by Jan Smolders
“Frank, it doesn’t sound very romantic,” she said, “but I’m starving. Do you mind? The pizza smells divine.” She showed him a pair of big eyes and twirled toward the little table.
Frank poured wine.
“To us,” he said firmly, his voice as deep as he could get it, acting as the smooth host.
They clinked glasses.
“We must take care of you, my starving sweetie. I don’t want you to faint in my arms,” he quipped as he eased her toward the pizza.
“Oh, no? Are you sure?” Her eyes sparkled.
He squeezed her waist. “I trust you can faint very elegantly, but let’s sit down.”
Half of the pizza disappeared in no time, the Chianti assisting.
“Feels like home, only slightly better furniture,” Joanna joked, her “last” wedge disappearing between her lips, her fingers searching for her umpteenth napkin. “To you, my Frank. Frrranky.” She lifted her glass.
The way she sounded melted his heart. “I must thank you, darling.” He moved his chair closer to her.
She leaned her head on his sweaty shoulder and whispered, “And I thank you. But I’m tired. Aren’t you?”
He felt her nervous fingers on his leg. “What kind of tired?” He pinched her hand.
“That kind.” She showed him dark wide eyes.
“Same here.” He kissed her.
She pulled back. “Same? What a coincidence.” She stood up, dropped her robe on the floor and threw herself onto the bed. Her arms summoned him, her nipples exuding impatience.
He flung his shorts toward the table. Halfway.
A deserted half-pizza and a near-empty Chianti bottle were complicit witnesses of a hot Westin night.
On Monday morning Frank, bleary eyed and exhausted, dropped off an emotional Joanna at the Intercontinental airport at seven thirty. The night had been short. She seemed hell-bent on adding a thirty-minute extension in the car. She curled up so close to him and kissed him all over with such fervent passion that more than once he swerved dangerously and had to swallow angry gestures and shouts from fellow drivers through rolled down windows. But he didn’t mind.
They stepped out at the curb.
“See you tomorrow,” she said.
“I’ll be very late. I’ll call.” He took her hand and dropped his car keys but quickly retrieved them.
A baggage handler smiled, nodding.
“Okay.”
“Wish me luck this afternoon.”
“I’ve already prayed for it. And you, don’t forget I spent the weekend with my sister Anita in Cleveland.” She giggled.
“I’ll remember that vividly.” He kissed her one more time and answered her wave as she headed for the building, walking graciously.
He felt a fuzzy feeling run up his leg.
He returned to the hotel close to nine and set his alarm for eleven. He needed a nap. A Viola company car would be waiting for him downstairs at one-thirty.
During lunch he ran through the materials he had printed out about the company. By now he had the face of Jim Duncan, his main interviewer, etched in his mind; his verbal bio rehearsed; do’s and don’ts memorized; answers to anticipated trick questions formulated on mental cue cards. When he left his room to catch his ride, he tapped his index on his forehead to make sure they were all there.
The trip from the Westin Oaks to the Viola offices wasn’t even a mile, but that wasn’t walking distance in muggy Houston—unless you wanted to arrive drenched in perspiration, road dust on your forehead and your pants bothering the hell out of your sweaty legs and groin.
As Frank stepped out of the car and entered the glitzy Prosperity Tower, he was both nervous and excited: he was going to talk to a top company in the drilling world. He had been found worthy of an interview with the HR department, three technical experts and maybe the CEO. “If he’s in. We never know where he’ll be,” the HR assistant had said over the phone. Frank assumed it really meant, “If you clear the preliminary hurdles.” He was confident; his month-long preparations for this afternoon had been thorough, and his experience and track record were solid.
He entered the lobby and proceeded to the welcome desk.
A classy female forty-something with a ready smile greeted him. “Mr. …?”
“Frank Anderson. For a job interview.”
“Oh good! You’re going to join us. Welcome.” She started checking her screen. A sophisticated, athletic-looking woman. Her soft-blue uniform combined perfectly with her olive skin.
“Thanks. But I haven’t been hired yet.” He had his palms up.
