Nothing but Gossip (10 page)

“Hey, little sister.” He examined his work, approved the knot, took the cigar from his teeth and laid it in a clean ashtray, and poured us each a shot, splashing a few drops of liquor on what looked like an oil lease. “What are you doing down here? Why aren’t you dressed? We’re leaving in”—he looked at his watch as we both listened to the helicopter settle and land in the meadow—“fifteen minutes. Soon as Christian and Mr. Wonderful get their clothes changed. What the hell happened to your face?”

Mud mask. I’d completely forgotten.

“Listen, Elias,” I said, “I need you to go downtown.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“What about the party?”

“This is more important. I’d go myself, but it’d just get everyone all riled up.”

T
here was no shortage of suspects, but most of them were accomplished gunmen. Wade, Kennedy, the militiamen—their pride in their marksman skills would not permit them to miss on the first shot. Johnny Bourbon seemed, on the surface anyway, to lack the blood instinct, but I wasn’t so sure about Mercedes, especially after Johnny pointed out she’d do anything to secure the proxies. And I knew Duke Fletcher. His Senate career had been more distinguished than some, less than others, and using primarily his strong environmental record as his platform, he planned to run for President. Duke wasn’t stupid enough to gun down a major contributor because she’d welched on a deal. No. There were still too many possibilities—not one had been eliminated.

It was only seven-fifteen, but I knew my father would be on his way to the bank. I called him in his car. “Please explain this Rutherford Oil proxy fight.”

“Sure, but I’ll call you from the office. I don’t want to spend six-fifty a minute explaining it from the car.
It’d cost me a fortune. These cell-phone rates are ridiculous.”

“Daddy,” I said, “I’ll send you a check.”

“I’m just pulling into the lot. I’ll call you right back.”

Five minutes later, my phone rang.

“Okay,” he said. “What do you want to know?”

“Pretty much everything.”

“Hmm.” A long pause ensued. “Do you remember when we bid on the Prudhoe Bay project in the early seventies?”

“Vaguely.”

“I’ll try to put it in a nutshell: The Prudhoe Bay oil fields are north of the Arctic Circle in Alaska, and they’re among the richest fields in the world. But getting to them, exploring them, developing them, building the pipeline to get the oil out of them to the closest ice-free port—in this case, eight hundred miles south to Valdez—was the most costly and challenging logistical and technological undertaking in the history of man. This was a place with virtually no infrastructure for humans, let alone for the production of oil and gas. Plus, Prudhoe Bay is accessible by water only three weeks a year—late July and early August—so, all those megasized oceangoing freighters and barges have to haul in as fast as they can and then get the hell out, or they’ll be there till spring, literally. And spring won’t come for another eleven months.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It was superhuman. Still is. You should see all those huge vessels pushing a little farther north every day until the ice breaks and clears and then they run like the devil into port and offload a year’s worth of supplies—spare parts, food, toilet paper, you name it—and then reload with a year’s worth of trash because there’s nowhere to throw anything away up there. It’s just a big
snowbank most of the year and a swamp the rest of the time. You ought to see it.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “There’s enough winter in Wyoming for me. I don’t even like to go as far north as Montana. How much did it cost?”

“Well, we’re talking over twenty-five years ago, you know, and in 1970 dollars, it cost five billion to put in place. Just to give you an idea of the production capability, at that time the field was projected to produce nine-point-two billion barrels of oil a year. Today, because of technical and environmental improvements, production is at twelve billion barrels a year. It’s one hell of an operation.”

“And Rutherford Oil wants to do the same thing in Russia?”

“Not that easy.” I heard him puffing as he lit a cigar. “First of all, Rutherford is not what’s considered to be a major oil company—it’s a major independent. Big difference. It took
ARCO
and all its resources to develop the North Slope. Look at a major like Exxon: Its annual revenue is a hundred and thirty-four billion and its net income is seven and a half billion. Exxon could afford this gamble. Rutherford’s annual revenue, on the other hand, is twenty-three billion and their net income is nine-hundred and fifty million. You with me?”

“So far.”

