“Apologize ‘bout the car. Walter wanted you picked up in his CL but even the finest machines need a little tunin’ now and again.”
“No problem. Is this a company car?”
“Belongs to one of the board members. A bit uppity for me. I like my E-Class just fine.”
What? Samuel asked himself. Bensen thought I’d be impressed by expensive cars? Everyone in the upper echelons of Bensen and Bensen drives a Mercedes? Big whoop. Should I ask why not a Lexus or Acura? For that matter, I thought everyone in Texas drove Cadillacs? Mind your manors, Samuel. Don’t be a smartass. Don’t spit on the golden goose.
“I’m goin’ ta drop y’all off at the hotel.” He handed Samuel a business card. “Anythin’ comes up y’all need help with, you be sure and call me, hear? Otherwise, I’ll pick you up in the mornin’ say about eight-thirty?”
Someone’s cell phone rang a familiar tune. Samuel patted both the usual pockets; not his. Dusty pulled his own from a shirt pocket, checked caller ID, and hit, “Ignore.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Dusty explained. “My daughter. Twenty-five. Thinks she has the world all figured out. Thinks it all revolves around her.”
“Mine’s twenty-one. Same, same.”
Chapter Four.
Samuel was puzzled when the Mercedes stopped in front of a three-story building in an older part of Houston the following morning. It was not where he expected Walter Bensen ruled his worldwide interests. Yellow brick. He would never understand the appeal of yellow brick. Bricks were supposed to be red, like those in his hometown. Things and people who didn’t follow the norms raised Samuel’s neck hairs, summoned suspicion to his conscious mind.
He paused going up the short front steps. Above the entrance was a weathered bronze plaque with the inscription, “Post Proelia Praemia.” Dusty smiled back from the top step but said nothing. Samuel made a mental note to check its meaning.
The interior also surprised Samuel. It didn’t fit with the exterior. It was brightly lit as much by natural light as artificial. The first-floor was a large, open room, defiled by low partitions surrounding spacious cubicles, each with a couple of computers and phones. The young men and women filling the cubicles furiously carried on hushed conversations while typing data into one or the other computer without seeming to notice Samuel and Dusty intruding through their space. Dusty led him up a wide wooden staircase at the end of the room that angled over the restroom doors.
He turned and started to walk toward the similar though narrower staircase leading to the next floor. Dusty gently guided him by the elbow down the hallway instead. Glass walls and doors separated the less-hurried executives of the second floor. Unobtrusive glances followed them. Many more middle-aged men than women, Samuel noted. Like prized mice waiting their trial at some exotic experiment. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. But then, who’s on display, them or me? Mid-way, they turned to an alcove against an outside wall and ascended a spiral staircase.
The third-floor hallway was even more expansive, running the length of the building. Samuel looked left. A single door a few feet down the corridor, beyond the top of the staircase he had started up. To his right were two more doors about twenty feet apart. At the far end of the hall sat a pleasant looking woman behind a wooden desk nearly as wide as the hallway. He couldn’t get a good look at her because of the light shining through the window behind her. She stood as they approached.
“Mornin’, Darla.”
She was younger than Samuel expected. Her business suit had made her look older from a distance.
“Good morning, Mister Rhodes, Senator Winters.” Her voice was pleasant, professional, without a hint of Southern. “Mister Bensen is ready for you.”
She pressed a button hidden behind her desk. A quiet buzzer whizzed and a lock slid open on the nearest door.
Interesting, Samuel noted. Her desk is beyond the locked door so it doesn’t appear that she is guarding it but she is in fact because she controls the entrance. He shot another quick glance. Wonder if she knows some form of karate? Wonder if there’s a gun in her desk?
Samuel followed Dusty into the inner sanctum. Walter Bensen met them halfway in the massive office. Samuel wasn’t sure which threw him off-guard more, the bear of man in the Savile Row suit who stuck out his paw to shake or the total incongruity of the office décor to the others he had just seen. Everything wooden was dark mahogany, the carpet purple plush, the air lingered with expensive cigar smell. Except for the three windows, it was a man’s man-cave.
