Show Her The Money. Stephanie Feagan

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СКАЧАТЬ his otherwise bald head. “No can do, but thanks for the offer. We’re having a big powwow about maybe closing the Midland office, and since I’m gonna have to be the bad guy, I need to stick around.”

      My spirits sank again and I nodded my understanding. “I’m sorry, Roy.”

      “Hey, that’s the way it goes. I’m not an executive, but I’m upper management, and a year from retiring, so bein’ the bad guy sort of fell on me. Hate to do it, but the company needs to tighten its belt if we’ve got a prayer of stayin’ up.” He smiled at me and patted my shoulder. “Good to see you, Pink.”

      I watched him leave and it was another five minutes before I could order my donuts because I was so choked up. It made me furious, Lowell and the Marvel brass’s greed and complete disregard for anyone else. People would lose their jobs, and investors would lose their savings. It all made me sick, and I felt guilty because I was the one who started the fall of their house of cards.

      By the time I got to the office, it was about eight-twenty. I came in balancing the boxes of donuts and a few of my desk things and said hello to Tiffany. Her pretty blue eyes widened like she was afraid and I thought, geez, they’re only donuts. “You want a donut?”

      “Goodness, no,” she said, “I never eat donuts.”

      Of course she didn’t eat donuts. She was skin and bones. I turned and headed toward the break room, where I left the donuts, then went to get started on the Shankses’ project.

      Within an hour, I had several things figured out, but most of it only led to a longer laundry list of questions. For one thing, there were quite a few checks to a company called Birds in Flight. Sixth sense told me there was something behind those checks, that they had something to do with Bert’s shady dealings. The endorsements on the back were no help, simply a stamped For Deposit Only, followed by an account number. The Birds in Flight bank was in Miami, which I thought was peculiar. I couldn’t think of any oil-related companies based in Miami.

      With my methodical approach to the project, I came up with ten different ways to prove Bert Shanks was cheating his cousin. Problem was, all but one of them required information I didn’t have and wasn’t likely to get, because it was all information Bert would have. Even if Bert wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed, I didn’t think he’d hand over information that would prove he was a crook.

      So I’d have to go with the tenth plan, which involved staking out the pipe yard and waiting to see who bought the new pipe from Bert. The buyer wouldn’t hire a trucking company to drive out and pick up a load of what amounted to black market pipe, so chances were good they used their own vehicle to transport the pipe. Once I had a license plate number, I would go from there. If I was really squirrelly, the truck might have a company name painted on it.

      I decided to go check out Shanks Resources’ equipment yard, but on the way out of the office, I thought I’d snag one of the donuts I’d yet to eat. As I walked toward the break room, I passed Tiffany and noticed what looked suspiciously like cinnamon sugar stuck to her lip gloss. I was polite and pretended not to notice. Then I got in the break room and saw both boxes of donuts were empty and wished I’d said something to her like, “When you said you never eat donuts, you meant before ten, didn’t you? Once ten o’clock rolls around, it’s a free-for-all, right?” I was so hungry, even Mom’s raspberry infused sawdust diet bars started to look tasty. Resigned to my fate, I grabbed one and left the office.

      I drove out the Rankin highway, to the south side of Midland, where a lot of oil companies have yards. Most of them are several acres of scrubby land, enclosed by metal fences, and at any one time, there might be a couple of pumpjacks, a few tanks, extra pipe or wellhead equipment scattered around, looking rusty and old. When a well depletes and stops producing economically, it has to be plugged, but all the equipment is saved for whenever a new well is drilled and proven to be productive. Or the old equipment is sold off. Either way, it ends up in somebody’s yard until it’s needed again.

      The Shankses’ yard was farther out, actually outside of the city limits, away from the highway by a couple of miles. It was the perfect setup for a cheating partner. I drove around, looking for a spot to park when it was dark, where I could see what was going on, but no one could see me. I was glad the Mercedes was black and that it was an SUV, although it groaned a lot when I ran over a stump, and I had the sneaking suspicion it wasn’t really made for off-road. But how could I have known I’d need an off-road vehicle when I bought it a year ago? The farthest off-road I ever got was the parking lot at Northpark Mall.

      I found a good spot behind a cluster of mesquites and made a mental map so I’d know how to get there in the dark, without headlights. Driving back around, I cruised through the Shankses’ yard, scoping out their equipment, particularly the pipe. There were several strings of brand-new pipe, already strapped and ready for delivery to a rig.

      From the bills of lading, I knew the pipe had been delivered the day before yesterday, so it was a good bet Bert would be selling it off soon. If I was lucky, that very night.

      After congratulating myself for being so clever about the whole thing, I headed off to look for an apartment. I knew Mom would go ballistic and tell me it was too dangerous, not to mention I was silly to pay rent when I could live with her for free. But I had to have some space, sans Mom.

      I saw five apartments before I found one, and it wasn’t anything to write home about, but it would do. On the second floor, it was a one-bedroom, furnished with cheesy, cheap furniture, including a scratchy couch with wooden arms supported by half wagon wheels. The grounds were well tended, and although there was no pool, there was a small duck pond, complete with a cutesy sign that said Duck Xing. I never did see any ducks.

      After signing a six-month lease, I paid the deposit, then went to get my hair cut. I headed for Mabel’s House of Beauty to see if anyone could squeeze me in.

      Mabel’s is one of those old-time beauty parlors, housed in a tired shopping center storefront, with avocado-green linoleum floors and faded photographs of the nineteen-sixty-five Junior League Charity Ball marching around the walls. Every picture features some of Midland’s leading ladies in their glory days, all with Mabel’s House of Beauty bouffant hair-dos, thick eyeliner and elbow-length evening gloves.

      When I stepped inside, I was greeted by the whirs of multiple hair dryers, female chatter, a ringing telephone and Buck Owens on the stereo. It was like stepping back in time. I’m pretty sure I was the only woman under fifty.

      The receptionist, a short, stout woman with a name tag that read Bessie, smiled warmly. “Can I help you, hon?”

      “I don’t have an appointment, but I need to get my hair cut.”

      Bessie nodded enthusiastically. “We’ve got a new gal, Dot, and she just happens to be free right now.”

      I followed Bessie to the back of the shop, toward Dot’s station. Dot was maybe the skinniest woman I’d ever met, with a deep smoker’s voice and coal-black hair, the kind of dyed black that looks blue in fluorescent lighting. We chatted a bit while she washed my hair, and I discovered Dot was from Big Spring, that her husband died and left her no money, so she had to go back to work, and even though she was “right mad at him” at first, now she figured he’d done her a favor because she’d made so many new friends at Mabel’s.

      While she snipped my hair, she rambled on about her grandkids and her Buick and George W. and the best recipe for King Ranch chicken. I didn’t pay close attention, but I was listening, sort of zoning out with the buzz of the sounds in the shop and Dot’s smoky voice.

      I guess that’s why I started СКАЧАТЬ