Nothing Ventured

by Roderick Price

  They were threatening her. They were offering to buy her. She either needed to let them off easy on the permitting process for their stinking refinery in Superior or they’d do everything they could to get rid of her. Not only did they want to scare her, now they had Conlan offering her the lieutenant governor position in the next election as part of the package. She had calmed down as Jensen had eased her back through it, but now when she took a step back, it made her mad as hell.

  “Oh boys,” she started in, “I think I’m starting to get it. You want to buy me off so you can make a fortune up in Superior. We should have shut that stinking, inefficient, old refinery down twenty years ago and you know it. Now I get to keep playing politics with you fellas. If I let you buy me off on this deal, you’ve got me over a barrel for the rest of my career. No pun intended.”

  “Taylor,” said Amery, “nobody is buying you off. This is a great opportunity for you, and it would be good for The Party.” He was a snake if there ever was one, thought Taylor. The money guy wants the money. They were all ganging up on her.

  “If you lie down with the dogs you get fleas, Amery. Did anybody ever tell you that?” said Taylor looking at the oil company guys.

  Things were clearly not going as the four of them had planned. The harder they pushed, the deeper they sunk.

  Taylor wasn’t finished.

  “Nobody is going to bring me in here and threaten me like this and not suffer the consequences!” Taylor thought she could keep her cool. She always kept her cool. But this wasn’t the steps of the Douglas County Courthouse; this was a private setting and she was going to let them have it. Looking about the room, she was sure at least one of them had shared the thought that this might go very badly and now she was waiting for the next move.

  “Look honey,” said Sheldon, “we didn’t really want to get into this tonight, but you are forcing the issue. So, we want to let you know we understand if you have other concerns about your so-called political viability.” Sheldon’s sudden smugness took her by surprise.

  “I’m not thinking about my political viability,” said Taylor, “I’m thinking about what’s right and wrong. You guys just don’t get that, do you?” Taylor caught the four of them exchanging glances.

  “Well, on the scale of right and wrong, Ms. Thompson, where does banging the lieutenant governor fall? Would you say it falls on the “right” side because you had fun doing it, or on the “wrong” side, because it just so happens the dumb shit has been married twenty-two years and has three kids. What do you have to say for yourself now, you self-righteous little bitch?”

  Taylor felt ill. Why hadn’t they just come out and told her they knew right away. She was speechless. She stood looking from Mack to the governor, back to Mack. Mack continued; “Now we need to know right now whether you are going to work with us on this or not. Because if not, we think the good people of Wisconsin need to know that they are using their hard-earned tax dollars to have the Head of the Department of Natural Resources screw the lieutenant governor, on government time no less. Personally, based on the pictures I’ve seen, I think you could do better, but we’d best not get into the details right now, should we, Ms. Thompson?”

  Taylor shuddered. Jesus, they had pictures? Somehow, they had gotten pictures. Clearly, they had already shared them with the governor. She could tell that by looking at him. The room was closing in around her.

  “Now one more time Taylor, let me say it slowly. We need to know if we’ve got your attention on this matter or not, and Taylor, we need to know right now what it’s going to be. Don’t start telling us you need to consult with that faggot litigator of yours, Jason, and that you’ll get back to us. And please don’t start telling those little stories about dogs and fleas because they’ll just come back to haunt you now, won’t they, Ms. Thompson?”

  She was done unless she said yes. In six months, she’d be lieutenant governor and positioned to inherit the governorship when Conlan completed his next term. If she said no, they’d pour all their money into beating Conlan and getting rid of her—even if it took a scandal to do it. Taylor walked easily over to the set of decanters on the table and poured herself a nice, big scotch with no ice. She defiantly looked around the room at each of them as she sipped the scotch. Just five minutes later, the men were back downstairs enjoying the evening. Taylor left word for Jason that she wasn’t feeling well, and then asked for one of the governor’s cars to take her home.

