Wayfaring Stranger (Holland Family Saga 1)

“If you look carefully at the paragraph that details assignation and management of those profits, you’ll see my company has a fiduciary trust mandate. In other words, we have a managerial responsibility to protect our stockholders’ investment. We sent you a tremendous cost saver today. You refused it. We’ve got us a problem here. Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?”

“Minuteman hires wets for minimum wage or less. So far, we have a good relationship with the union. We don’t want a picket line in front of the job.”

“If you breach the terms of our contract, we can call in the loan.”

“Then do it. We’ll declare bankruptcy and your company won’t get five cents.”

“Remember what I told you in that tuberculosis sanitarium in France? Don’t be a hardhead. People will beat on you enough without you helping them.”

“Hershel and I know how to lay pipe and make money, Major. Stay out of the oil patch, and we’ll stay out of the insurance business. Don’t try to pull some kind of contractual flimflam on us again.”

I eased the phone back into the cradle, the side of my face tingling. Then I let out my breath and tried to decompress. What’s the old lesson in the army? Don’t make enemies with anybody in records. What’s the larger lesson in an organization? Don’t humiliate bureaucrats whose careers are characterized by mediocrity. It may take them a while, but sooner or later, they’ll park an arrow between your shoulder blades.

I called Fincher back. “Lloyd, you’re looking out for your company’s investment. I can understand that. But union trouble could tear us up. It’s not worth it. Let’s put this behind us.”

I could hear ice cubes clinking in a glass and a woman’s voice in the background.

“Did you hear me?” I said.

“Yeah, that’s a good attitude, son,” he said. “No need to call back. I’m kind of tied up right now, get my drift? One day I’ll stop flying the flag, I guess, but not for a while.”

“Good night, Lloyd.”

“Weldon, tell me you’re not going to be an ongoing pain in the ass.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

Chapter

12

IT WAS SUNDAY night when I got a phone call in Houston that reminded me of a line in the Bible: There are those who are made different in the womb. I had heard the voice before. It was full of rust, the words coming from a place where humanity and pity had never taken hold. “Bet you don’t know who this is,” the voice said.

“The Cajun dance hall outside Opelousas. You and your friends followed us into the parking lot,” I said.

“You got a good memory, boy. Got a business deal for you.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. You know where the Bloody Bucket is at?”

“No.”

“I’ll give you directions.”

“I think it’s better that you not call here anymore.”

“Your wife like her new piano? What was that piece she was playing about five minutes ago? ‘Clair de lune’?”

On the corner, at the end of the esplanade, there was a telephone booth under a streetlamp. I thought I could see a man’s silhouette inside.

“Cat got your tongue?” the caller said.

“Tell me where you are,” I said.

I took my raincoat out of the hallway closet and went upstairs. Then I came back down wearing the coat. Rosita was still playing the piano. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Some fellow wants to talk to me about a business deal. I’ll be back shortly.”