“It’s my welcome. You would be a great addition.” She measured him discretely and smiled. Snow-white teeth.
“Thank you, Ms…?”
“Miss Turner. Yolanda. Nice to get to know you, Mr. Anderson. You may proceed to the fourteenth floor. Mr. Jackson will meet you at the elevator. Good luck.”
By four-thirty Frank had made it into the office of Jim Duncan and faced the mounted moose head staring over the bald man seated behind a huge mahogany desk. The animal seemed to simultaneously protect and dominate the rotund CEO, who was in his sixties according to his bio. Two wooden chairs sat in front of Duncan’s desk.
Frank was tentative when he stepped onto the huge Oriental rug, its loud colors screaming at him. It covered the center of the spacious room. A couch accompanied by a coffee table and three leather chairs sat on his left. It faced, across the room, a big, round table overcrowded by golf pictures and trophies.
“Howdy!” The CEO sounded jovial as he managed to rise up from his wide, deep armchair to shake hands. He was a tall, impressive man, but badly overweight. “My boys tell me you’re a hell of a guy. That I should get to know you. Take a seat,” he said, pointing at one of the three chairs.
Frank sank into the luxurious leather.
Duncan joined him.
The discussion developed well. Frank and Jim Duncan had many professional interests in common, and Jim appeared to be quite an extrovert. They didn’t seem to have many acquaintances in common. Duncan’s laughs and swear words punctured the air with great frequency. Frank’s confidence grew.
“One thing that still bothers the hell out of me about Ohio is that we lost this damn Doornaert deal.” Jim waved his hand and shook his head in apparent disgust.
That loss bothered Frank too: he had hoped that Viola would beat out Supren. He thought that Viola would have treated him better. But that was water over the dam. He was now looking for new horizons, hopefully with the Viola company, which was tops in the field.
“Yeah,” Jim said, leaning back and scratching his ample belly, “I wonder what kind of games Supren played. Actually, I think I know what kind.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “They ruined our opportunities in Ohio to a great extent. They creamed off…well, why do I keep bitching about those crooks? They’re not worth it. They fired you, I understand?”
“I resigned,” Frank responded in a split second.
“Yeah.” Jim smiled, nodding.
“They asked me.”
“Nicely, I’m sure!” he roared, laughing.
“Rather.” Frank smiled back. “The HR department told me—”
“Of course. It’s always HR.”
“Well…the guy behind it was Mike Doyle.”
“Mike Doyle. Hmm. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Frank was a bit surprised: the man hadn’t spent a fraction of a second looking for a Mike Doyle in his brain before he answered. The name was apparently of no interest to him.
When Doyle had arrived in Noredge, Frank thought he vaguely remembered having heard through the grapevine that a Mike Doyle had been a manager at Viola at some point. He didn’t recall who told him. Curious, he had googled the name. Many Mike Doyles. And Michael Doyles. And MJ Doyles. And others. But the name Viola didn’t show up.
Not on Google, not on LinkedIn. He had concluded his memory or the grapevine hadn’t served him perfectly.
“That Doyle has a full plate with so many well sites in Ohio—and on top of that a nasty spill of dirty water in Carrollton,” Frank said.
“Ouch!” Jim’s hand gestured as if he had just dropped a hot potato. “Wouldn’t want to be him. The vultures in the press must be circling over the poor guy. I remember…well, it doesn’t matter, we—”
Someone knocked on the door. It opened immediately. A voluptuous lady dressed in white walked in, her stride and glance exuding confidence. She carried a tray with tall glasses and a can. Duncan smiled at her and then turned back to his interviewee. “Ice tea?”
“Oh. Sure.” Frank had faked the enthusiasm in his voice. He hated the ever-present sugar in that drink here.
“Make that two, dear.”
As he drank his tea, Frank thought of the tons of poison, his word for sugar, that might have been the architects and builders of Jim’s impressive belly and buttocks.
Half-way through their first cup Frank heard another knock on the door.
Jim looked at his watch. “Yeah. I know who it is,” he said and shouted, “Yes!”