  CHAPTER 17

  The National Petroleum Refinery Association wasn’t really a refinery association at all. Oh, it had been one a long time ago. Now the NPRA had functions for all kinds of people throughout the year and anyone even close to any part of the industry was welcome to attend. A lot of the meetings were still held by short-sleeved-shirt engineers to discuss the latest cat cracker technology or read the latest heat transfer papers they had written. Some would center on the latest trends in computer technology or information technology issues. Occasionally there would be an executive lunch out at Turtle Creek in Dallas or the Westin Galleria in Houston, where one of the industry’s veterans would rail away at the lack of a national energy policy or the error of the latest addition to government regulations. Easily the most interesting group, and also the ones who usually started their two-day conferences with a brief informational presentation out behind the first tee, was the NPRA Crude Oil and Products Supply and Distribution Group—the oil traders. They were made up principally of a group of not more than two hundred and fifty men from twenty or so companies around the U.S. Most knew each other by name and company, many dealing with each other daily in the sale and purchase of dizzying volumes of oil and petroleum products. Some had worked together at one company or another along the way before, perhaps, falling on particularly rough times at one company or moving on to another with greater promises of responsibility, benefits, and bonuses.

  Martin’s secretary had been to a bunch of nice NPRA dinners over the years. Anita knew firsthand what a good time the guys had at these things. She was single, with a child, so some of the guys thought she made for a good date. And when she got dressed up, she looked damn good. Anita had been looking forward to the Houston NPRA dinner coming up. She assumed that Hilton would find a way to invite her. But then Hilton had let her know that he would have to take his wife to the annual dinner again this year because to be seen in such a setting with Anita would just be, in Hilton’s words, “bad for business.” Anita knew that Hilton and his wife had themselves “taken some time away” from each other. She was surprised that he couldn’t figure out a way for them to go to the dinner together. Most of the traders usually brought their wives, or if single, then their best girlfriend to this event. It hadn’t helped Anita’s chances that this year it was at Café Annie in Houston. It was right in Hilton’s backyard and Anita surmised that Hilton’s wife might find out about it if Hilton attended with somebody else. Often, these events were in Boca Raton, or New York, or Laguna Nigel, and then, lots of girlfriends showed up. When Hilton first told her about it a couple of months ago, she tried to shrug it off. She was sure he would try to make it up to her by asking her to the next West Coast or Phoenix getaway. But in the last two weeks leading up to tonight, it had just eaten at her, and she had made up her mind to do something about it. Lately, she found herself thinking more and more about what it would be like to be Mrs. Hilton Sinclair. If she was ever going to get anywhere, she was going to have to start taking some steps to move in a direction that held some promise for her and her young daughter.

  “You know Martin,” Anita began, “you just aren’t any fun to be around anymore.”

  Back in March she had used some petty cash to buy an expensive coffee maker for the office, along with a dozen exotic blends of beans. Now part of her morning ritual was to select a specialty coffee for the day, grind the beans and keep the pot full. Martin had started letting her know which ones were his favorites, and over time she made sure she only stocked the ones tha
t he really liked.

  “What makes you say that?” said Martin.

  As he often did, Martin never looked up when she came into the room. He was staring intensely at the oversized display monitor of his computer workstation; a seismic map, not unlike a giant thumbprint, was absorbing all his attention. Anita put the cup down on his hot pad next to the computer, and Martin, still without looking up, reached over and grabbed the steaming cup and sipped it carefully.

  “You just used to always be doing stuff ,and now, as far as I know, you don’t do anything but work.” Martin continued looking carefully at the screen, but Anita could tell she had his attention.

  “Just because I don’t keep you updated on my calendar doesn’t mean I don’t do anything.”

  It sounded a little hollow, even to him, and of course the truth was he hadn’t done anything but work since he moved out. There wasn’t much to do, so he had found himself working. There had been more nights than he wished to remember getting home at eight or nine in the evening, eating a microwaved dinner, watching television and going to bed. Doing anything else just didn’t seem to make sense right now.

  “I’m not saying you’re getting boring in your old age,” said Anita good naturedly, “I’m just saying you’re taking all of this stuff, including work, much too seriously. You’ve got to live, too, you know.”

