Sleepwalk (12 page)

“I ’spose we could fix it,” Cummings finally said, avoiding Frank’s gaze. “But it’d take an overtime crew, and Kruger ain’t authorizing overtime.” Still avoiding Frank’s eyes, he picked up his lunch bucket and headed toward the door, but Frank stopped him.

“You could hang around a couple of hours on your own,” he pointed out.

Cummings spat into the dirt outside the door. “ ’Spose I could,” he agreed amiably. “But it’s not my outfit, and I don’t notice Kruger, or Moreland, or anybody else comin’ over to mow my lawn on their own time.”

As Cummings left, Frank swore softly to himself. And yet the man was right—why
should
he work overtime, knowing full well he wouldn’t get paid for his time? But in the long run, Borrego’s inability to deliver gasoline, even for a day, would only add to the losses, and bring on more cost-cutting. Soon the layoffs would increase, and in the end the layoffs would only drop production even further.

Cursing again, Frank studied the work schedule, looking for a way to pull enough men off their regular jobs to put together a crew to repair the broken pump.

And when Kruger got back, he’d have a little talk with the man. If they weren’t even paying their suppliers anymore, the situation must be a lot worse than anyone had told him.

What the hell was going on?

He picked up the phone to call Jed and explain what was happening. “I’m probably going to be tied up all day,” he said. Jed listened to him silently, but as Frank talked he could picture clearly the dark look that would
be coming into the boy’s eyes, the look of resentment that always came over Jed when he had to change his schedule yet again. But there was nothing he could do about it.

By mid-afternoon Frank’s temper was beginning to fray. The broken pump, totally disassembled, lay scattered in the dusty road. Two of his makeshift crew had disappeared after lunch, sent back to their regular jobs by Otto Kruger, who had insisted that the pump would be of little use if the refinery itself had to be shut down because nobody was looking after it. Frank had argued that there had been a general shutdown only two weeks ago, and that every pipe and valve in the place had been thoroughly cleaned and inspected. Right now the plant was quite capable of running itself for a few hours. But Kruger had insisted, and in the end Frank decided the issue wasn’t worth fighting about, since his two other men were going to be occupied for the next couple of hours with repairing the broken shaft of the pump’s motor.

If they could repair it at all. Carlos Alvarez and Jerry Polanski had insisted they could make the weld easily enough, but Frank wasn’t so sure. The shaft looked to him as if it had bent pretty badly when the break had occurred, and he suspected that even if they managed the weld, the pump might tear itself apart again as soon as they reassembled it and started it up.

But now the repair had been made, and Alvarez and Polanski were beginning the process of reassembling the pump. Denied the help of half his crew, Frank pitched in himself, holding the shaft steady while Carlos
carefully adjusted the collar that would clamp it to the pump.

“What the hell’s going on?” Otto Kruger’s harsh voice demanded from behind. Frank waited until Carlos had tightened the last bolt before straightening up. Using the bandanna he habitually wore, which was now hanging out of his rear pocket, he mopped the sweat from his brow.

“Just about got her fixed—” he began, but Kruger didn’t let him finish.

“By breaking every union rule in the book?” the superintendent growled. Frank tensed, tightening his grip on his temper. “Alvarez and Polanski aren’t part of the yard crew,” Kruger went on. “It’s not their job to be working on that pump. And you’re a shift foreman, right? That means you make sure your men are doing their jobs. It doesn’t mean you do the work for them.”

Frank felt his anger boiling up from the pit of his belly, but he was damned if he was going to get into a fight with Kruger. Not right here, anyway. “Maybe we’d better go into your office to talk about this, Otto.” His voice was even but his eyes glittered with fury. What the hell was the man trying to do? Weren’t things bad enough without Kruger making it impossible for him to do his job?

“If that’s what you want,” Kruger rumbled. He spat into the dirt, then turned his attention to Alvarez and Polanski. “Leave the pump and get back to your regular jobs.”

Frank saw Carlos’s hand tighten on the wrench he was holding, but he shook his head just enough to tell the man to leave it alone. Without a word, Carlos put the wrench down and turned away from the loading shed. A moment later Jerry Polanski followed him. Only
when they’d both disappeared into the plant itself did Kruger turn away and stride across the street to his office. Frank followed him, managing only the tightest of nods for Bobbie Packard as he passed her desk.