“Senator Winters, mighty glad to meet ya at last.”
It was the running back meets the lineman. Samuel tried to grab the extended hand to avoid having it crushed. He was too slow. Walter’s vice-like grip made Samuel wince.
Walter’s Texas drawl had a warm fatherly tone like a soft westerly breeze but one Samuel suspected from his own childhood experiences could turn without warning to a savage nor’easter freezing you in your tracks. Samuel’s mind raced, analyzing as much detail as possible. You’re the kind of man around whom people walk on eggshells unless you’re one of a small select group like Dusty. Got it.
“Have a seat, Senator.” Walter motioned at two over-stuffed dark leather chairs.
“Please, call me Sam, Samuel.” Damn. He felt like a little boy called to the principal’s office as he sank into the soft leather. He always corrected people when he first met if they used the more familiar variation of his name. He had just offered Walter a choice.
Walter stood a moment longer, obviously sizing up this important man who was now in his domain. Samuel felt his eyes probing him like a surgeon’s scalpel performing an autopsy. He attempted to return the intimidating stare. Six-one, six-two, barrel-chested, works out, mid-fifties. The smile masked the intense dark eyes.
“Samuel suits y’all,” Walter winked as he slid into the other chair.
For a big man, he moves like a cat. It was intimidating. Samuel fought to fake composure.
Dusty grinned, sitting on a corner of Walter’s desk, watching the pair like a couple of wrestlers each waiting for the other to make a mistake, to give an opportunity for advantage to his opponent.
I get it, Samuel thought, his eyes shifting from one to the other. Cornered in the lair by two predators going for the kill. Well, bring it on.
“I truly appreciate y’all takin’ the time outta your busy schedule to fly down here and all, specially with the election bein’ so close and all.”
“Happy to do it, Walter.”
Walter smiled and scratched behind his ear.
Not used to being called by your Christian name by someone you just met? Samuel guessed. Let’s switch the momentum. You try playing defense.
“Well, Samuel, let me get right ta the point. I take it y’all aren’t a man who likes ta beat about the brush?”
“After six years in Washington, straight talk would be a much welcomed change.” Particularly if you practice it. Something in Walter’s eyes told Samuel he wasn’t about to hear the whole truth.
Walter proffered a hand in Dusty’s direction. Almost immediately, Dusty stood next to them holding a box of cigars.
Cuban, Samuel assumed from the Spanish writing on the box. Walter took one. Dusty held the box in front of Samuel. I understand, Samuel concluded. I’m your guest but I’m still number two in this conversation. He shook his head.
“Y’all sure?” Walter asked as he cut the tip from his cigar. “They’re mighty fine Cuban el Rey del Mundos, not those Honduran knockoffs. A South American associate of mine brings me a box when he’s in town.”
“I don’t smoke,” Samuel replied.
Dusty stood ready to light Walter’s cigar. Walter raised a hand. Dusty returned to the desk.
“Well, all right.” Walter held his cigar like a schoolteacher with a pointer. “Y’all sit on the Transportation Committee, right?”
“You know I do.”
Walter pulled himself up in his chair. “Mmm, huh. Well, it seems I have
an abidin’ interest in transportation. In high-speed light rail to be exact.”
“In Texas?” Samuel spoke before he thought.
Walter grinned. “Well, not today but someday maybe. Nope, my interests are in Florida.”
Samuel pressed his jaws firmly trying not to show any emotion.
“Now I know the vote isn’t likely to come up in y’all’s committee until after the election. It’d be a fine thing if that vote was a positive one, ya understand.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’re speaking of the Orlando-Tampa proposal?”
“Well, actually, the whole kit and caboodle.”
“The Miami route?”
The intercom buzzed. Walter frowned, then nodded at Dusty who pressed the instrument’s button.
