Texas Gal
by C. Sprite

 

   

Chapter Forty-Five         Your Keys Don't Seem To Be Here

The pre-party started very early Saturday morning. A number of Auntie's closest friends in the oil business, people that would stay overnight in the house, arrived very early in the morning. Every bedroom on the second floor would be occupied. Even one of the bedrooms in the servant wing on the first floor had been reserved. Frank Kelso, a longtime friend and business associate of Auntie's, upon learning that all the upstairs bedrooms had already been spoken for, asked if he might sleep on the floor of the office. When Auntie offered the empty bedroom in the servant's wing instead, he jumped at it.

The catering service began setting up about nine o'clock and was ready to start serving food and drinks when the bulk of the guests began to arrive around ten o'clock. We had people to park cars, and people to direct the pilots in parking their planes. Prop planes were parked in the grassy area along the runway, where concrete tie-down anchors had been poured, and jets were parked on the new ramp area that Auntie had prepared. When the runway was resurfaced a year ago, she'd had a full acre next to the hanger paved over for when visitors with jets came calling. We had bartenders serving at two portable bars outside, and bartenders serving drinks in the barroom inside the house. It was the first time we'd used the barroom since I had come to live here five years earlier. The downstairs kitchen was crowded almost beyond belief. Rosa seemed upset with so many food service people invading 'her territory,' but she was bearing up. She knew that she'd have it back all to herself tomorrow, except for our occasional invasions when we made cakes and pies.

I wandered around with Susan, Mary, and Judy, greeting people and mingling with the invited guests. It seemed that most people knew me or knew of me, either from contact through Auntie's business, or from the national media. Most read the WSJ and knew of the allegations by South-Core. At one point, someone I had just met asked if I had really authorized a break-in at South-Core. When I adamantly denied it, he asked why I hadn't if South-Core was trying so desperately to destroy me. In a state where so many oil executives are familiar with the technique of using TNT to extinguish oil well fires, it appears that most oil business executives have no problem fighting fire with fire. Of course, this was Texas. I gave my standard response that with so many available options that didn't entail illegalities, I preferred to respond in ways that South-Core would know with all certainty that I was behind it, and which wouldn't require me to deny it afterwards.

"And what tactics do you intend to employ next in this epic struggle, Miss Darla," a voice from behind asked.

I turned to see Frank Kelso standing there, smiling.

"I recently acquired a significant stake in South-Core," I said. "At the time, I felt that with sufficient leverage in the boardroom, I could impact the appointment of certain key positions."

"Such as the appointment of the CEO?"

"Such as that, and other positions and plans," I said.

"A sensible tactic," he said. "I assume you acquired your large stake when the price of their stock recently tumbled."

"Yes, I did."

"That was dangerous. You might be accused of insider trading."

"Insider trading? I have had no contact whatsoever with company executives, and certainly didn't have any inside information."

"But you knew that the announcement of a law suit was just a ploy to lower their stock value."

"Neither I nor anyone else ever announced a lawsuit. Ameri-Moore sent out a press release which stated that my grandmother intended to use her resources to correct the insult, but stopped short of announcing a lawsuit. Her attorneys eventually decided that South-Core's press announcement was a bit too ambiguous to guarantee a win in court. I suppose it could be argued that Ameri-Moore's press release was just as ambiguous."

"Very clever," he said. "How do you intend to proceed now?"

"South-Core will hold their annual meeting in Boston this September. I intend to attend."

"I'd like to be there to see that," Frank said.

"It might be an interesting day," I said.

At the zenith of the party one might have looked upon the assemblage as a who's who of independent oil people in the U.S. Every independent oil company owner and wildcatter that I knew, or knew of, put in an appearance during the day, some flying in from overseas to be here. It seemed like there was hardly a time throughout the afternoon when there wasn't a plane taking off or landing. I learned from different conversations that Gabby's and Auntie's parties were legendary in the industry, and no one wanted to miss the first in many years. This party seemed to be quickly shaping up to be a reflection of past glories. Fortunately, every pilot had been required to surrender his keys upon landing at the ranch, and since we were using parking attendants, keys had been collected for motor vehicles as well. When someone who'd had a little too much to drink, wished to leave, there seemed to be some difficulty in finding their keys, but Auntie promised them we'd locate them shortly. Only one grew confrontational, and he quickly backed down when surrounded by his associates and informed that it would be the last oil party he ever received an invitation to if he didn't shut up and calm down. Rowdiness and loud fun was permitted, and even encouraged, but belligerency and fighting was not.