“If they were to undertake this deal, the initial push—about six billion—would take most of their cash. Plus they’d have to borrow about five and a half billion of it, which is one hell of a lot of money, and they’d have to put up most of their hard assets, their proven producing fields and wells and refineries, as collateral. They’d have no net. No cushion. If they lost it, they’d be out of business, and no matter how great this field looks on paper, there’s never any guarantee that
the oil is where you think it’s going to be, or if it’s there, that there’s as much as you expect.”

“Would your bank lend them the money?”

“We’d probably be the lead bank in the deal, but I’d make sure we had the smallest participation, probably about ten percent. Rutherford’s got a steady production history and one of the strongest balance sheets in the industry, but I see this as way too big a gamble.”

“Well, that’s pretty much what the oil business is, isn’t it?” I observed. “One big gamble?”

“You know, I’ve never been averse to taking risks, Lilly, but I happen to see this venture as foolhardy. Of course—and this is what Alma’s contingent contends—if it works, Rutherford will become a major-major.”

I was making notes like mad. “What do they get for their six billion?”

“Very little. Six billion pretty much gets the lights on. This field is way the hell up north near the Kolyma River Delta at the Arctic Ocean, and would require a thousand-mile pipeline down to some rinky-dink town named Manily. Plus …”

“You mean it gets worse?”

“They’d be doing business with the Russians.”

“So?”

“Russia used to be the number-one oil producer in the world, but then, because of their own greed and stupidity and mismanagement and paranoia, they started putting all their money into weapons. Their oil industry is still using 1930s equipment. And there’s always the question as to exactly who it is you’re doing business with and who has the right to sign the contracts. Is it Moscow? The provincial government? The Oil Ministry? No one’s too sure, which means the amount of cash required for the ongoing payoffs is more than a lot of big companies generate in a year. It’s
one hell of a big deal, with everybody and his brother— in two different governments, theirs and ours—involved. Hold on a minute. I’ve got to take this call.”

He put me on hold. The project was mind-boggling. Can you imagine hauling virtually everything through the Arctic Ocean into far northern Russia? How much money were we talking about overall? Even the 1970 prices could inspire murder.

“Lilly?” Daddy’s secretary, Faye, interrupted my thoughts. “Your father’s going to be a while and wants to know if he can call you back?”

“No problem. I’ll track him down later today.”

I sat at my dressing table and stared at the sky reflected in the mirror. There were elements, and possible motives, to this case that reached way beyond anything I’d ever been involved in before.

Siberia? Six billion dollars? The Kolyma River Delta? What the hell was that?

I put on a brown-tweed business suit and brown-suede pumps, perfect greet-your-future-in-laws garb, and headed into the office.

My head ached a little from the fifty glasses of champagne I’d drunk at the Kellys’ the night before, and my eyes looked sort of like someone had pasted puffy little omelets onto them from the half-wheel of Brie I’d inhaled. But other than that, I was ready to roll. I felt good.

H
ollywood-style dressing-room trailers and equipment trucks jammed the Bennett’s Fort parking lots, and some self-important little sawed-off security guard practically tackled my car as I turned into the dirt lot behind my office and found it wall to wall with limousines. Big letters on the front of his Windbreaker announced,
SECURITY
—
Range of My Heart
.

“You can’t park here,” he squeaked into my window like Barney Fife. He had on a hunting cap that was two sizes too big, with fleece-lined earflaps that stuck out like bedroom slippers on either side of his head, and cheap wraparound, mirrored sunglasses I’m sure he thought were intimidating, and might have been, if the frames hadn’t been iridescent turquoise.

I pulled out my U.S. Marshal’s badge. “This is my office.”

“I never heard of you, and Mr. Redford has rented the whole town, and you can’t park in here.” He was a jabbery, chirpy monkey, and he was making me mad.

“This is my office,” I said again, as calmly as I could.

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. You can’t park here.” With that he crossed his arms over his narrow chest and frowned. “You’ll have to park over in the big lot with everyone else and go through security over there.”

I took a deep breath and considered him for a moment, then opened the console between the seats in my Jeep, removed the Glock .44 that was as big as a small cannon, and pointed it at his stomach. “Get out of my way.”

I guess I didn’t feel as good as I thought I did.

He dove under the nearest stretch limo, and I blocked three of them when I parked. I slammed my car door as hard as I could and stomped up the stairs.

