Nothing Ventured

by Roderick Price

  After some drinks and socializing, it was time to be seated, and they found their table to be in the wine-tasting cellar. It was not a cellar really, but a large private dining area off the main salon. Martin mused that there was no doubt Anita’s last-minute RSVP was to blame for not getting preferred seating for the evening. What he didn’t know is that she was friends with one of the women who had organized the event, and Anita had told the woman exactly where she wanted to sit. Most of the best tables would be taken by the group’s officers for the year, the officer’s friends in the business, and likely a group of older guys from the major oil companies or “majors.”

  Martin had been back in this very room a couple of years ago when there had been some promotions to vice-president at Basin Oil. He had been bitter as hell that night, watching a co-worker get a promotion that he felt he was due, but he had been too proud not to attend the dinner party. It had turned out to be a tolerable evening. Martin had actually met the owner/chef of Café Annie when he had been dove hunting down in Mexico a year earlier. They had spent time entertaining the group telling bird hunting stories, mostly the kind that are half true. But when you are listening to these stories you are never sure where the truth stops, and the embellishment begins.

  Martin moved easily through the shuffling crowd as others moved to be seated, too. They were at a large table with seats for a dozen. He found their nameplates and was standing patiently by the table, waiting for Anita who was talking to a girlfriend. A couple walked up to be seated next to Martin and introduced themselves and Martin had a nice chat with them. Finally, Anita joined him and the four of them took their seats. Ten minutes later, the final couple showed up. Martin’s draw dropped. It was Liz with a tall dark-haired good-looking gentleman in a striking Armani tux. Liz locked eyes on Martin.

  Finally, the man with Liz said, “Hey everybody, sorry we’re late. I know most of you, but my name’s Hilton Sinclair and this is Liz. Hilton locked his eyes on Anita. Martin and Liz were still staring at each other. Anita hadn’t seen Liz in a couple of years, but in a few seconds, Anita figured out that Hilton was with Martin’s wife. About the same time, Martin recalled that this Hilton had to be Anita’s “lunch pal.” Martin wondered silently how Anita possibly could have known that Liz was going to be Hilton’s dinner date. Liz thought that Anita was Martin’s secretary, but she wasn’t certain. Liz had no idea that Anita was Hilton’s “lunch date.” Hilton had never met Martin before and certainly didn’t know that Liz was Martin’s wife.

  At this moment, the head waiter walked up. Hilton spoke quietly to the waiter, and then Hilton turned to the table and said, “I just bought us six bottles of Cristal. I hope everybody’s thirsty.”

  One of the guys next to Hilton gave him a high-five and Hilton and Liz took their seats. Anita leaned over and whispered in Martin’s ear, “Martin, I had no idea. No idea.”

  The champagne arrived, and in no time the table was off to a rollicking time. Anita quipped to one of the guys at the table that she didn’t drink champagne without strawberries, making a passing reference to some movie she had once seen. Immediately, the guy ordered the largest tray of big juicy strawberries that Martin had ever seen. After appetizers, Hilton ordered several bottles of Opus One. Martin knew it was four hundred dollars a bottle. Hilton suggested that while other attendees could drink the house wine, he and his “new” friends would be drinking Opus the rest of the night. It wasn’t apparent to Martin that Liz had told Hilton who her husband was. By now, it was clear Anita was having a great time, alternately joking with the guests, and then hanging on Martin’s shoulder. She would laugh at the crudest jokes and then shake her head in disbelief as one of the traders told of this escapade or that. A mini food fight with sautéed crawfish ensued. Hilton remained cool, but periodically he would cast a cautious glance toward Anita. Around ten, it was announced there would be desserts and drinks out in the main dining room, along with a brief recognition ceremony for new officers. Anita dragged Martin by the hand around the far edge of the crowd, and up to the center of the bar. They were actually behind the stage for the presentation ceremony, but the minute it was over, the bar would be packed. The bar was already two or three people deep. Anita and Martin stood in close quarters pushing in for a drink. The crowd parted for just a second to let a couple through and Martin found himself standing face to face with Liz and Hilton.