When I went to bed at midnight, the party was going as strong as it had been at noon, and there was little sign of it letting up. Most of the people had moved inside after dark and they were lined up three deep at the bar. A second catering crew had come on duty at six p.m. and would work until 3 a.m.

The downstairs was an interesting sight in the morning. There were people sleeping on every sofa and chair, and I had to pick my way through the rooms to avoid stepping on people sleeping on the floor. There was even one person sleeping on the billiards table in the barroom. At 8 a.m. the catering crew from yesterday morning returned and set up again. This time it was breakfast items such as steak and eggs, pancakes and sausages, and huevos-rancheros. The smell of the cooking food got people moving better than a cattle prod.

By 2 p.m. everyone was gone. Auntie had somehow managed to 'find' all those missing keys to automobiles and airplanes, and the owners were up and away, or at least away. The massive task of cleanup then began. On Monday a professional cleaning company would come in to steam clean the rugs, furniture, and draperies. For now, it was enough to pick up and bag all the trash. It's amazing just how much trash was generated. It seemed like we'd need our own land fill.

When we were just family again at the ranch, we relaxed on the porch and talked about the party. Everyone agreed that it had been a huge success. There had been no fights, and no serious accidents. A few people had fallen down, but these were people used to rough living, not society dilettantes. Such things as broken fingers and sprains didn't even faze them, and we'd not even had any of those.

"Whew, that's over for another year," Auntie said as she relaxed in a rocker.

"You're going to have another party like that one in a year?" Susan asked.

"Maybe. We used to have them every year when Gabby was alive. I stopped after he died because it depressed me to even think about having a big party without him. Then, I couldn't have them because you kids were so young. I didn't want to expose you to those roughnecks until you were a little more mature. I know you can handle it now."

"But you worked the whole time," Mary said. "You couldn't have enjoyed it?"

"But I did. I loved it. Seeing all my old friends having a good time made me feel wonderful. And it may have seemed like I was working, but I was having a ball. Ask your sister."

"Which?" Mary said.

"Darla Anne, of course," she said. "She throws a major party for her employees every year. Darla Anne, do you feel like you're working at those events?"

"No. They require effort, but it's not like work. It's fun. And I enjoy seeing everyone having a good time. I'm more like an invited guest these days though. My employees do all the work now."

"There you go then," Auntie said to Mary. "It requires effort, but it's not like work. Like Darla Anne, I have the catering company and the cleaning company."

"But Darla Anne doesn't have to run around keeping drunks from driving away."

"These are my friends and business associates. I didn't want to see them hurt, or see them hurt someone else. It wasn't really that much of an effort to corral them until they fell asleep in the house. The cleaning company will eliminate the smells of cigars and regurgitated food tomorrow and it will smell like springtime and lemons in the house again."

We all chuckled at the comment about regurgitated food. Only one person had been sick, and he had had the good sense to run to a bathroom before emptying the contents of his stomach.

"Darla Anne," Auntie asked, "I heard you asking about planes. Did anyone provide a lead to a Grumman Gulfstream I?"

"No one knew for sure, but a couple of people said they might know of one. They'll get back to me if they can track one down."

"And I also hear that you're going to the South-Core Annual Meeting."

"From Frank, right?"

"Yes. Is it true?"

"Yes. I'm the largest shareholder in the company."

"Since when?" Susan asked.

"Since we returned from the Riviera," I said. "They put that press release out where they practically accused me of breaking into their offices and stealing files. I asked Grandma to issue a very strongly worded press statement in response. She did. Then when their stock tumbled, we started buying."

"You and Grandma?"

"No, Piermont. We own 3,845,000 shares of South-Core now."

"And you told me you haven't been buying any companies."