Unseen by Kruger, she made a face at the superintendent’s back, then gave Frank a thumbs-up sign.

“Shut the door,” Kruger growled as he slouched low in his chair and propped his feet up on his desk. “No sense airing our problems in front of the hired help, is there?”

Frank closed the door gently, deliberately depriving Kruger of the pleasure of seeing his anger. “Seems to me we’re both part of the hired help around here,” he observed evenly, retaining his position by the door, but folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back against the wall. “Now why don’t you just tell me what’s going on? Our credit with the suppliers is shot, and the last of the yard crew got laid off a week ago. How the hell am I supposed to fix that pump if I don’t use men from the plant? And don’t give me any shit about it not being my job to work on it, ’cause you and I both know my job’s to keep the shift running, even if I have to do it myself.”

Kruger averted his eyes. “Those layoffs were temporary. We lost a bundle during the shutdown. The men will be hired back as soon as we can afford it.”

“But if we can’t move the gas out of the tanks—” Frank began. Once again Kruger didn’t let him finish.

“As it happens, we should be getting a new loading pump up here within a week or two,” he said. “And since we’ve got no problem with storage, it looks like all your work was sort of a waste of time, wasn’t it?”

It wasn’t only Kruger’s refusal to meet his eyes that roused Frank’s suspicions—it was the smugness in his
voice. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Is Max getting a new line of credit?”

Now Kruger smiled, but it was a cruel twisting of his lips. “I ’spose you could call it that,” he said, drawling elaborately. “Anyway, by the time we get the new pump, we should be ready to start hiring the men back.”

Frank Arnold’s eyes bored into Kruger’s. “It’s a sellout, isn’t it?” he asked, but the words came out more as a statement than a question. A cold knot of anger formed in his belly. “Are you telling me Max is selling out?”

Kruger’s hands spread noncommittally. “He hasn’t yet,” he said. His feet left the desk and went to the floor as his chair suddenly straightened and he leaned forward. “But the party’s about over,” he declared, his eyes meeting Frank’s for the first time, “and if I were you I’d start thinking about how I could benefit if someone
does
buy this place.”

“Are you telling me that’s what’s happened?” Frank asked. “Is that what the big meeting this morning was about?”

Kruger shrugged. “Someone wants to do a leveraged buyout, the way I heard it.”

“But Max won’t do that,” Frank protested. “Everybody knows if he sells out, he’ll offer the company to the employees first.”

Kruger chuckled hollowly. “If you’ve got that in writing, I’d suggest you call a lawyer pretty damned quick. Because if you don’t have it in writing, I think it’s a pretty sure thing that by next month you and I will be working for someone else. Which,” he added, finally allowing himself a genuine smile, “is just fine by me. How’s it suit you?”

Every fiber in Frank wanted to strike out at Kruger, wanted to punch that smile right down the son of a bitch’s throat. But that, he knew, was probably just what Kruger was hoping for. There weren’t many things Kruger could use as grounds to fire him, but physical violence was certainly one of them. So Frank restrained himself, shoving his hands deep in his pockets, as if it was the only way to hold them in check. But when he spoke, he made no attempt to conceal his rage. “It doesn’t suit me at all,” he replied. “And there are a few things I
can
do about it.” His mind was already working. He’d have to organize a union meeting and put a proposal to buy the company before the membership. That meant weeks of spending practically every waking hour when he wasn’t at work dealing with the lawyer and accountant from Santa Fe.

But there had to be a way to counter any offer Max Moreland might already have on his desk.

He turned away from Kruger, jerking the door to the superintendent’s office open with so much force it almost came off its hinges. Bobbie Packard, startled by his sudden presence, looked up at him. “What is it?” she asked.

Frank’s eyes glared malevolently. “You mean he didn’t tell you? Someone’s trying to buy Max out. And you can bet they’re not going to be interested in the refinery—without a lot of improvements, it won’t even break even. And the new takeover people aren’t interested in investment—they’re interested in fast bucks, which means they’ll keep the wells and close down the plant. Pretty neat, huh?” He jerked his head toward Kruger’s office. “And I’ll bet that son of a bitch has already cut himself a deal to keep an eye on the wells
while the rest of us go looking for work that doesn’t happen to exist around here.”