“This is so exciting,” Linda said. She was in my office watching all the goings-on from the window. There must have been a thousand miles of cords and cables down there and a hundred people bumping into each other. “I saw Robert Redford a few minutes ago. He was drinking a cup of coffee. And look, they gave me this.” She held up a dusty-rose
Range of My Heart
T-shirt. “Isn’t it neat?” Her eyes sparkled.

“Very. Anything big happening in our little corner of the world?”

“No.” She flipped through the messages. “Just the normal stuff. Your mother called twice. Your father called and said he’ll be in his office and doesn’t have any meetings scheduled until noon, so if you have any more questions, call him back whenever you want. Elias said not to leave until he got here. Wade Gilhooly called just to check in …”

We heard footsteps on the stairs. When the door opened, the form of an Old West lawman—cowboy hat tilted way down, holstered six-shooters riding low on slim hips, wide shoulders, long legs—paused for effect, silhouetted in the backlight. Then he stepped inside,
kicked the door closed, and ambled toward us, thumbs hooked in a wide gunbelt.

“Morning, Dwight,” I said. “Looks like you’ve hired on as an extra.”

“Yup.” He smiled, a matchstick stuck in the corner of his mouth. “How do you like it?” He held out his hands and twirled slowly on his heels. The string tie and leather vest rose in the air. “I’m playing a deputy marshal.”

“You are a deputy marshal.”

“You’re right about that, Marshal Lilly.” He looked me in the eye and rolled the match between his lips. “I’m
your
deputy marshal. Your wish is my command.” He drummed his ringers on his belt buckle and rocked slowly onto his toes. Dwight was a wild thing if ever I’d seen one.

Linda swallowed loudly, and I wondered what I would do if he decided to expose and handle himself across my desktop like the man on the evening news. I think I might lock the door and tell Linda to hold my calls. I sure as hell wouldn’t call a psychiatrist.

“Dwight,” I said, my mouth a little dry. “How is our prisoner this morning?”

“Who? Kennedy?”

“You mean Mr. McGee?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes. I mean, yes, ma’am. Mr. McGee is fine. Paul Decker came out to see him yesterday afternoon and said he’d have him out on bail first thing this morning. I think Paul might be over there now.”

Linda offered a fax from her stack of papers. “The release order came in five minutes ago.”

“Let’s go have a visit.” I put on my dark glasses as Linda answered the phone.

“One moment, please, Miss Rutherford,” she said
into the receiver and raised a hand signaling me to stop. “Miss Bennett will be right with you.”

“Something’s arrived,” Mercedes told me without preamble when I picked up my extension. “I’d like you to come by the office.”

I glanced at my watch. “I’ll be there at ten.”

Stunt men crowded the tiny jail, filling up the air with testosterone, quizzing one of their real-life heroes, Kennedy McGee, who sat comfortably in his cell answering their questions about hair-raising escapes and near-misses with dangerous, wild animals—mostly big cats. I didn’t want to bust their balloon by telling them that the most dangerous wildcats he came in contact with were rich and two-legged.

“Excuse me, fellas.” I shouldered my way through the crowd. “Sorry to break up your tea party. Official business.”

“You guys better clear out. Now,” Dwight said importantly. “When Marshal Lilly says business, she means it.”

“Morning, Mr. McGee,” I said once we were alone, except for Paul Decker and Dwight, who unlocked the cell. “I’ve got the papers here for your release, but I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if your attorney doesn’t mind.”

“We don’t mind.” Paul settled himself comfortably at the old scratched oak conference table upon which, according to legend, Wyatt Earp had a bullet dug out of him by Doc Holliday after the Gunfight at the OK Corral. If you looked carefully, you could make out Marshal Earp’s bloodstains in the wood.

These large lakes of discoloration were renewed every spring by Cousin Buck with a mixture of double-strong
espresso and red wine. He had a whole repertoire of bloodstains around town, which he restored when the weather was bad. When it was good, he regrooved the wagon-wheel tracks right outside the fort on the Oregon Trail, a chore he undertook after every springtime thunderstorm. He sang himself hoarse to the Rolling Stones as he swayed back and forth for miles in either direction in an old Conestoga wagon hauled by his silvery-taffy Percherons and belted down tumblers of Stolichnaya from half-gallon bottles he kept packed in ice in a Styrofoam cooler at his feet.