“You Justin Pitre?”
“Yep, that's me.”
Justin, peering out from under the hood of his Chevy pickup, found himself face-to-face with a tall, gaunt man with bad skin who reeked of tobacco and inexpensive aftershave. His dated appearance was striking. Even Justin knew nobody wore three-piece suits anymore. (And if they did, they didn't pair them with deep maroon shirts, black ties, and white patent leather shoes.)
Justin had been back from Crawfish Mountain for two days. He was leaving four days hence, this time for a rebuild of two large diesel generators on a sprawling crew-quarters complex offshore—one of his more ambitious jobs in a while. He had a long list of personal chores to accomplish, and he wasn't sure he wanted company.
“Juke Charpentier,” said the stranger, extending a hand. “Standard of Texas Oil Company.”
“Aw, yeah, I've heard of your company,” Justin replied. He held out a hand, then thought better of it, apologetically lifting his palm to show gobs of grease. “What can I do for you, Mr. Charpentier? If you're lookin’ for oil on my property, somebody else already has the lease. We get a royalty check of about two hundred forty dollars a year.”
Juke smiled. “Aw, Justin—I can call you Justin, cain't I?—and by the way, just call me Juke. No, we're not scoutin’ for oil. We'd like—” He broke off in midsentence, feeling a tug at his right trouser leg. “Say, what the hell!”
He looked down to see a tiny, wooly brown dog sink its teeth into a polyester cuff. The dog shook its head fiercely and growled a fierce little-dog growl.
“Whoa, pooch! What the hell you think you're doin’?” the startled Charpentier yelled.
“Aw, damn, Gris-Gris!” said Justin. “Fais pas ça! Chien mauvais! Chien mauvais!”
Gris-Gris promptly let go of the right cuff—then grabbed Charpentier's left one. Her growling intensified. Charpentier, confused by the sudden change of tactics, took a step backward. One foot tangled in the other, and Juke was suddenly flat on his back.
Gris-Gris, having toppled the giant, circled him once as he backed away, using his elbows for propulsion. Juke held out his right foot, hoping to keep the dog at bay. Before Justin could intervene, the pooch took the bait, biting into Juke's immaculate white patent leather shoe. Justin bent down and crisply swatted the mutt on the rump. She yelped and went darting for the house.
Justin, embarrassed, bent down to offer Juke a hand. “Aw, Mr. Charpentier, I'm so sorry. That's Gris-Gris, my wife's dog. She's usually not like that.”
Juke declined Justin's help, picking himself up slowly and brushing at his knees and elbows and the seat of his trousers, flicking flecks of grass off of stained polyester. He'd already had a premonition that this day wasn't going to go well, but being attacked by a midget dog was a development grimmer than Juke had expected.
By this time Grace Pitre, hearing the commotion, had come from the house.
“What's with Gris-Gris?” she asked as she reached Justin.
“Dunno. She went after our visitor here. Mr. Charpentier, this is my wife, Grace. Grace, this is Juke Charpentier. He works for Big Tex.”
Grace, cheeks burning with embarrassment, held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you. I'm terribly sorry about my dog—I hope you're not hurt?”
Juke smiled insincerely, noticing for the first time the tooth marks on his shoe. “No harm done, Grace,” Juke replied.
That wasn't entirely true. Juke had just bought these friggin’ shoes, going all the way to New Orleans to procure them. Styles, for unfathomable reasons, had changed, and it was damned hard to find good tasseled patent leather loafers anymore. He made a mental note. Sometime after his mission was completed here, he was going to slip back down this bayou and get that friggin’ dog!
Grace looked down, noticing the dog-bit shoe. “Oh, geez, that's awful. You have to let us reimburse you for those. And for your dry cleaning, too.”
Juke, who got paid to size people up quickly, looked carefully at Grace for the first time and realized two things. She was an extraordinarily attractive woman, and she was being sincere about his wardrobe. She'd just given him an opening—she owed him.