Bobbie shook her head dazedly. “Mr. Moreland said—”

Frank leaned down so he could look into the secretary’s eyes. “Don’t you get it, Bobbie?” he asked. “Max is at the end of his rope. He’s sunk every nickel he has into this place, but it’s not enough. It’s old and obsolete, and you can bet no outsider is planning to spend a lot of money out here. All they’ll want is the wells.”

Without waiting for her to reply, he pushed his way out of the office and crossed back into the plant.

From his office window Otto Kruger watched Frank Arnold disappear into the refinery, and knew exactly what he was up to. He sat quietly for a while, savoring the anger he’d seen in Frank Arnold, enjoying the rage he’d induced in the man. It wasn’t often that he got the best of Frank Arnold, and whenever he did, it gave him an intense pleasure.

He’d hated Frank for years, and knew exactly why: Frank knew the refinery better than he did, and had the trust of the men.

Even Max Moreland had more respect for Frank than he had for him, Kruger thought. A year ago, when he’d demanded to know why, if Frank Arnold was so smart, he hadn’t been promoted past shift supervisor, Kruger remembered Max smiling at him almost pityingly.

“I need him where he is, Otto,” he’d explained. “You can’t run an oil refinery without a man like Frank Arnold. Oh, you do fine, overseeing the whole operation.
But without Frank in the plant, there wouldn’t be any operation for you to oversee.”

He, of course, had said nothing in response, but ever since that day he’d hated Frank.

Hated him almost as much as he hated Max Moreland himself.

Finally he turned back to his desk and picked up the phone. He dialed a number quickly, then spoke as soon as the phone was answered at the other end, not waiting for a greeting.

“I just talked to Arnold,” he said. “I told him just enough to gauge his reaction, and it’s just like I told you. He’s going to make trouble.”

Then, knowing he’d said enough, and knowing there would be no reply, he hung up, his face wearing a satisfied smile.

Soon, very soon, Frank Arnold would be out of his hair.

It was a thought that gave him a great deal of pleasure.

Frank Arnold glanced up from his newspaper as his son came into the kitchen, dressed—as usual—in a manner carefully calculated to tell the world he didn’t give a damn what it thought. Frank bit back the words of criticism that immediately came to his lips. During the last two weeks, while it seemed he’d spent every waking moment with the lawyers and accountants, the situation with Jed had only worsened. Indeed, over the Labor Day weekend that had just ended, the two of them had barely spoken, except for Friday night, when Judith Sheffield had come for dinner.

That night there had been no question of who would do the cooking. When Frank had come home from work, the house was already redolent with the aroma of a roast in the oven. That night, as on the other nights Judith had spent the evening with them in the little house on Sixth East, Jed had seemed perfectly happy, as though his resentments had magically vanished. But the next morning, with Judith gone, he had retreated again behind his sullen mask, and they had barely spoken
over breakfast. Maybe if Judith had spent the night …

He quickly abandoned the thought, although there were several nights during the last few weeks when he’d been almost certain she would have stayed if he’d asked her. Every time, he’d lost his nerve, terrified of looking like a fool for even thinking she might find him as attractive as he found her. Yet had Judith only been here this morning, he was absolutely sure things would be better between him and Jed.
Every
thing seemed to be better when Judith was around. She seemed to understand his moods, even to understand the importance of what he was trying to do.

But then, despite the holiday weekend, Frank had had to leave for Santa Fe, for yet another series of meetings which would culminate tonight at the union lodge, when he would finally present to the employees a plan for them to buy the company.

Assuming, of course, that by tonight the company had not yet been sold to UniChem.

And if his plan succeeded, would Jed finally forgive all the time he had spent? Frank wondered. Would pride in his father’s accomplishment bridge the chasm between them? Leaning back, Frank folded his arms across his chest, and his eyes settled again on Jed’s selfconsciously “cool” clothes. Idly, he wondered if Jed was aware that his scrupulous attention to his dress only gave the lie to the message he was trying to project: if he truly didn’t care how he looked, why were his jeans always so meticulously torn, why was his black leather jacket inspected for missing studs every day, and why was Jed’s hair always greased into total submission to the whim of the moment? Why, if his son truly didn’t
care what anyone thought, did he constantly do his best to look like a thug and hide the quickness of his mind?