I decided to get some fresh air. After pouring myself another cup of coffee, I took a Montecristo Corona from my travel humidor and went outside with my newspaper. To one side of our cabin sat a little patio with three wooden park benches arranged around a small concrete table. I lolled and smoked and read my paper, and my cigar was almost down to the end when I heard the crunch of tires on gravel. I looked up to see Della swing into the drive. The convertible top was down, and she was wearing a head scarf and dark sunglasses. I sat in silence and watched as she got out of the car and pulled off the scarf to give her hair a shake. It was parted on the left, and in the back and sides it fell to her shoulders in a golden waterfall that turned under at its end. That day she wore a pair of nicely fitted white slacks and a red silk blouse. I noted the graceful ease with which she moved, and as I watched her fine, firm bottom and full breasts I almost decided to cancel my trip out to the gusher. Almost, but not quite.
“Hey,” I said. “You want to take a spin?”
“I’ve been spinning. Let’s go get something to eat. I just had toast at breakfast, if you remember.”
“We will, but there’s an oil well I want to see first.”
“Okay. Let me freshen up and get a drink.”
“Bring me another cigar, please,” I asked her.
When she returned a couple of minutes later, I opened the passengers’ door and pointed to the wheel. “You drive,” I said. “I like to look at a beautiful woman at the wheel of a fine car. It stirs me.”
She handed me the cigar and cranked the engine. “So get stirred,” she said, and slid her sunglasses on her face.
She was a good driver and a fast one, but soon we had to slow down to twenty miles an hour. The road was clogged with a steady caravan of cars going out toward the well. The last two miles we traveled took us thirty minutes to cover, but at last we came up to the edge of a low bluff that marked the beginning of the Donner Basin. From there we could see it, a mile away, blowing like mad. Some gushers and blowouts will crest and peak, then fall back to a trickle only to surge and blow once again as the pressure changes and shifts far beneath the earth’s surface. But this one was pushing a steady stream of oil up out of the ground like an open faucet, and even from that distance the roar sounded like a hurricane.
She pulled over to the side and we stepped out of the car. “They’re thrilling, aren’t they?” she asked. “Gushers, I mean.”
“You’ve seen one before?”
“Oh yes,” she replied.
There’s something dreadfully primitive about an oil well blowout, and I was hypnotized by its violence. We stood and watched the well for about five minutes until Della gave me a gentle poke in the ribs. “We’ve seen it. Now let’s go do something about it,” she said.
FIVE
We finally managed to get the car turned around, and when the traffic began to thin out halfway back to town Della started passing slow-moving vehicles on the right. And on the left. And a couple of times I thought she was simply going to plow the big Lincoln right through a snarl. I kept my mouth shut. In my view you don’t tell somebody to drive and then complain about how they do it. Finally a couple of miles from town the traffic thinned out and the car surged ahead as she bore down on the accelerator.
“Your family has money, doesn’t it?” she asked, the first words either of us had spoken since we left the well site.
“Some,” I told her.
“Mine too. Do you have any of your own?”
I shook my head. “Just enough to live well from day to day and that’s all.”
“Same thing with me,” she said.
She lapsed back into silence until we were almost to the city limits, then she turned her head and regarded me through the dark lenses of her sunglasses, the wind whipping her hair wildly about where it protruded from under the edges of her scarf. “Let’s get rich,” she said. “Let’s start right now. Today. This very afternoon.”
“I’d love to, but I don’t know very much about the oil business.”
“I do.”
“Really?”
She nodded. “I grew up in the oil game. My dad was one of the pioneers in the El Dorado field up in Arkansas, and when I was in high school he was drilling in the Cherokee Outlet over in Oklahoma.”
“I thought your father was a cotton broker.”
She turned and looked at me for a moment, her eyes unreadable behind her dark glasses. “And I thought you knew that ‘cotton broker’ is a polite Memphis term for a damned old scoundrel who likes money and will take it anywhere he can get it.”
I roared with laughter. She shook her head. “He’s something, I tell you. Don’t you ever play poker with him.”
“Hey, I’m supposed to be sort of a pro at the card table,” I said.
“You still better not play with him.”
Without warning she pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road and skidded to a stop. Whipping off her sunglasses, she turned to stare directly into my face. “I want you to answer one question for me right this minute,” she said. “You told that cop a few days back that you trust me with your life. Do you really?”
I looked into those deep blue eyes of hers and knew that this was one of those golden moments I’d remember until my last breath. Suddenly my senses were hyperacute. The very air itself seemed to hold an electrical charge, and the smells of the sagebrush and the soft new leather of the car seats baking in the noonday sun were sharp in my nostrils.
“Yes, Della, of course I do,” I answered softly.
“Good,” she said, and slipped her glasses back onto her face. “Now, which bank is the one where you deposited that draft?”
“Farmers and Merchants National. I’m supposed to talk to the president. He’s a man named Rhodes.”
She put the car in gear and roared back onto the highway with barely a glance at traffic.