A nervous looking older man walked in, putting his hand up. “My apologies, I didn’t think—”
Jim said, “We’re done, Lou. Come in.” He turned to Frank. “We’ll get along fine, young man. Expect a call in three or four months.”
“Months?”
“We’re going to fit you into our expansion team for Colombia. You understand such things take time.”
“South Carolina?” Frank knew of no fracking plans in that state.
“That’s Columbia. Ours is Colombia, where they have all that drug business and terrorists. That damn FARC complicating our plans. But don’t you worry. Three or four months. Thanks for visiting.”
Colombia. “Thanks for meeting with me. I look forward to joining Viola.”
“We’ll follow up,” Jim concluded and turned to Lou.
Frank took the elevator to the lobby level and was half-dreaming as he walked toward the exit door. Colombia. What will Joanna say about that?
“Have a safe trip home, Mr. Anderson,” said a friendly, enthusiastic voice.
“Oh. Yolanda. How could I forget—”
“You weren’t going to run off without saying hasta la vista to me, were you?” She looked up at him, eyes inviting him to apologize.
“So sorry. My thoughts were still upstairs.”
She softly rubbed the front of her neck. “Did you get to meet Mr. Duncan?”
“I did.”
“Congratulations. I know what that means, most of the time. It’ll be my pleasure to meet you again. Soon. As a Viola man.”
“I hope so. Oh, by the way, is Mr. Doyle in?”
“One second… Jim? John?” she asked, reading her screen.
“Mike. Michael.”
“No. Maybe that gentleman works at another location. I don’t recall a Mike Doyle, but I haven’t been at Viola that long.”
“May I ask how long?”
“Oh? A few days over a month.”
She was distracted by a busy-looking older gentleman with quick strides who shouted at her, “Jones in yet? We can’t wait. He’s late, dammit!”
“I didn’t see him, Mr. Hubble. I’m so sorry.”
“Terrible!”
Frank waved at Yolanda and she put her hand slightly up.
He was on his way to the Westin.
Chapter 20
Frank called Mary Jenkins late afternoon on Tuesday.
“Welcome back, stranger,” she said. “How was Houston?”
“Oh? How did you know?”
“I heard from Sonya. Also about you and Joanna but I already knew about you love birds. Kind of knew. Good for you guys.” She turned down the radio.
“I see. Thank you—but please don’t spread the news. Joanna’s scared to death about losing her job. I’m on Mike’s blacklist.”
“Got on his list, eh? I’m so surprised,” she mocked but refrained from sarcastically congratulating him.
“I’m sure you are.” He laughed. “But don’t—”
“Relax, Frank. I won’t tell about Joanna. You sound tired.”
“Yeah. Stiff legs. They’re just too damn long for an economy ride on a 737.”
“Poor thing. Joe—”
“I won’t even comment on the size of the nanosnack they offered. On a three-hour flight they could—”
“Joe’s better!” Mary cut in, brimming with enthusiasm. “He can sit up in bed and talk to me. And he’ll have foot surgery on Thursday.”
“Better? Okay! That’s a big deal. Really good news.”
“Sure is. Thank God. How about you? Did you find a job?” She acknowledged Jake’s presence with a good rub.
“Kind of. I had positive meetings with at least two companies. The second one definitely wants me, but I’ll have to wait a few months, and I may have to move to Colombia.”
“Colombia! Viva Colombia! Great! I can teach you some Spanish before you go.” Her words were upbeat but she feared sadness crept through in her tone. Frank had been such good support.
“You sure can!” He laughed. “No sweat! In between your job, your kids, Joe in the hospital and what else, Mary?”
She sighed. “You’re right, but things will get better. Joe might walk in a couple of weeks. He may even get back into his tanker truck. Not sure. Every night I think about that truck. It turned my life upside down. And Joe’s, of course.”
“Chin up, Mary. Tough Joe will surprise you.”
“I try to believe it….”
“Keep hoping. And if I can help you, let me or Joanna know. She thinks a lot about you.”