“Darla, darlin’,” Walter called, some of the warmth dropping from his voice. “I thought I made it plain I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.” Darla’s voice came out professional and unapologetic.
Walter thought for a moment, then motioned with his head at Dusty who promptly left the room.
Walter and Samuel sat in silence each trying to guess what the other was thinking.
“Walter.” It was Dusty’s voice over the intercom.
“Back stairs,” Walter called back. “Samuel, y’all are goin’ ta have excuse me.” He rose and walked quickly to his desk. Before Samuel could stand, Walter pulled an envelope from a desk drawer and held it out.
Samuel gingerly took the envelope.
“I think that can help your campaign.” Some of the Texas drawl dropped from Walter’s tone. “I wouldn’t want y’all to come all this way for nothin’.”
Samuel slipped the envelope into his coat pocket without looking. “Thank you, Walter. I appreciate it.”
“I hope we can talk again. I’d like to explain why this I feel so strongly about helping the folks in Florida with their transportation problem.”
“Certainly.”
Walter extended his paw. Samuel grabbed it quickly this time, squeezing firmly to avoid having his hand crushed again.
In the hallway, Dusty stood near the spiral staircase, indicating Samuel’s departure route and mostly obscuring his view of the man just topping the back stairs. Samuel thought he glimpsed the face of a youthful Hispanic.
“The driver’s waiting,” Dusty said, pointing at the spiral stairs.
“Nice meeting you, Dusty.”
Dusty didn’t offer to shake hands. He led the way down the stairs. At the bottom, he stopped, pointed in the direction of the front door.
Samuel walked past the line of cubicles. Over his shoulder he caught a glimpse of Dusty at the back door. Not much more than a shadow slipped past Dusty to the safety of a divider. Then Samuel was out the front door to the waiting car. It would be weeks before he would learn the name of Walter’s other guest and about his clandestine entrance.
The last line of dividers before the bathrooms and the stairs was taller than the others. The only way someone could see a backdoor visitor was the second and a half it took to clear corridor space between the rows of dividers. Dusty strategically paced his cadence to match the visitor’s. His six-foot frame, though lean, obscured any clear view, not that anyone on the first floor would chance being caught trying to see one of Mister Bensen’s special guests.
It was different by design on the second floor. Although Dusty hid most of the guest as they walked across the back of the room to the final staircase, craning heads could catch snippets of the man, his trousers, his shoes, his frame if it was larger than Dusty’s. Rumors would begin to fly back and forth among the elevated mice the moment the two sets of legs disappeared into Walter’s cave.
“Mister Czeiler,” Walter greeted his guest warmly, hand extended, standing just in front of his desk, making the other man walk to him.
Dusty stood holding the door closed but not latched. Walter nodded. Dusty pushed the door completely closed and retreated to a corner of the room.
Martín Czeiler understood the game Walter was playing. He smiled, spreading his thin, black mustaches that extended at the tips past his lower lip. His black hair, punctuated by salon-styled wisps of grey was slicked back. He carried a white Panama Montecristi fedora. “Call me, Martín,” he said, firmly clasping the hand.
In the back seat of the Mercedes, Samuel opened the envelope. There was a cashier’s check for $100,000 dollars. The “Pay to the order of” line was blank. Samuel stared at it dumbfounded. He slipped the check and the envelope into his briefcase. He speculated on who Walter’s visitor might be that his own meeting had to be terminated so abruptly.
Walter and Dusty sat alone in Walter’s office smoking del Mundos after Czeiler had departed.
Dusty blew a perfect blue smoke ring. “So, how do you think it went with the good senator?”
Walter took a deep draw, let out the smoke. “Not certain. We made need some insurance there.”
Chapter Five.
The security check line was long, longer than he expected. By the time he got his shoes on, Samuel barely made it to the gate before final boarding call. Again there had not been time for lunch. At least there was a decent interval between flights in Washington. He could eat and check in with his office. He smiled, wondering who if anyone was working in his DC office on Saturday.