  “Oh Martin, wow,” Liz was the first to speak. “We didn’t really get a chance to talk earlier.” She looked over at Anita.

  Martin had seen her do this before. In the face of adversity, Liz could put on a perfectly happy face. He was suddenly angry that she was out with some sleaze ball.

  “What are you even doing here?” said Martin. He hadn’t meant it to come out so judgmental. He immediately realized how petty that sounded.

  “What do you think she’s doing here? Having a good time.” It was the sleaze ball, Hilton, nearly in his face—totally uncalled for.

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” Martin shot back. “I was talking to my wife.”

  “It’s all right Martin, I knew what you meant,” Liz said quickly, trying to smooth things over.

  “Well, since you knew what I meant, when you get some time, maybe you can explain it to your friend here.” Martin could have let it go. He was jealous, and besides, Hilton had jumped in for no reason. Everybody had had far too much alcohol.

  Liz tried again. “I guess I should introduce you two. Martin, this is Hilton Sinclair. Hilton this is Martin, my husband.”

  Anita had been off to Martin’s side watching this, and now she moved up quickly to face Liz.

  “Hi Liz, good to see you again,” said Anita evenly. “Hello Hilton, good to see you too.” Martin saw Liz carefully look Anita over from head to toe and back again.

  “Man, how many good-looking women were you planning on coming to the party with anyway, man?” said Hilton, his remark gracious under the circumstances.

  “She’s my wife, okay?”

  “Ex-wife. Get used to it.”

  “We’re separated.”

  “Let’s not get technical, Martin.” Hilton smiled.

  “It’d satisfy me just fine if you’d just not refer to her as my ex-wife, when she’s not my ex-wife.” Martin was about to boil over.

  “Well, I’m glad that would satisfy you. At least then, maybe one of you would be satisfied for a change,” said Hilton smiling over at Liz. Liz knew this was headed for trouble and she didn’t like it.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Martin retorted.

  “If I’ve got to explain it to you, no wonder she booted you out,” said Hilton.

  Martin was at once enraged and speechless. He charged headlong into Hilton. Drinks flew in every direction as Hilton hit the bar with a dull thud. Martin could feel the thick, meaty muscles of Hilton’s back as he arched upward trying to escape the bear hug Martin had on him. Although momentarily stunned, in an instant Hilton was pummeling Martin around the head and shoulders. Desperately, Martin grabbed Hilton by the left leg and dragged him awkwardly forward causing him to fall hard onto the floor on his back. Immediately, Martin dove on top of him like a crazed animal and the two flailed about on the floor, their tuxedos flapping oddly about as they flailed at one another. Quickly, the men in the crowd closed around them, pulled them up off the floor, and managed to separate the two. Anita was at once both efficient and elegant. While Martin was brushing himself off and trying to get his bearings, Anita gently reached into his coat pocket and grabbed the valet slip to the car, handing it off to one of the employees to fetch the car. From a distance, Martin found himself still glaring at Hilton, then he looked at Liz, then Hilton, then Liz again. Anita pulled Martin toward the front door. The car was waiting. Anita jumped in the driver’s seat, and off they sped. Martin slowly settled down and began to feel relaxed.

  “You know Martin, you might have a future in boxing,” said Anita, smiling.

  “I know,
I know,” said Martin. “Might do with a little more training, though.”

  “You really went off on my boyfriend, Martin.” Anita was still smiling. “Who says you’re no fun at a party!”

  “You know what Anita; I’ve been thinking about this a lot. From now on I’m just not going to take shit from anybody.” said Martin. “Nobody, no shit, no more.”

  “Well,” said Anita. “I think you’re off to a good start on that tonight.”

  CHAPTER 18

  As usual, the next morning Martin was in the office before 7:00. Anita brought him his third coffee an hour later when she got in.

  “Hey slugger,” she smiled. “Sleep well?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” he smiled back.

