourselves. Let ‘em eat their oil. Here’s my bottom line: My land is all I’ve ever had, all I’ve ever wanted, and all I’ll ever need. Playing the patriot card with me won’t work.”

  The other men nodded their agreement. “Charlie’s right.” Stutzman said. “Our families have farmed this land for generations. We’re doing something good. We’re feeding people.”

  This time City did laugh. “So are we. But ours have a much bigger appetite, I guarantee it. You know what else they don’t tell you on TV? The easy oil is gone and it’s been gone for a long time. We’re pulling natural gas out of shale and tar sand because other than going five miles deep in the Gulf for low-grade crude, that’s what we’ve got left.

  “What you’ve got left is exactly this: Bank notes you can’t pay in full because your crop insurance only covers you up to fifty percent. Yes, that’s right, I checked. It’s part of my job. And while fifty percent might cover your nut through the winter, you won’t have any money to buy the fuel or seed you’ll need to plant next spring—rain or no rain. The hard truth of the matter is I’m all you’ve got left. This isn’t a high pressure sales pitch…it’s an accounting of the facts. You’re each being offered two-million dollars up front, with a guaranteed cap on back end royalties that’ll triple that number inside of two years. Let me be blunt: The people I represent? They’re heavy hitters. That’s a polite way of saying they don’t screw around. A week from now you’ll be sitting down at the greasy spoon talking about do we or don’t we and they’ll already be gone and you won’t even know it.”

  Then, trying to sound like a farmer: “I’d think it over, right quick, I were you.”

  They thought about it for three days, both individually and together, the clocks in their heads ticking down like a time bomb. The bomb wouldn’t explode with a loud bang…it’d fizzle out like a dud, but the end result would be the same. They’d all be dead, financially speaking. Eventually they all came around…except for Charlie Esser. And Charlie’s hold-out was what brought them together again this morning.

  “I just don’t see it,” Mizner said. He looked around the table. “I’ve talked to him, one-on-one, and I know you all have too. He’s not going to budge.”

  “The hell he ain’t,” Lipkins said. “There’s just too much at stake. I won’t have it.”

  “Well, it’s his land, Cal. We can’t exactly force him to sell,” Conrad said.

  “What about Martha?” Graves said. Martha Esser was Charlie’s wife, who had recently taken a nasty fall on a set of hardwood stairs with an even nastier blow to the side of her head on the way down. She was currently in the hospital, floating in and out of consciousness.

  “What about her?” Lipkins said. “Martha’s a mean old hag who never worked a day in her life.”

  “Jesus Christ, Cal, that’s a little over the top,” Conrad said. “How many times has she cooked for you?”

  “Fuck you, Vern. She’s a vile woman and always has been. You think Charlie married her because he loved her? He married her to sit at the head of this table. And I’ll tell you something else, just because you used to roll her when you thought no one was looking doesn’t mean you get to—”

  Conrad was across the table and had Lipkins by the throat before anyone knew what was happening. The other men jumped up and pulled them apart, but not before Stutzman caught an elbow in his left eye.

  “That’s enough,” Stutzman shouted after they were pulled apart. He rubbed at his eye. “Goddamn it, that hurts.”

  “You’re gonna have a mouse,” Mizner said. “And a good one at that.”

  Stutzman pointed at Lipkins and Conrad. “Sit the fuck down. We gotta figure this out.”

  They all sat the fuck down and eventually Graves said, “So what are we going to do? I was asking about Martha. Wouldn’t Charlie need her signature or something too? She might be a mean old hag…” He glanced at Conrad when he said it. “But Cal’s right, Vern. It’s just as much her land as it is Charlie’s. Maybe even more so if they had one of them there pre-nups.”

  Conrad didn’t want to hear it. Wasn’t even listening. “Fuck you, Basil,” he said. “And you too, Cal. So we’ve had a little fun along the way. So what? Besides, it was before they was married…mostly. I’ll tell you all something, I still sort of have feelings for her. She weren’t never mean to me, so I’d appreciate the hell out of it if you all would show just the smallest bit of respect for the woman.”

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, Vern” Lipkins said. “Give it a rest. I think I speak for everyone here when I say nobody gives two genuine shits about your feelings. This is a county co-op board meeting, not a group therapy session. We’ve worked all our lives for what we’ve got, and I for one am not going to just sit here and let one bad season and a heavy-handed board chairman ruin us.”

  They all thought about that grim little nugget for a while.

  Then Conrad said, “You guys know that Charlie beats on her.”

  Graves: “He does not.”

  Conrad: “He does.”

  Mizner: “That rumor’s older’n you are, Vern.”

  Conrad: “Ain’t no rumor, Angus. She’s talked to me about it. I seen the bruises too. Hits her where it don’t show.”