"I haven't. We just bought stock in a publicly traded company."

"But isn't South-Core as big as you," Mother asked. "Where did you get the hundreds of millions of dollars to buy so much of them?"

"South-Core is considerably smaller than us now. Their net worth is currently estimated to be about $241 million. I picked up almost 40% of their company for less than 12.5 million dollars."

"How did you do that?" Judy asked. "Forty percent of $241 million is more than $96 million."

"Simple. Their stock price tumbled when Grandma's press release was printed in the newspapers. We started buying stock as soon as it hit a certain low and kept buying until the panic was over."

"Isn't that illegal?" Judy asked.

"Buying stock while it's low? No. Everyone will tell you that the whole idea in the stock market is to buy low and sell high."

"But you manipulated the price," Susan insisted.

"We manipulated nothing. All we did was respond to a press announcement with one of our own, then buy stock when the price fell to unprecedented levels."

"So you got $96 million in South-Core stock for $12 million?" Auntie asked.

"What are you going to do now?" Susan asked.

"I'm going to show CEO Stanley Broward that those who ignore the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them."

The first rays of sunshine on Monday found Susan and me walking down to the runway while the Jet lined up on final approach. We'd planned to get such an early start so that the entire day wouldn't be wasted. Where normally we would have left on Sunday afternoon, the party had altered those plans. Still, we would arrive back East in time to actually accomplish something today.

I arrived at the Holiday Inn by noon, checked in, and then headed to the plant. As soon as I put my things in my office, I went down to the cafeteria. I hadn't had any breakfast and I was feeling a little hungry. They were serving Salisbury steak, but I'd had my fill of beef over the weekend, so I selected a chief's salad, a side order of mixed vegetables, and a piece of chocolate cake. Because the noon lunch crowd had already been through, and the one o'clock crowd hadn't arrived yet, I was in and out in a few minutes.

I prepared a cup of tea in my office and then sat on my deck and enjoyed my lunch. It was a bit warm, but a lot cooler than it had been in Texas over the weekend. When I finished eating, I stayed and enjoyed the weather for a while.

When I felt I had sat there long enough I went inside to get some work done. The trouble is, there wasn't any work to be done. Since I had been there until Friday, there wasn't any mail yet, and not even any employee forms to look through and file.

So I took my tea and did what I always do, I went to my casual area and read trade mags.

I was back on my sofa again Tuesday morning, reading an issue of the Paper Press, when Nancy called. She said that a Mister Greg Wistan was on the line. I told her to put him through and waited until I heard the click.

"Good morning, Greg. How are you this beautiful day?"

"Fine, thank you, DD. How are you?"

"Wonderful, thank you. What can I do for you today?"

"The Board meets tomorrow and I was wondering if you had changed your mind about the Houston property."

"No I haven't. My offer still stands at $6.5 million."

"Or 60% of the property for $4.2 million and you handle the leasing and maintenance functions?"

Since he had told me that they'd received a better offer from South-Core, it didn't make sense that he would be rehashing terms he had already rejected. There was something up. Since I had already written the deal off as lost, I decided that it wouldn't hurt to play a little hardball.

"No, you rejected that offer so it no longer stands. I'll stand by the other offer for another day."

"Another day?"

"Yes. After you told me that you weren't interested, I began working on other deals. They're considering them and said they'd call back tomorrow. If they accept the deals, I'll be too busy to handle Houston before I have to return to college in a few weeks. Once I resume school, I won't even be back in the office until next year."

"Next year?"

"January. I come in during semester break for a couple of weeks and then I'm not back here until Spring break."

"How can you run an empire like yours with a schedule like that?"

"By having the best darn management team in the country. Your people make all the difference. I speak with my Executive V.P. every week, but never acquire properties except when I'm on break from school. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss?"

"Well, the Board empowered me to accept $7 million for the property, or $4.2 million for a 60% share of the real property and full ownership of the printing business."

"I wish I'd known last week before I made offers on these other businesses. After you told me South-Core was involved, I figured that the deal was dead."

"Yes, well— ah— things didn't work out with South Core."

"They do seem inclined to cause problems and ill will in their business dealings."