  “Well, you know how I called you “boring” the other day?” She continued. “Um, let’s just say, I take it back.” She smiled and left his office.

  The next few days found Martin in his office hovering laboriously over his computer long before Anita got in, until long after she left. She could count the used coffee cups and the sandwich wrappers in his trash and know how long he had been working. She had continued to try and smooth over things from the dinner incident, assuring him that it was no big deal, but he had shrugged politely. He had looked more than a little hurt, but then he would dive back into the details of his work. He had always informed Anita when he had an especially important call or when he needed to leave the office for an appointment. On Thursday, at 4:15, he abruptly walked out of the office with his coat and car keys, telling Anita he’d be back the next day. No explanation. Driving as fast as he legally permissible, he got to the Westside Public Library in just over ten minutes and then waited patiently in the private phone booth to dial the number. He had been to the library a number of times with his kids. And he had called from there a number of times, always finding it odd that they had built a couple of little wooden, private phone booths inside the library. Now they seemed the perfectly anonymous, untraceable place to make a call. Finally, at exactly 4:30 he dialed and felt his heart race when someone picked up the phone. He drew in his breath when he heard the familiar voice of Taylor Thompson.

  They had started off haltingly, appreciatively professional. He had called earlier in the week at dinnertime, hoping to catch her late at work. The phone was answered by a man, who called himself Jason. Once Martin had convinced Jason that he really was an old friend of Taylor, Jason took a simple message with Martin’s name and an agreement to schedule this time for a callback later in the week.

  Taylor could tell from his tone that Martin was up to something, but he started out telling her about his job, the challenges he had faced in the last few years and the recent struggles he had been having with Liz. All of this seemed to be fairly normal stuff. Taylor had done well for herself; he always knew that she would. But increasingly she was frustrated with her job and the realities of how big money had such an influence over everything that she said and did. She even let him know that she had had it with the oil industry, and gave him a summary of the Superior project, though not sharing the shady details.

  When she mentioned Jansen by name, Martin told her how he had worked with Dick Jansen eighteen years earlier in the management development program at Empire Oil. Together, they spent a few fun minutes comparing the guy’s mannerisms to those of a snake. It was clear Taylor had taken enough from big business and was ready for a break. Taylor asked how Martin’s dad and brother were doing, joking about their lefse encounter. Taylor said she had been working like crazy. Again, Martin mentioned that he and Liz were having some “rocky times” and taking a break for a while. Martin mentioned that he had noticed she was speaking at an API sponsored industry forum the following week in Chicago. Martin was planning on attending the forum for the first two days and Martin wondered if she would have time for that dinner they talked about. She was leery of seeing anyone on a rebound from divorce, or even separation, but she wanted to see him. Taylor realized that this was the same Martin she had known twenty years earlier, even if he was working through some issues now. They set up their dinner plans in Chicago.

  When Martin got back to the office it was pushing five o’clock. Anita was finishing up for the day and Martin plunked himself down oddly in the chair next to her workstation. Soon they were talking a mile a minute and taking parting shots at co-workers as they streamed past Anita’s desk, leaving for the day. While she was having a lot of fun fooling around with him, she apologized for having to leave to pick up her daughter from after-school day care. Not a problem, Martin said, wondering if they shouldn’t just continue the conversation at lunch tomorrow, being Friday and everything. Before she knew it, she had a lunch planned with Martin for the next day. Carefully, he helped her out through the front door with her purse, a backpack, and a shopping bag. Ordinarily, she would have changed into her flats before leaving the office, but she suddenly felt a certain self-consciousness in front of him and decided to stay in her heels. He seemed genuinely sad to see her go, reassuring her that he would take responsibility to lock up before he left, asking her only to think about someplace nice for lunch tomorrow. Maybe someplace not frequented by Hilton or Liz, suggested Martin. More than anything else, she felt relief as she walked to her car in the brisk evening air. All week she had felt guilty about getting Martin into his little altercation, last Thursday night, exactly one week ago. Now, just seeing him back in a good mood did her a world of good. It would make life a little more bearable around the office, too.