  Lipkins: “So she’s not just been cooking for you, huh Vern? Sounds to me like she’s been cooking.”

  Vernon Conrad pointed his finger at Lipkins. “I swear to Christ, Cal, if you don’t shut your trap, and I mean right this second, I’m gonna shut it for you.”

  Lipkins sensed that he’d hit Conrad’s limit and held up his hands, palms out, though a ghost of a smirk remained splayed across his mouth. Conrad turned away, his face red.

  “I still don’t believe it,” Graves said. “Besides, knowing Martha—no offense, Vern—if there was any violence, it was probably self-defense on Charlie’s part.”

  Conrad shook his head. His forearms rested on the table, his fists clenched.

  Stutzman looked at Mizner and Graves. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but Vern’s right. It’s not a rumor. Charlie knocks her around, time to time. Nothing too serious, and not very often, but he does like to let some steam out once in a while, especially if he’s been drinking.”

  Conrad shot Lipkins a look. Mizner too. “See. Like I said, ain’t no rumor. He beats her.” Then to Stutzman, almost as an afterthought, “And just how in the hell do you know about it?”

/>   Stutzman ignored the question. “I’ll tell you something,” he said, “and this is a little weird, but right after she fell, Charlie got pretty hammered one night down at the Flat-Tap.” The Flatrock Tap & Grill was one of the nicer establishments in the area, if your definition of nicer was someplace that didn’t have dirt floors and indoor picnic tables. “I didn’t think much about it at the time because, you know, Martha was hurt, and he seemed upset, but now that I think about it…” He let it drift.

  Conrad leaned forward. “What? What’d he say?”

  Stutzman rubbed his swollen eye. “He was good and drunk, talking out of turn. Probably didn’t even realize what he was saying. But he told me that they’d always had power of attorney papers—him for her, and her for him—in case anything ever happened. Said they had plenty of life insurance too. Million dollar whole-life policies, one for each of them. Said they’d had ‘em for a coon’s age and if anything ever happened to her, he’d be set for life.”

  Conrad leaned back and crossed his arms. “So what? I got life insurance. Plenty of folks do. Though mine ain’t no million dollars.”

  “It wasn’t as much what he said, but what he left out,” Stutzman said. “He said if anything ever happened to her. He sort of went on and on about it. Never said a word about if something happened to him…that she’d be set for life. Sounded like he was sort of hoping something would happen to her. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m beginning to think that maybe Martha didn’t fall down the stairs all by herself. Maybe she was helped down the stairs. Head first.”

  “You know what?” Lipkins said, his rugged face turning sour. “It’s no wonder he doesn’t want to take the deal. He doesn’t need to.”

  “What do you mean?” Graves said.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what he means,” Mizner said. “He doesn’t want to take the deal because when Martha goes, he’s going to have all the money he needs.”

  “Be leaving quite a bit on the table if what City says is true,” Conrad said. “We’ve got the deal in black and white, on paper.”

  “That’s true,” Lipkins said. “But think about it for a minute. He wouldn’t be leaving that much on the table. We’re getting two million up front, plus a percentage on royalties that’ll triple our take in two years. That’s six million.”

  “That’s what I’m saying,” Conrad said. “He’d be leaving five million on the table over two years.”

  “But it’s not five million,” Stutzman said. He’d caught the logic right away. “Not from Charlie’s perspective. He’s got over two thousand acres of land. That’s almost half as much as the rest of us combined. Anybody here besides me talked to an accountant yet? That two million you’re hoping to get? Uncle’s going to take almost half of it right off the top. Now you’re down to a million and change.”

  “Still gonna get the royalties,” Graves said.

  Stutzman nodded. “Yup. And that’s a lot of money, I’ll grant you. But that’s where the land comes in, especially from Esser’s point of view, because it’s the amount of land that matters. That’s why the gas people only want the mineral rights. We’ll still own the land, but we can’t farm it. In fact, once they start the extraction process the only thing we can do, and in fact will have to do, is pay taxes on it. So between the tax on the two million in front money, the land taxes, plus the tax he’ll have to pay on the royalties, he’ll be better off if Martha is gone. Charlie’s got over two thousand acres that’ll no longer qualify for the farm tax-break because you actually have to farm the land to get the credit. The life insurance settlement is tax free.”

  “Here’s something else to think about,” Mizner said. “If he holds out and doesn’t take the deal, and Martha is out of the picture, we’re finished, each and every one of us. Charlie’s gonna collect a big fat life insurance check for a million bucks—tax-free, mind you—and ride out the winter in style. When spring rolls around he’ll offer to buy us out for pennies on the dollar. And you know what? We’d have to sell. City’s right. We might make it through the winter, but come spring, we’ll be busted.”