"Are you sure you're not interested in reinstating either of your previous offers."

He was being so insistent that warning bells were going off in my head. I wondered if something had happened. Had they sold off the printing equipment and were now trying to sell just the buildings with a business empty of equipment? I didn't like it.

"No, I'm sorry Greg. With these other deals in the works, I just can't. Each of the others is as good a deal as the offer of $6.5 million that I made to you."

"Okay, DD. I'm sorry that things didn't work out."

"Me too, Greg. You have a great week now."

"Thanks, DD. You also."

I hung up the phone and stared it for several minutes. I'd love to know what happened to the South-Core offer, but I didn't want to ask Greg. If a deal was still possible, he probably wouldn't answer truthfully. Was South-Core making an effort to placate me now that I owned such a large part of their company? Did they think that I'd just let bygones be bygones if they didn't butt heads with me on this deal. Or was there no offer from South-Core in the first place. Had Greg painted himself into a corner that he couldn't get out of until the paint had dried for a while?

I was daydreaming on the sofa after lunch, thinking about heading for the airport and taking the Cessna out for ride, when the phone rang. Nancy told me it was Greg Wistan again. I had her put him through.

"Hello Greg."

"Hi DD. I spoke to my boss after we spoke earlier this morning and he lunched with a couple of Board members. He got them to agree to accept $6.75 million for the property and the printing business."

"Gee, Greg. You're making it awfully tempting."

He didn't respond right away. He was probably trying to decide exactly what I meant by the slightly ambiguous remark.

"Does that mean that you're interested?"

"Interested? Yes, I've been interested all along. It's only been the price that's restrained my enthusiasm."

I was greeted with silence again for some seconds as he tried to interpret my words.

"Do you feel that this lower price is something that we can agree on," he asked. "The Board has come down halfway in an effort to cut a deal."

"I appreciate their desire to see this situation concluded. Let me see if I can summarize it. You're offering the seven buildings on three-hundred-eighty acres of land, and the printing business with all the equipment present on the day we traveled to view it, for the sum of $6.75 million?"

"Yes. Exactly."

I thought about it for a minute without saying anything.

Greg, thinking that we had been cut off, said, "DD, are you there?"

"Yes, I'm still here. I'm considering the ramifications to the other offers I made. I hate to retract an offer. It's bad business."

"Well, you did retract your last offer to us? It happens in business all the time. A lawyer once told me that until it's written, signed, and notarized, it ain't."

"I didn't retract my last offer, Greg. You refused it and then I failed to re-offer the same deal. I always stand by my word."

"Yes. I apologize for my words. You're correct. Listen, I have a little leeway, even in a case like this one. How about $6.65 million. That sweetens the deal by $100 thousand. We'll save that much in payroll in six months."

I smiled. I could probably hold out and get it for $6.5 million, but I didn't want to anger him and the deal was a darn good one as it stood. "Okay, Greg. You have a deal. $6.65 million."

"Wonderful."

"I'll complete a letter of intent and send it out by courier today. As soon as we receive the signed copy we'll begin preparing the formal paperwork for transfer. Okay?"

"Okay, DD. It's been a pleasure negotiating this deal with you. You're as sharp a negotiator as I've heard."

"Same here, Greg. You take care now."

After I hung up the phone I filled out the letters of intent, being very precise with the wording, and gave it to Nancy to send. I was still disturbed about the sudden reversal on their part. Most likely the mention of South-Core's involvement had been a ploy to get me to agree to their terms without further negotiation, but it nagged at the back of my mind. I guess there were too many unexplained things in this deal. There was the missing Lucas Porter, the employees who did no work, the almost new equipment coated with grease to purposely make them look old and worn out, and a supposedly empty building that overflowed with boats and recreational trailers.

On Wednesday Bob Warren dropped over to talk and I told him about the deal.

"That's great, boss. $6.65 million," he said, shaking his head. "I never thought they'd go that low. When do we move?"

"Just as soon as we get the signed letter of intent. I want to get in there before they know we're coming and Biscum has the time to cover-up whatever he's been involved with. If they feel they've lost the equipment, they may try to make it unusable for anyone else out of spite."