It was an old-time bank, full of marble counters and bronze grillwork, the kind of institution where you might actually feel safe leaving your money. The place fell silent when we entered, and all eyes were on Della as she strode briskly through the lobby. “Go see your Mr. Rhodes,” she told me. “I think I can get my business done out here.”
Manlow Rhodes turned out to be a tall, slim man in his sixties, dressed in an elegant three-piece suit of dark blue wool that was ten years out of style. His hair was silver and sparse and his eyes were hard gray orbs set in a long, hard, gray face. A pair of rimless bifocals perched atop a thin, aristocratic nose that could no doubt smell bad credit and weak collateral as far away as a hound can smell pot liquor. His left lapel held a small diamond Shriners pin, and a Phi Beta Kappa key dangled from his watch chain. I had no doubt that in college he’d majored in accounting, and if I ever found out he wasn’t a Presbyterian I’d lose my faith in the constancy of human nature.
His handshake was dry and bony, and when he waved me into the chair before his desk it was with the easy grace of a man who’s been in charge of things for a long, long time. “Your draft cleared by wire yesterday,” he said.
“Excellent. I didn’t anticipate any trouble.”
“So you like to gamble, is that right?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
“Don’t you ever lose?”
“Occasionally, yes. Everybody does.”
He nodded. “I know, and that’s why I never indulge in the vice. But I take it that you win more often than you lose.”
“So far I have.”
“The draft you left with us was much larger than I expected when Ollie Marne talked to my friend at the hotel. Thirty thousand dollars. For the time being at least, that makes you a substantial depositor in this institution. Therefore I feel obligated to tell you exactly what my interest in that poker game is.”
“I couldn’t help but wonder,” I admitted.
“Who wouldn’t?” he asked with a long sigh. “The simple fact is that the syndicate that owns the Weilbach has a large overdue note at this bank. That game has been g
oing on up there for years, but a few months ago I learned that the hotel was only charging a hundred and fifty dollars a weekend for use of the Plainsman Suite where it’s held. I forced them to go up to a thousand dollars. Many times that amount crosses the table up there each week, so why shouldn’t the hotel profit some from the risk they are taking? Were it to be raided by the authorities the Weilbach’s reputation would suffer, and the bank would suffer as well. That’s also the reason that I demanded the power to veto any new players, and there have been a couple of real ringers who have tried to get in up there. I don’t approve of the whole mess, to tell you the truth. But the game brings in a significant amount of cash, which has helped the hotel stay afloat. So, you can see why…” his voice dropped off.
“Yes sir, I can. But the question that’s most important to me is, do I get to play?”
He gave me a nod that was a bare moving of his head. “I can’t see any reason why not. Ollie Marne tells my friend that certain people down in Austin speak highly of you.”
Before I could reply the door opened and Della swept into the room with Rhodes’s secretary and a young lending officer trailing along in her wake like two rowboats behind a clipper ship. She strode up to the desk and laid a long, blue check in front of Rhodes. Then she put her hands possessively on my shoulders, and said, “I am trying to open an account here by transferring money from my bank back home. I told this young man that if he would call the Cotton Exchange Bank and Trust in Memphis, any of the officers there would guarantee any check I cared to write. But he insists that I will still have to wait until the check clears to draw on the account, and that just won’t do.”
Rhodes picked the check up and looked at it quickly. “Ten thousand dollars,” he murmured.
He glanced back and forth for just a second between Della and me, then swiveled around and leaned across the desk holding the check out to the young man. “This gentleman here,” he said, nodding his head toward me, “has more than adequate funds on deposit. He will be happy to guarantee the check for the young lady. Don’t bother with disturbing anyone up in Memphis. Just open the account for her and give her access to the money immediately.”
After the loan officer and the secretary left, I introduced Della to Rhodes. When she thanked him for honoring her check, he said, “Not at all, not at all. I just hope you enjoy banking with us.”
“Oh, I’m sure I will,” she said. “And now that you’re my banker I would appreciate a word of advice, if you would be so kind?”
A soft murmur of assent came from the other side of the desk.
“Tell me, how many abstract companies are there in this town?”
“Just one. And it hasn’t been very busy the last few years.”
“It’s not for sale, is it?” she asked.
“No, but I think it could be bought,” he replied with a puzzled frown. “Why do you ask?”
“Oil.”
“Oh yes, I had heard. Out west of town. I know very little of the oil business.”
“Then you need to learn,” Della informed him bluntly. “If I were you, I would go to Dallas or Tyler and hire some young banker who knows leases and royalties. When the East Texas field came in, the local bankers lost a lot of business because they didn’t know enough about the oil game to appreciate its significance.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and this strike is going to be big.”
“You feel that strongly about it?” There was no sarcasm in his voice. It was an honest question from a man seeking information.
She nodded. “I was raised in the oil business. One more thing. I also need to know if there is a good surveyor, or a map company in town who will have plats of the area out around the Donner Basin?”
“Lipscomb and Associates Surveyors. They’re on Roosevelt just three blocks past the courthouse.”
“Thank you, and now I better go finish my business.”