  After Anita left, Martin strolled leisurely and confidently back to his office, only stopping by the lunchroom to pull a Diet Coke out of the fridge. He smiled to himself as he thought sarcastically that one of his biggest fringe benefits at Basin was free soda. Most of the vice-presidents now had gotten club memberships and cars; here he was enjoying his free soda. Back in his familiar chair, he looked admiringly over the mass of maps, plots, computer disks and geological analysis littering his drafting table. The sun was already kissing the horizon and the cars were lined up on the Katy Freeway for their long trek back to Houston’s western suburbs. Momentarily, Martin found it ironic that everyone had to put so much effort into going back and forth from their home to their office. He could sit right here in his office and transport himself from the deep waters of the Gulf of Mexico, to the top of the Wind River Basin in Wyoming and over to the northern reaches of Kazakhstan. He had spent the last couple of weeks carefully poring over the seismic maps of Ship Shoal 214, a new and very promising series of offshore federal leases with huge and surprisingly deep gas reserves.

  Smiling to himself, he looked over at an old series of seismic shootings from West Virginia that were taken during the 1930s by crews from the United States Geological Survey Department. Martin had first gotten the tapes in a shipment of compact metal canisters last summer. Basin had hired a couple of petroleum engineering students on a summer work study program, and Basin asked Martin to keep them busy. Basin had been reworking some fields near Parkersburg, and Martin sent them up there for a month to test wells, model production flows and write up orders for local servicing companies to come in and acidize the wells to revitalize them. During the project, there had been some confusion regarding ownership of one of the larger producing units and Martin had sent them down to the West Virginia Capitol in Charleston to do some research of title holders in the state archives. During the fairly routine title work down in the archives of the state capitol building, they had stumbled across these old seismic tapes. The tapes had been filed neatly by County, Township and Section, each with a Canister Sequence Number and a detailed descriptive label of coordinates of latitude and longitude. The top of each canister had been sealed with wax, and they had laid in the cool confines amid the huge old timbers of the statehouse basement for the last sixty or seventy years. After sharing a six pack one night with the records clerk, the two had been able to cart back to Houston a dozen of the canisters, begging Martin to let them analyze them. After a wee
k of calling around, Martin had finally found an old, retired geologist in Fort Worth who still had a machine that would read the tapes and convert them to a computer format. For a hundred bucks, Martin had bought the device, essentially an old reel-to-reel digital recorder and stuck it in the corner of his office; a collectors’ item, he had told the old fellow. The students had easily gotten the tapes converted to a new digital format. But too soon, the summer was over, and the students were back at the university. The canisters were stacked in Martin’s office, new copies of the tapes stuck on a stack of six zip-drive cartridges, neatly bundled, gathering dust on top of the canisters.

  Even Martin had been fascinated with the history of this find. During the process, Martin had talked repeatedly on the phone with the old geologist who, as it turned out, had actually worked on one of these USGS crews during the darkest days of the depression. Martin was interested to learn that such geological and geophysical mapping had been performed in Texas, California, and every state east of the Mississippi. This was an effort of such magnitude that even using today’s best equipment, it would cost hundreds of millions of dollars. For four years during the Depression, scores of exploration crews traveled from state to state, dragging heavy equipment, cables and explosives over remote landscapes, and carefully recording the scientific results of their work on these seismic tapes. When their work was complete in a given state, they would pack all of their things and move on, turning all of their findings over to the respective states for storage and safekeeping. Finally, as the New Deal economy began to gain momentum, this job-creating federal program was discontinued. There was never a clear or consistent definition of the ownership, value or even existence of these seismic tapes. Ultimately, they were simply handed over to each state’s conservation department, most probably sitting in some old basement in some state-owned building or warehouse like these from West Virginia. So, the tapes, never really analyzed, had sat there silently for the last sixty years.