  He was still looking at the computer screen quietly, thinking about what she had said. It had taken him four or five days to tell her they were separated. He really didn’t have anyone else he could talk to about it. As they talked, she said she had felt some of the same things he had been feeling when her husband moved out, leaving her alone with her daughter. If I just had the kids, I could make it through just fine, thought Martin.

  “I’m not saying you’re not living,” continued Anita; “I’m just saying you need to give yourself a break once in a while. Have some fun.”

  Martin slowly pushed back in his chair and grasped the coffee cup opposite the handle. Anita was half sitting on the edge of his desk, leaning toward the workstation. The cup was hotter than Martin had thought, and he switched it quickly to his other hand, glancing casually toward Anita. Martin had always found her attractive but was careful to never show her much attention. She was looking especially nice today. Martin knew she had a thing going on with some oil trader named “Hilton” and Martin wondered if this was another day when Anita and Hilton had “lunch plans,” as Anita usually referred to it. Suddenly, he realized he couldn’t remember how they had gotten into this conversation and he had no idea where it was heading.

  “Hey, by the way, where are the Athabasca slides? Are you done with those yet?” He was trying to steer things back toward business. Easier that way. Definitely simpler.

  “Finished them Friday, “said Anita, “Karl’s got them, said he wanted to make a few changes. Big surprise.” She laughed, seeing Martin nod and glance back at the geological image on the screen. Anita took a breath and continued. “Look Martin, I was wondering if you would do me a favor.”

  Martin hoped she would keep talking, but she stopped, awaiting his reply before she went on. “Sure, what do you need?”

  “Well, almost every year I go to this fancy dinner for the NPRA. I really have a blast seeing everybody I know and getting all dressed up and I really want to go again this year.”

  “Then you should go.” Martin felt like it was his turn to say something more, but he was careful to not say anything more before looking back at Anita.

  “Well, this year I can’t go with the guy I usually go with, and I was wondering if I could go with you.”

  Martin could feel his face flush. Flattered, he tried to stay cool but then floundered around for the right thing to say next. “So, you want me to take you to this dinner?”

  “It wouldn’t be like you were taking me as a date or anything. I just really want to go to this thing and I’m certainly not going to go alone. That would look desperate. It’d be like, you know, you were my escort.”

  “I would be your escort,” Martin repeated haltingly. He knew Anita well enough to know what this was really about. She wanted to see and be seen. In a way he felt sorry for her. Probably wanted to see if she could find some husband material. He didn’t blame her.

  “Well, maybe not my escort. More like my friend. We would sit together at dinner, but there are a lot of people who just bring a friend along because it’s just a really good time; and it’s free! Basin’s a corporate sponsor.”

  Martin was dumbfounded, yet comfortable with the idea. He really hadn’t been out for some time and he wasn’t going to get a better, safer opportunity than this to get out and see some people. There would be a lot of his old Houston geologist buddies there from Empire Oil. Carefully he ceded his last chance to retreat.

  “Just for the record, when is this dinner going to be held?”

  “Tonight,” said Anita with a big smile. “It’s at Café Annie. Drinks are at seven, black tie optional, but everybody wears a tux. Jessie loaned me a great dress. You’re going to help me out, aren’t you?”

  He wanted time to think about it. He really needed a week to get mentally prepared to go out like this. He had the tux, but he needed to get a new tuxedo shirt. He needed more time. “How about if I pick you up at about seven at your place?” said Martin.

  Anita gave him a big smile. “Yes! You gotta deal, Martin. I’ll go draw you a map so you can find my place.”

