82 Desire (16 page)

“I beg your pardon?”

“Last thing I want to do is get into that kind of trouble.” Galatoire’s on Friday was more like Mardi Gras than lunch. People went at noon and didn’t come out till six
P.M
. It was a place for a power lunch in the networking sense only, unless of course you were the object of the power play—in which case, it was a great place to get you drunk and friendly toward your host. Serious business was sure to be interrupted by table-hopping friends, single women on a flirting mission, even, sometimes, too-friendly waiters with a snootful.

Fortier laughed to show he wasn’t put off. “How about Thursday?”

“I think maybe you ought to give me some idea what this is all about.”

“I’ve got a little business proposition I thought you might be interested in.”

“You? Or United?”

“Why, United, of course. I’m in Acquisitions over here. We’re interested in Jefferson Parish.”

“You mean Hyacinth? Hold it, I bought it from you.”

“Now isn’t that an ironic note?” Fortier laughed long and hard, but to Ray the humor sounded forced.

“Sure,” Ray said. “I’m free Thursday. How about the Rib Room?” Just because Fortier had picked Galatoire’s. He believed in keeping his opponent slightly off-balance. And, till he found out what was going on here, he decided to consider Fortier an opponent.

The guy wasn’t a bad sort—Ray liked him on sight, found him less slippery, maybe a little smarter than your average urban corporate robot. He did notice that they had barely ordered their Caesar salads when Fortier got it on the table that he was married to Councilwoman Bebe Fortier.

Well, Ray didn’t blame him. He was proud of his own wife and he could certainly understand the impulse. As it happened, he and Cille both were great fans of Bebe Fortier, though they lived in St. Tammany Parish, and couldn’t vote for her. “We admire from a distance,” Ray told Fortier, spearing a crouton and jumping right to the point. “Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

His lunch companion was staring out the window at some ragtag redneck street band. “You know, I love those guys. They’ve been playing on Royal Street for years.” He had a dreamy look on his face.

Ray resigned himself. “I like the woman who plays the clarinet in front of the A&P.”

He was going to have to go at United Oil’s pace—they were paying for lunch, they could have it their way.

He was stirring his coffee when Fortier said, “I want to plant a thought in your head—just a tiny little thought, maybe nothing you and I want to act on right away. But here’s the idea—United might be willing to buy your company and let you keep running it.”

“Now, why would they do a thing like that?”

Fortier looked him in the eye. “Money. Why does United Oil do anything?”

They got a good laugh out of that one.

Ray said, “Obviously you know something we don’t.”

“Tell me—if a new reservoir were detected, could you afford to drill?”

Ray shrugged, forbearing to say,
None of your damn business.

Fortier named a number in seven figures, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Think about that. You’d get the bucks, plus a generous salary for doing the same job you do now. But it would be about half the work—think how many headaches we could relieve you of.”

The offer was insulting—less than half what the company was currently worth, even without a new reservoir. Ray wiped his mouth to cover his anger and then forced himself to smile. Sometime during lunch, they had achieved a first-name basis, but Ray said, to make a point, “No, thank you, Mr. Fortier.”

“We’re flexible, of course. That’s certainly not our final offer—it’s just a starting place. Call it a number to think about if you should want to get together some figures of your own.”

Ray had taken Fortier for a smarter cookie than this. He was disappointed, not only in the wasted two hours, but also in the man. He’d liked him. Now he didn’t know what to think.

He said, “I’m really not interested in selling the company at any price,” and with that, he sealed his doom. That was what the damn lunch had been all about—eliciting a secret so open Ray would have told the press if they’d asked him. But of course that didn’t dawn on him till after he’d lost his lease.

It was another month before Fortier called again. Once again, he didn’t sound right on the phone: “Ray! How you been, boy?”

Just a trifle too hearty. “I’ve got some real interesting news for you. Real interesting. How about we have another of our famous lunches?” Like they were best buddies.

Ray said, “My schedule’s pretty full these days. Maybe we could talk about it on the phone.”

“Oh, no. This is much too good for that. Come on—break away for a while.”