  “Esser, that Jew bastard,” Lipkins said. “I saw him talking to City day before yesterday and they were laughing and back slapping like long lost buddies. I’ll bet that son of a bitch is putting a side deal together with him. He buys us out next spring with his life insurance money, then signs with the gas people. Now instead of two million up front, he’s getting twelve, plus the royalties…all from our land.”

  “He’ll still have to pay the taxes,” Conrad said.

  “He’ll be able to afford the taxes, you moron. The interest on the royalties alone would pay the taxes and he’ll still have the after tax portion of the original twelve million. I’m guessing he could somehow squeak by on that.”

  “I’m not a moron.”

  Lipkins ignored him and spoke directly to Stutzman. “What’re we gonna do, Hank? Hell, for all we know, he’s over at the hospital right now with a pillow over Martha’s face.”

  “I don’t know,” Hank said. “But we better think of something, and quick. What we really need is time—an extension on the offer. If we could get more time out of City we’ll have some room to maneuver…to plan. We’re all supposed to meet here tomorrow morning anyway—regular business—so I’ll call City. Maybe I can get him and his people to extend us some time and we’ll all make one more push together at Charlie in the morning. Agreed?”

  They all nodded in agreement.

  Vern, still thinking of Martha, had tears in his eyes.

  The next morning Charlie Esser climbed out of his pickup and walked across the gravel parking lot of the co-op building, dawn still more than ninety minutes out. Inside, the overhead fluorescents buzzed to life, the flickering light ricocheting off the windows as he made his way to the coffee supplies. He filled the basin with fresh tap water, separated a paper filter from the stack then filled the basket with a few scoops and set the machine to brew.

  A few minutes later he poured himself a cup and carried it back outside. He set his coffee on the rail that fronted the co-op’s porch, leaned against the side of the building and lit a cigarette. A crisp breeze swirled against the front of the building and it had some teeth. A fat squirrel ran past and stopped next to the steps, its cheeks packed with food. It sat up on its hind legs for a moment, checked its surroundings, then scampered away.

  Morning in the country.

  The others would be along any minute now. Charlie sipped his coffee and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Henry Stutzman arrived before Charlie was finished with his smoke. Both men were dressed alike: Oshkosh overalls, blue denim work shirts, billed John Deere hats that had once been green, and scuffed steel-toed work boots with the tread lugs mostly worn away. Stutzman was lean and solid, not an ounce of fat anywhere, though he had a bit of a drinker’s nose that made his face look a little front heavy. He climbed the three steps of the porch with a measured effort. Farming did that, made you feel young and old at the same time. He tipped his head upwards then nodded through the smoke. “Chuck.”

  “Hank. Coffee’s on. What the hell happened to your eye?”

  Stutzman ignored the question. “Anyone else yet?”

  “Not just yet. Any minute now, I imagine.”

  Stutzman walked into the building and let the door bang shut on its springs. Charlie felt the vibration race up his back like boot spurs against his spine. A few seconds later he looked out at the road and saw Angus Mizner, Basil Graves, Vernon Conrad, and Cal Lipkins coming in hard, a single line of trucks that bobbed along the gravel pack, a pale dust plume in tow disappearing into the darkness. The four men parked their trucks, climbed the steps and moved past Charlie without a word. They all smelled faintly of diesel fuel, feed corn, manure, and bacon.

  Charlie pushed himself off the side of the building and ground out his cigarette under the toe of his boot. He shook his head, dumped the coffee on the gravel and followed everyone in.


  Too goddamned early in the morning.

  Stutzman brought them up to speed, but it was mostly for show. City had said no to an extension and hammered home the fact that it was an all or nothing deal…that they all had to agree. His reasons were complicated and his explanations convoluted, all dealing with geography and the geometry of something called angular access, which none of them really understood. Their land bordered each other’s in one way or another, but the only viable access to the best pockets of gas—City had called them domes—would be primarily through Charlie’s fields. If he held out, none of them would get a nickel.

  So, decision time. They’d all sign or they wouldn’t.

  The contract was on the table in front of Stutzman. He had a pen in his hand. Graves, Lipkins, Conrad, and Mizner had already signed. Charlie had his Leatherman knife out, cleaning the dirt beneath a thumbnail. Stutzman shook his head, sighed, and said, “It’s just too much money, Charlie. I’m taking the deal, and I’m begging you to take it too. We’ve got the auctioneer coming out next week. I’m selling it all to the highest bidder…every last piece of it, from the machinery right down to the goddamned spoons. The lowest bidder can have the rest. It’s not like we’ll need the money after this. Gail wants to move to Arizona and be closer to the grandkids.” He signed the contract, set the pen on top of the papers and slid the pile over to Charlie.