He was not surprised that no one from his office met him at Reagan International. He barely had time to swallow a sandwich and a glass of water. He had wanted a beer but the old admonition against being photographed with alcohol in your hand overrode his preference. These days everyone carried a cell phone with a camera. He didn’t need to give his competition any unnecessary ammunition. He would wait the beer until he was on the plane. There would be a lot less chance of being photographed on board.
The “fasten seatbelt sign” on the second leg of his journey had barely gone dark when it illuminated again to the familiar “ding, ding” warning alarm. The flight attendant calmly announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the seatbelt sign. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.”
Samuel chugged his beer. He squeezed the plastic up into the seatback pocket in front of him. He bent to stow his briefcase beneath his feet. The plane dropped suddenly, knocking his head into the seatback in front of him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’re going to try to go around some of the bad air ahead but it will be a little rough for the remainder of our flight. I am going to have to keep the seatbelt sign on. Sorry about that.”
Great, Samuel thought, rubbing his forehead. It could be worse. We could be flying a turbo-prop. He bounced in the seat as the plane made another unexpected drop.
Thirty minutes into the flight, the captain came back on the intercom. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I have a little more bad news for you. They just closed Burlington International. There’s a cold front moving down from Canada. It’s expected to drop four to eight inches of wet snow along with winds gusting to fifty miles an hour. We’re being diverted to Bradley Field at Hartford. Ground crews there will try to help you with connecting flights or ground transportation.” Click.
“I was right,” Samuel said more to himself than to the large man bulging against the seatbelt next to him. “It can get worse.”
“Too damn early for snow,” the large man grunted.
“It must be that global warming they keep warning us about,” Samuel smiled.
The man grunted again and cinched his seatbelt tighter.
Samuel, tie and overcoat undone, studied the departure scoreboard. He smiled. Jane was right once again. He was glad now to have the overcoat. The departure flight schedule rolled. His smile dropped. “Burlington, VT, cancelled.” He sighed and picked up his suitcase.
“I have got a car, Senator.”
The voice startled Samuel.
“Howard. What are you doing here?”
Howard reached for the suitcase. Samuel hung onto his briefcase that
now contained the check.
They walked toward short-term parking. “You did not think I was going to miss the syrup-on-snow thing, did you?”
“Sugar-on-snow,” Samuel corrected him.
“Betty called. She said the weather was getting bad in St. Pierre. I checked the weather channel. It is fierce. A cold front from Canada collided with warm air. It is now a mixture of rain, hail, and sleet from Montreal to Montpelier.”
“So how did you get here?”
“I took a chance. They had already closed Montreal. I thought you might get diverted to Boston or Hartford. I also thought it would be easier for you if I helped drive.”
“And what if we had gone to Boston instead?”
“It would take a little longer but I could have doubled-back to get you.”
“So Hartford was pretty much a lucky guess?”
“Yes, pretty much.” He paused. “You know, they can track cell phones these days even when they are turned off.”
Samuel pulled a cell phone his jacket side pocket and another from his left front pants pocket. “The office one or my personal one?” It was a matter of pride that Samuel did not expect the taxpayers to subsidize his personal business, not even twenty-cent phone calls.
“Either one, both.”
“I thought only certain elements of the government could do that.”
Howard smiled. “Yes, sir.”
“But not on a plane, not even the government. Right?”
“I believe that to be true,” Howard replied somewhat vaguely. “However, on the ground, in a terminal. One of my friends tells me it is quite amazing what can be done these days.”
It’s good to have lucky people around, Samuel concluded; especially smart lucky people who knew people.
Howard opened the back right door of the rented mid-sized sixty-percent American made sedan. He understood optics. If an unauthorized photo of the senator getting into a foreign car company’s vehicle should appear in print or on social media, the counter claim would be that it had been assembled by American workers. It was a leg in his platform that Samuel supported workers.
Mid-Life Friends and Illusions Page 4