Juke would make Tom Huff pay for his shoes and his dry cleaning; hell, make him buy a whole new suit. He would extract other concessions from Grace. He put on his best aw-shucks face and said, “Aw, no, Grace, I couldn't let you do that. And I've had mosquitoes bite me a lot harder than your dog. The truth is, I've come here with some good news for y'all. I've come to give you some money.”
Justin looked at Juke in puzzlement. “Money?” he said. “What for? I ain't worked a job for your company in a coon's age.”
“Naw, naw, I know that. I'm about to give you a check for fifteen thousand dollars. All you gotta do is sign off on a little piece a paper I've brought with me and it's all yours.”
“Fifteen thousand dollars? Is this a joke?” asked Justin.
“No, sir. No joke at all. Listen, do you mind if I come in? I've got some stuff in my car that will explain everything. It'll be easier if I can spread things out on a table.”
Justin looked at Grace, whose eyes had grown wide as well. “Aw, yeah, well, of course,” said Justin. “Come on in.”
“I'll make some coffee,” said Grace.
Having retrieved documents from his white Chevrolet Suburban, Juke entered the Pitre house, finding it bright and airy, curtains and windows thrown open to the light and soft breezes of a warm October afternoon. Beyond the living room, Charpentier entered a den paneled with knotty pine. It was filled with comfortable furniture and anchored by a modest fireplace. Carved wooden duck decoys sat on a mantel above. A blue-winged teal, frozen in flight by a good taxidermist, soared from a wall mount above the mantel. On opposing walls were two other impressive specimens of taxidermy: bull redfish. The largest was captured, mouth agape, an instant from seizing the bait.
“Man, nice fish,” said Juke to Justin as Justin came out of the kitchen to greet him. “You got both of 'em?”
“Uh, not quite,” said Justin, sheepishly. “The big one belongs to my wife— forty damn pounds.”
“Beginner's luck?”
Justin shook his head and smiled. “I wish I could say it was, but it wasn't. And, listen, don't let my wife hear you say that. You won't get any coffee.”
Juke laughed.
Justin didn't.
The warm, cheery aroma of brewing coffee greeted the men as they entered the kitchen. It was a compact room, painted pale yellow. A large window, framed in red-and-white checked curtains, looked out onto an expansive backyard. Chickens pecked about in a wire-mesh pen in the foreground. Fat white ducks waddled about freely on the pen's perimeter. A cluster of tangerine trees, laden with fruit, stood at the yard's border. Beyond the perimeter, sugarcane fields stretched to the horizon.
Juke, having done his homework, knew the Pitres were hardly rich. Besides Justin's income, Grace earned a modest amount of money keeping the books for a local fishermen's co-op while substitute teaching at area schools. But he had to concede they had a nice little spread.
“Smells good in here,” said Juke as Justin showed him to a chair at a round oak table.
“I hope you like your coffee strong, Juke,” said Grace, standing at a large, old-fashioned cast-iron stove.
“Don't all Cajuns?” said Juke.
“All the ones I know,” said Grace.
Grace, carrying a tray, delivered the coffee to the table. They all settled in. As she passed out the cups, Justin said, “So, what's on your mind, Juke?”
Juke spread out some maps on the table. Justin and Grace, looking curiously over his shoulder, saw immediately that the first one was of their property at Crawfish Mountain, and a square mile or so of surrounding area. A line they didn't recognize was inked across it.
“Recognize this?” said Juke.
“Know it well,” Justin replied.
“Well, Justin, we need your help in a little matter,” said Juke.
Whereupon, Juke launched into the well-rehearsed speech Tom Huff had sent him to make, a low-key pitch filled with Cajun aphorisms and homespun analogies, all intended to convince the Pitres that this project would not only put a goodly piece of change in their pockets but would allow them to do their part toward America's energy liberation by greatly enhancing Big Tex's ability to move its oil. The punch line was that all the Pitres had to do was to agree to grant Big Tex a hundred-foot-wide right-ofway so the company could dig a mile-and-a-quarter-long pipeline trench through their property.