***
At about six that evening Frank called Vince Davis and asked him for a face to face discussion about the accident in Carrollton.
“Discuss what about it?” Vince asked. He sounded puzzled and a bit reluctant.
“I’ll tell you when we meet.”
“Mike Doyle might….” After a few seconds of silence, Vince suggested Frank meet him at his sister’s downtown apartment on Atlantic Boulevard in Canton at seven-thirty.
“Canton?”
“That’s where I am now,” Vince said curtly. “Her name’s Carla Johnson. James and Carla Johnson. 2076 Atlantic.”
“Thanks. I know how you feel about the Carrollton mess and the way Mike’s treating you. Don’t worry, my lips will be sealed,” Frank assured him.
“Get yourself a big Indians hat or something.” It felt like an order. From a guy ten years his junior.
“Done. Count on me.”
“Okay. Don’t be late.” Vince sounded scared.
“Got it.”
Frank had to wait a good while after his knock on the door at 2076 Atlantic. “J&C,” the sign said. Finally, he saw the peep hole go dark.
Vince opened the door.
“Thank you for taking the time,” Frank said. When the door closed, he took off his hat.
“This way.”
They entered a tiny, sparsely decorated sitting room. “Take a seat,” a nervous acting Vince grumbled. “My sister’s not much of a decorator, but….”
“I appreciate her hospitality,” Frank said as he stared at a small, lonely Van Gogh reproduction. “I’ll make it brief. But first, how are things going at your place, in Carrollton?”
Vince gave him a slow eye roll.
“That bad?”
Shrugs from Vince. “It’ll be many weeks before I get back to my job on Maple.”
“Your sister—”
“She’ll be back in an hour. Dinner with James.”
“Oh. Thanks. She’s being very kind. You said Mike’s still running
….” He was briefly distracted by a stack of clothing thrown over the armrest of a small couch at his right. “Still running the Maple site himself?”
“Kind of. But he’s the big boss, so what can I say? He’s got experience, but it’s getting a little old. Anyway, I’m stuck in Carrollton. My wife makes me shower for hours every night to make sure I don’t bring a nuclear bomb into the house,” he joked, seeming to loosen up. He looked at Frank and added, “Not really much of that radioactive shit in Carrollton as far as we can tell. Women—you know.”
“I’m single.”
Frank had once noticed Vince with his wife from a distance as they hurried to their car in the parking lot of Lou’s. It was late, the same day he had met Vince for the first time. He remembered Mrs. Davis’s striking appearance, ultra-petite and ultra-blonde, walking with quick, short steps as she kept pace with Vince, who carried a large bag of groceries.
“But you know about women, anyway.” He sounded exasperated. “Maybe better than I do. She bitches about my long absences. Texas girl lonely in Ohio. Mike sends me all over the state and to Pennsylvania, where they know a thing or two about this kind of mess, to Columbus, to Washington. It’s a circus. Well, he makes it one. But it’s a job. How about you?”
“I’m looking. Tapping my network.”
Vince shrugged and frowned. “You shouldn’t have much of a problem. You know the industry. Got many years under your belt.”
“True. But I’m getting a little pickier. Age, I guess.”
“Now, what’s up? Why this fancy roundtable meeting?” Vince quipped, clearly forcing himself to lighten up.
Frank looked around. “Something’s bothering me about Carrollton. I’m not convinced foul play wasn’t involved.”
Vince frowned. “Why?”
“Not sure. Maybe it’s just me.”
Vince frowned again. “Foul play…well, all I can tell you is that minutes after Doyle heard about the accident he called me from Cleveland, sounding terribly nervous. Understandable. He blamed it on Joe Bertolo. His driving. A reflexive reaction, I guess. The man sounded convinced. That was it. No doubts. I tried to urge caution in his statements, how could he be so sure, but couldn’t get a word in. Then he told me to hurry to Carrollton. I resisted. No dice. The man went crazy. I loved my work at Beta but didn’t want to keep arguing and lose my job. The pay isn’t bad.”