"Do we go alone, with security, or with police?"

"With both security and Texas Rangers. The plant isn't in the city of Houston, and I don't yet know if the local sheriff is honest. After the Rangers are done, the security guards will be responsible for safeguarding the plant and keeping trespassers away from the other buildings."

The signed letter of intent arrived by courier early Friday morning. After checking to see that it was properly signed, notarized, and hadn't been altered in any way, I called Bob and then the pilots. I'd notified Susan that I needed the jet from Thursday until two days after I received the letter of intent back. She had postponed her inspections and hurried to Vermont to stay with me.

In an hour, my prepared teams from Brandon and Danbury were ready to go. I was taking Bob Warren, Bill Marshall and one of his people from accounting, plus John Fahey and three of John's engineers from Brandon. We'd stop at Danbury and pick up Vic Tersey, the chief engineer at Danbury, plus four of his guys. Susan wished to go along so she joined us. Fortunately we had an extra seat available.

In Houston, two limos waited for us at the airport. The security company contacted by Ben Phillips had arranged for four guards in two security company vehicles to meet us also. With a security van leading, we headed north. Eight Texas Rangers in four patrol cars met our little caravan in the parking lot of a diner several miles from the complex and led the parade to 'Luna tic Printing.' I'd called from aboard the plane an hour before we landed at Houston to inform them that a supposedly vacant building I had just purchased was full of boats and trailers that the former owners didn't know about. They were most anxious to check out the vehicles and license tags to determine if everything was legit.

The parking lot was almost empty when we arrived just after 2 p.m. local time. Just one car sat near the building. The Texas Rangers approached the main building first and knocked loudly on the front door. A nervous looking Cynthia Kane unlocked it and let them in. I entered just behind them.

"Hello, Cynthia," I said. "Where is everyone?"

"Hello, Miss Drake. I'm all alone here."

"Where are all the other employees?"

"Patty, the A/P clerk is out today. Her toddler is still teething. The others, uh— they only come in when Corporate notifies us that they're sending someone to evaluate the business and property, Miss Drake. No one called that you were coming."

"I see. Well, Piermont is corporate now. I've purchased the property, buildings, and printing plant. The sale became official yesterday. Would you give the building keys to these Rangers please?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'll get them."

Sergeant Howland followed her into her office and returned with the keys, then I led them through the plant and out a rear door to the building where the boats and trailers were stored. They were still there. I had worried that Biscum or Porter might be notified that we had bought the property, and then managed somehow to clear the building before we could arrive.

The rangers started recording license tag numbers and descriptions while I looked on. When they had filled a page, one of them returned to his car to begin calling them in. I walked back to the printing plant where John and his guys had already begun work. Four of the guys were filling trash cans and cartons with garbage and taking it out back to the dumpster where they emptied them before returning. In an hour the place looked a hundred percent better. The machines were still covered in dirt and grease, and the plant was total disarray, but just getting the heaviest concentrations of trash cleared out made it look almost like a real printing plant for a change.

I was talking with Bob and watching the cleanup efforts when Sgt. Howland sought me out. He was accompanied by one of his men.

"One of the license tags is expired, but none of the trailers or boats have been reported stolen," he said, "so your idea that Porter might simply be storing them for a fee might be accurate. It won't be necessary to go looking for him. We believe we've found him."

"Good. That was fast work."

"Can you identify him?"

"No, I've never met him. When we came down to inspect the property, I dealt with a Billy Biscum. He said he'd been a printer here for eight years."

The ranger was writing down everything I said.

"Okay. Does that other woman know Porter?"

"I imagine she should. She's been working here for some time."

"Good. Maybe she can confirm his identity."

"Does he deny that he's Lucas Porter."

"He isn't denying anything. We found his body stuffed into a 55 gallon drum in the back building between two of the boats. From previous arrest reports we've gotten a description of Lucas Porter. The body has an old scar on its forehead which seems to match one on Porter's head."

 

(continued in part 46 )

Many thanks to Bob M. for his excellent proofreading efforts on Chapters 36-45.

 

 

 

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