Juke unrolled a second map showing the entire pipeline route—as a way of demonstrating to the Pitres how small but significant their part was, and how generous Big Tex was being in its proposed payment. Since most of the route had already been approved by federal and state regulators, permits for the Pitres’ section were a mere formality and could be approved immediately.
Juke, in fact, had gotten so wound up in his presentation that he hadn't noticed that his plan was being greeted by the Pitres with less than glee.
He paused a moment, then said: “Here, I've got a check right here, already made out in your name—fifteen thousand dollars. All you gotta do is sign these papers I brought and it'll be all yours.”
Juke dug in his briefcase and came out with the check.
Justin and Grace looked at each other.
Grace spoke first. “Uh, Juke, could you show us again on the map the entire route?”
Juke happily obliged, tracing the route with a tobacco-stained finger.
Justin stared at the map with intense interest. After a long silence, he said, “How come you're not goin’ this way?” He pointed to a large tract adjacent to his that he knew belonged to Oka-Tex. “Seems like to me,” he said, “you'd be savin’ a coupla miles that way and you wouldn't be puttin’ such a kink in your shiny new pipeline. I'm no oilman, but a coupla miles has to mean a lotta money when you're dredgin’ a trench of this size.”
“Uh, well,” Juke replied, “I don't exactly know why. I just know that Mr. Huff thinks this is the best route and, well, uh, I'm not shore you know Mr. Huff. But when Mr. Huff makes up his mind, it's pretty well made up. Hell, for all I know he mighta thought y'all could use an extra fifteen grand.”
Justin glanced at Grace, her brow knitted in consternation.
“Well, that we could,” said Justin. “But, well—Juke, would you excuse Grace and me a minute while we talk about this?”
“Aw, of course, I'll just step outside. Take all the time you want.”
“Don't bother,” said Grace. “Gris-Gris's still out there. You drink your coffee and Justin and I will go out in the backyard for a talk.”
Juke smiled. “Why, that's mighty nice of you, Grace,” he said.
Out in the yard, well away from the ears of Juke Charpentier, Justin said exactly what Grace had been thinking. “That's the craziest thing I've ever heard of. Can you imagine what that trench will do? Besides being a scar on our property, it'll ruin all those meanders between the salt marsh and the island and open up the north side to saltwater tides. And if we get salt water up in front of the chenier, our freshwater prairie and the whole swamp is in trouble.”
Grace nodded. “In trouble? Doomed, cher. Look what's happenin’ all around us. No, we have to tell this guy in no uncertain terms that we just aren't interested.”
“Yeah,” said Justin, “somethin's screwy here. Why wouldn't they wanna save money by runnin’ it across Oka-Tex's land? It's clearly a more direct route.”
“Beats me,” Grace replied. “Maybe they asked Oka-Tex and Oka-Tex told 'em to bug off, too.”
Justin paused in thought. “Well, the scuttlebutt in the Oil Patch is that there ain't no love lost between the two companies. But, what the hell, they can't make us say yes to this, not to mention that Papa Jack would roll over in his grave if he even heard them talkin’ about such a thing.”
Justin, glancing toward the back door, lowered his voice. “But listen, we gotta be careful how we play this. Big Tex is a rough outfit with lotsa connections and a reputation for playin’ hardball. I stopped workin’ for those guys years ago when I saw how they cut corners on everything, plus they're slow as hell to pay. So I don't wanna piss 'em off if we can avoid it.”
“Hey, I hear you, babe. Myself, I'd like to pitch that greasy guy at our table to the gators. Somethin’ about him gives me the frissons. No wonder sweet li'l Gris-Gris was tryin’ to bite his sorry ass. But we'll go back in and be nice and polite about the whole thing. We'll just say, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ ”
Justin nodded.