“I’d love to, but I really can’t manage these days.”

“Listen, I’m gonna tell you what this is about. We’ve acquired some very exciting seismic data that might affect you. You haven’t acquired your own yet, have you?”

Ray didn’t answer, and Russell jumped in to fill the void.

“Look,” he said, “I’m out front in my car. Why don’t I just come in?”

It would have been churlish to say no, and Ray was feeling churlish—but in spite of himself, he was interested. He sighed mightily, a man much put upon but just this once making a concession: “All right.” If he’d said no, he’d still have his nice house on the North Shore and Ronnie would probably be in MIT instead of UNO.

When Fortier had come in and sat down, Ray glowering at him all the while, he said, “How much do you know about Three-D seismic?”

Ray shrugged. He had known before, during their lunch at the Rib Room, that all that talk of a new reservoir was dependent on what was then new technology—”profiling” done with Three-D seismic equipment.

Fortier said, “Look, it’s very simple. It’s a way to predict oil reservoirs. Nothing to it, really—you put earphones on the surface that can record sound waves. Then you shoot off dynamite, and the sound waves are reflected off the layers of the earth in different ways. If you’ve got gas or oil-bearing reservoirs, you can tell by the way the sound hits and returns to the surface.”

“Sounds like magic,” Ray said, though he well knew it wasn’t.

“Well, it takes some of the guesswork out.” Fortier reached into his briefcase and started unfolding things. “Look at this. This is exciting, boy.”

He handed Ray a document, poster-sized, completely unintelligible. “Ever seen a seismic profile?”

“Are you going to get to the point, Mr. Fortier?”

“Sure. Sure. I just thought you’d like to see it, that’s all.” He brought out a map of the northernmost part of Ray’s land, superimposed over a subsurface map, a “structure map” presumably made from the data in the profile. “See what we got here? The beginnings of a great big oil field. It starts on our land—but it looks like you got most of it. See, the equipment doesn’t have to be above oil-bearing sand to predict that it’s there. By shooting on one tract, you can extrapolate what’s under another.”

Ray was cool as a pool. “Well, it’s mighty good-hearted of my alma mater to let me know about all this.”

Fortier grinned. Sometimes he did seem to have the sense God gave a bunny rabbit. “Oh, not at all. Not a bit. We still want to buy your company.”

“I told you—it’s not for sale.”

“Now, Ray, be sensible. Why don’t you think about it awhile and then we’ll talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

Ray could just see him grin and lean back in his chair. “Oh, I bet I could get you interested. I just bet I could. We’re prepared to double our offer. Double it—did you hear that? And keep you on to run the company at three-fifty a year. Does that do anything for you?”

Ray wasn’t at the time making anything like three-fifty a year and Fortier must have known it.

Ray asked, “Why don’t I just drill it myself?”

“You know how risky drilling is. It usually takes several tries to find a profitable well. Can you really afford that?”

“Well, I really appreciate your willingness to help out an old employee. I think that’s mighty generous of you. But why do I get the feeling it’s not going to work to my advantage?”

“Ray, be reasonable. How could three-fifty a year, plus a healthy profit on the company, fail to work to your advantage?”

Because you people are not stupid, you are merely ruthless. If you’re willing to pay that much, it means there’s a lot more money to be made.

That was his first thought, but it wasn’t that that destroyed him. It was his pride. “Russell, I appreciate it, but I’ve built this company. I’ve got a lot at stake here.”

“Look, Ray. Don’t be too hasty. Just think on it. Will you promise me that? Just that one little thing.” Ray could hear the desperation in his voice. He must be due a hefty bonus if he landed this one.

There was no reason Ray couldn’t drill the well—or wells—himself. Actually, Fortier was right—it was exciting news.

Think of the expense, Fortier had said. Ray was thinking of it. He would have to borrow the money, but he could. He could get it from Cille.

In truth, the company wasn’t doing as well as it should have been—had been producing less and less in the last couple of years. It would cease to be profitable soon, and United had to know that. Ray knew it, too—he just hadn’t faced it.