Rhodes got to his feet and walked her to the door and she quickly vanished back out into the lobby. After he’d resumed his seat behind the desk, he and I chatted for a few minutes, passing the time with meaningless pleasantries. Finally I rose and shook his hand once more. “If this is a good field the Weilbach should be in the black in no time,” I told him. “It will certainly draw a lot of people to town.”
“If it’s a really big strike the problem with the hotel might not even matter anymore,” he said. “You go on up there and play your cards anytime you want, young man. They’ll be expecting you.”
I hoped then that the strike would be big, and not just for Della and myself either. I had decided that I respected Manlow Rhodes the minute he committed me to guaranteeing the check for Della. He had strong-armed me a little there, and I couldn’t help but admire him for having the guts to do it. It made me feel a deep sense of regret about what was going to happen in a few months.
SIX
I dropped Della off in front of the abstract company and drove on toward the surveyor’s office with instructions to get plats and maps of everything surrounding the Coby Smith well site. I was back in an hour to find her hovering over a nervous-looking, dark-eyed young man in a brown suit who sat pounding away at a typewriter. Around them both orbited a fidgety older fellow in a tattered cardigan sweater and a printer’s eyeshade.
“This is Mr. Wolfe,” she said, pointing at the typing man. “And this other gentleman is Mr. Bobbet. And you and I are now in the abstract business.”
“What?” I asked.
“We just bought Bobbet Abstract and Title Company. I think I’ll change the name to Deltex Abstract. How does that sound to you?”
Before I could answer, she patted the typewriter man on the shoulder, and said, “We’ll also need papers of incorporation for an outfit named Deltex Petroleum. But you can do those tonight.”
He nodded and kept typing. She looked up at me. “Is Deltex all right with you? We could put your name on it too, if you’d like.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” I said. “What is he exactly?” I asked pointing to Wolfe. “And where did you find him?”
“He’s an attorney, and I found him three doors down. He tells me he’s a hungry attorney.”
Wolfe looked up at me for the first time, his dark eyes sad. “Very hungry,” he said. “I should never have come back here.”
“Why not?” I blurted.
“Because this is a terrible town for Jews.”
“I’m hiring his girlfriend,” Della informed me. “She’s a stenographer.”
“She worked for me for a while but I had to let her go,” Wolfe said over the mad clatter of his typewriter.
“I want you to examine this deed when he gets finished with it,” Della told me.
I nodded dumbly. Bobbet looked dazed and I probably did too. When Wolfe finished the paper, he whipped it from the machine and handed it to me with a flourish. It was a simple warranty deed transferring to Della and me each a half interest in Bobbet Abstract Company. The building was not part of the deal. It was rented, so for the grand sum of four thousand dollars we were getting some decrepit office furniture and a room full of battered filing cabinets that contained summaries of the land records for the entire county. Bobbet was just signing his name when the front door opened and a tiny, dark-haired girl in a black dress entered, a notary seal in her hand.
“Mona, how kind of you to come here on such short notice,” Wolfe said.
The deed was quickly notarized, Della gave Bobbet his check for four thousand dollars, and the place was ours. The young lawyer introduced Mona as his fiancée.
“Can you work late tonight?” Della asked her.
“Until I get some bills paid, I can work around the clock if that’s what you need,” the girl replied earnestly.
“How much do I owe you for the deed?” Della asked Wolfe.
“Is fifteen dollars too much?”
She produced her checkbook. “Not at all. And if I were to give you a retainer of a hundred dollars, would you promise that for the n
ext few days you’ll drop whatever you’re doing and come running when I need you?”
Wolfe laughed and shrugged. “Drop what I’m doing? How can one drop nothing?”
“I take it that you mean yes?”
“You give me a hundred dollars and I will kill for you.”
As soon as the young lawyer was paid and out the door, Della poked me gently in the ribs, and asked, “Would you please go get me a hamburger and then vanish?”
“Sure. Vanish till when?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. It may be late tonight so I’ll just take a cab home. Get a burger for Mona too.”
I went a few doors down to a hardware store and bought a coffeepot and a half dozen big mugs for the office. Stopping in at a grocery I picked up a carton of cold Cokes and a pound of coffee, then got them each a hamburger. I went back to the office, deposited it all on Della’s desk and then left as she’d asked.
* * *
It was a little after nine that evening when I heard her key in the lock. She piled her purse and an armful of papers on the bed and stood facing me with one of her infrequent smiles on her face. “Did you know there’s another well being drilled out there in the basin?” she asked.
“No, I had no idea.”
“Look at this.” She spread out a map and pointed with a pencil she pulled out from behind her ear. “It’s a mile or more west of the Smith well. And look here.”
She opened another map and pointed to where she’d shaded in several areas around the maiden well with a colored pencil. Just west of it lay a single large tract that hadn’t been shaded.
“All this land that I’ve colored in is under lease,” she said. “But this isn’t,” she said, pointing at the unshaded area. “It’s the Havel farm. Almost nine hundred acres. Its east property line is only about a thousand yards west of the Smith gusher.”
“And it’s right between the two wells,” I said.
“Yes, it is. And I want you to go out there early tomorrow morning and grab it.”
“For how much?”
“Whatever it takes.”
The Rogues' Game Page 3