  Martin sat stunned. He stared blankly back at the computer screen. His watch said it was only 10:45, but suddenly it seemed as though a lot had gone on that day. Today, tonight, thought Martin, I’m going out tonight. Just the sound of it seemed foreign, distant, calling to him as if it were not him. But it was. He left at 11:00 and found himself picking through the stacks of tuxedo shirts and bow ties at Jack’s Formal Wear. For some reason, it seemed to him like these places were always named after a Jack or a Harold or a Walter. He took his time letting the salesman finally convince him that he needed to go with a more updated look, and in a little over half an hour he was out of the store and driving down Westheimer. Instinctively, as he came up on Chimney Rock, he put on his left-hand turn signal and waited for the green arrow. It was still one of the longest lights in town. The day had remained humid, but was unseasonably cool. Looking toward downtown he could see only the west end of the Galleria. The Williams Tower, still billed as the tallest building west of the Mississippi, loomed above him. Looking south he saw Rodeo, or whatever remained of Rodeo. It had been out of business now for almost a year. It was one of the last, nice country-and-western dance bars to close. Weeds were six feet high in the parking lot. There was a “For Lease” sign right out front, but for some reason, the building sat empty.

  Chimney Rock was finally open now after they had widened it to four lanes. Martin hadn’t actually been down it since he had moved out. Houses that had once sat back proudly on their haunches, masterfully overlooking their surroundings, now seemed teetering precariously on the edge of the curb. His thoughts wandered as he slowly drove through the old neighborhood. He wanted to drive by his house, but he was uncomfortable that the neighbors, or even Liz, would see him here in the neighborhood. They had met a lot of people in the neighborhood, mostly through school, but for some reason they had never made the real friends they were looking to find. The husband was always way too intense, or the wife wasn’t any fun, or the kids weren’t the kind of kids you wanted yours to hang with, or they had too much money or they didn’t have enough. It just had not happened. They slowly gravitated to friends that Liz had made, mostly from her fund-raising business, and the Houstonian, of course. There was a nice cul-de-sac at the end of the street where he could easily make the turn in one pass, but if Liz was in the kitchen, she would spot his car immediately. If she were standing at the sink, she would not miss it. He would seem desperate, vulnerable, and lonely. He slowed to a crawl as he passed the intersection and scanned the block for all he was wort
h. No action. No cars in the driveway. No kids in the yard, nothing going on. Continuing up the street, he made a big, slow turn onto Memorial and less than ten minutes later stopped by his apartment.

  No messages on the answering machine. No mail of any consequence in the box. He thought about leaving immediately and stopping somewhere for a sandwich, maybe Allegro. Then he thought better of it and found himself drinking an extra-large glass of milk from a plastic cup and downing a huge slice of Swiss cheese, buried in butter between two dark slices of heavy, rough rye bread. Back at work, the afternoon dragged on without mercy. He told Anita she could leave at four. He found himself slinking out the door at four thirty, hoping that no one would really notice or think anything of it. Finally realizing that no one would care, and even if they did, they would probably just assume he was off to a late afternoon meeting at some other oil company to do the geologist thing.

  Anita looked almost too good when he picked her up. He had never thought about it much before, but she generally did not wear much makeup at work, and tonight, with a bit more makeup, and a great dress, she looked awesome. She talked nonstop all the way to the party, leaving Martin little time to sort out his thinking or put on a frame of mind for the evening. Together they had decided to refer to each other throughout the evening simply as “friends from work.” Somehow this helped Martin feel okay. At the same time, he realized he had been separated now for just over six weeks, and he was escorting a woman who would undoubtedly be one of the better-looking women at the dinner. Martin pulled up to valet and together they entered the restaurant. It was a beautifully done place, heavy in dark oak, pale wheat-colored walls and gentle, even lighting. It was large, and they had closed the whole place for the evening. Only in the oil business, thought Martin wryly as they walked up to the reception desk. Anita found her nametag immediately, and then, much to his surprise, found one made out for him, learning that she had given them a quick call to finalize Basin’s reservation. There were people in the bar area to the left. People standing out in the dining area with drinks. Platters of hors d’oeuvres. Even in the Wild Game Room upstairs, Martin could see couples visiting out on the small balcony that overlooked the main dining room. All of the men were in tuxedos, just like Anita had said. Many were in cowboy boots, some smoking cigars, almost comical in appearance. A few even had on cowboy hats, which eight or nine years ago would have been de rigueur for a party such as this. The ice sculpture was an old pumping rig and there was some sort of black liquid—Martin guessed coffee—that was supposed to look like oil flowing out of the rig and washing back down around the base of the sculpture.