Eventually, he would have had to borrow money from Cille to acquire his own seismic data, hoping against hope for results good enough to get new investors. But as it turned out, he didn’t have to.

Russell said again, “Look, I really need you to think about it.” He stood. “It’s a ways back to New Orleans. Do you mind—”

“Bathroom’s down the hall and to your right.”

“I—uh—well, is there any place I could make a phone call?”

Ray showed him an empty office and went back to his own. The map and the seismic data were still on his desk, just waiting to be photocopied. Ray had qualms about it, sure, but he thought if Fortier was that careless, he must be pretty confident Ray couldn’t afford to drill on his own. And other rationalizations; at the time, he lay awake thinking of them. Never once did it occur to him that the whole thing was a setup.

One of the many things he realized when it all shook down was that Fortier had called him from his car—if he had his cell phone, why did he need to make a call from the Hyacinth offices? He thought of that years later—literally years.

He took the photocopied profile and structure map to a geologist, who seemed mightily impressed. “Put it this way,” the scientist said, “if it were me, I’d drill.”

Ray drilled. Repeatedly. And failed to find oil.

He could still have gone on as he was, but for the law. Since he’d found no new production and his producing wells were running out, in a few years’ time his lease was no longer producing in paying quantities—which meant that it terminated.

And none other than United Oil held the top lease on the property, the one that now became effective. Within four years of meeting Russell Fortier, Ray had lost his lease, his company, his livelihood, and his balls.

As soon as United took over the lease, Ray knew there had to be oil.

And there was oil—just a few hundred yards from the area where Ray had drilled. Once more Ray ran the map and the profile by the geologist, who came to the same conclusion he had. If the shot points—the sites of the dynamite blasts—were five hundred yards to the west of those shown on the map, oil would very likely be found where United had found it. In other words, Fortier had planted skewed data and a skewed map right where Ray couldn’t resist stealing it.

Ray had reflected on the entire years-long sequence of events almost continually since it happened. The loss was enormous, the humiliation well-nigh unbearable. With perfect hindsight, he could see that if Fortier had never come calling, he would eventually have done what he had to do. He would have acquired his own data and found the new production himself, before his producing wells played out and his resources were exhausted.

There was no question in his mind he’d been defrauded, yet so cleverly that he’d executed part of the fraud himself. The scheme was a little like a pigeon drop, and he was the perfect pigeon—stupid enough and greedy enough to fall for it. His ears rang with anger whenever he thought of it.

He needed with all his being to get Russell Fortier and United Oil and make them pay. He was going to do it if it took him the rest of his life.

Ray knew just how, too; didn’t even think it ought to be difficult. There had to be others like himself. All he had to do was find them, and he had a class action suit.

But he’d pored to no avail over records of leases that had changed hands, interviewing leaseholders who held bottom leases when United held the top ones. So far he hadn’t been able to find a single similar case. And United held literally thousands of leases—there was absolutely no way to check them all out.

There was nothing left to do but get the data from United itself.

He’d almost had it when he made his fatal mistake. He shouldn’t have threatened Fortier before he actually held it in his hand.

What he’d said was that he’d been talking to some of his neighbors, and it wouldn’t be long before he blew United out of the water. He might have saved Allred’s life if he’d kept his mouth shut.

And now he wondered if Fortier were in it alone. His wife’s account of his disappearance just about squared with the time of the murder.

At any rate, there was nothing to do but proceed calmly and heed Cille’s advice—he didn’t kill Allred and he didn’t bed Bebe and he didn’t cut Mrs. LaBarre’s wrists. He had no control over any of that, and could only do what was in his power. That was where The Baroness came in.

***

“Grab a bite,” Darryl had said.

Either that was a euphemism for an actual date, or the thing had taken on unexpected proportions.

Talba had dressed in a flowing outfit made of African cloth, cheaply procured in Krauss’s last days and run up for her by a neighborhood seamstress. When she wore The Baroness’s clothes, heads turned.

Miz Clara appeared mysteriously in her room, something she never did. Evidently she was checking up. She said, “Girl, where you goin’ in that? That’s not clothes, that’s a costume.”