Back inside, they found Juke savoring the last of his coffee.
“That was quick,” Juke said cheerfully. “Now, there's always room for ne gotiation on the money part, but I hope you've come back to say we can do business together.”
“Gee, Juke,” said Justin as he and Grace settled back in at the table, “this all sounds very generous, but I'm afraid we're gonna have to say no.”
Juke didn't flinch.
There—the bargaining had begun.
“Well now, Justin, podnah, like I said, if this is about the money, I've got good news for you. Mr. Huff really wants this done, and quick, too. So why don't we say twenty grand and shake on it?”
Justin smiled, trying to look like he meant it. He opted for a flattering lie. “Juke, listen, honestly, I'd love to help you. We could use the money, and, hey, I'm a fan of your oil company. I appreciate its contribution to this parish. And I know if I wanna keep drivin’ my truck, you gotta keep movin’ your oil. But, see this rise on the map? That's our chenier, where our camp sits. My grandpa gave me all this property and I promised him I wouldn't do anything to change it or spoil it in any way. I've had chances to sell the whole thing for a helluva lot more than you're offering for this right-of-way. But I wouldn't, for all the money in the world.”
Juke nodded. This guy was good.
Aw, hell, pull out all the stops, Juke!
“Okay, Justin,” said Juke, “can I ax you somethin’ personal? How much money do you make?”
“Well, I don't think I wanna say. I ain't rich, if that's what you're gettin’ at. But I do all right.”
“Well, I'm gonna guess. I figure you knock down maybe sixty thousand in a good year. Hell, I hear you're pretty damn good, so maybe even sixty-five. So I'll tell you what. You bring Mr. Huff your W-2 from the year you made the most money ever, and he'll give you a year's salary for that right-of-way. Now, how the hell can you say no to that?”
Justin and Grace looked at each other, dumbfounded.
Then Justin, exasperation creeping into his voice for the first time, said, “Juke, listen, again, that's incredibly generous and I appreciate the offer. But once again, I gotta tell you: no, no way. Not now, not tomorrow, not next year. Never. Mr. Huff 's just gonna have to find another way. Sorry.”
“Anyway,” Grace chimed in, “you have another way. Call your buddies at Oka-Tex. Lookin’ at the map, it's clearly a shorter route, and besides, you boys are in the same business. Surely they'd be sympathetic to your project.”
Juke shook his head, a trace of contempt forming into a half smile. “Well, like I done told y'all once, Mr. Huff don't wanna have no truck with Oka-Tex. He's got his reasons and they're kinda complicated, but he thinks this is the way to go. And Mr. Huff, once he makes up his mind, that's it.”
Hearing this, Grace snapped. “Listen, Juke, lemme guess. You haven't spent a lot of time studying marsh ecology, have you? If you had, you'd already know what a really, really bad and ignorant idea this entire project is.” Grace then found herself delivering a blistering lecture on the perils of saltwater intrusion.
“And, see,” she continued, “if you poison our freshwater marsh, a lot of people are gonna be pissed—God, my husband, me. And Justin's grandpa, well, he wouldn't just roll over in his grave—he might jump out of it and come lookin’ for you and Mr. Huff. So, listen, Mr. Huff is gonna have to accept our answer. I don't care who he is, he can't make us agree to this. Last time I checked, this was still America.”
Grace found herself breathless—not to mention startled—at her own outburst.
Justin already had his head in his hands. The idea was to not throw rocks at the seventeen-foot alligator.
Juke, of course, knew he'd been dissed. Hell, Grace could be right about all this marsh b.s., but that wasn't his problem.
Screw these people. If they wanted to make their lives difficult, he couldn't stop them. He shrugged. “Suit yourself, lady. But when I go back and tell Tom Huff, he ain't gonna be happy. And Mr. Huff ain't the kind of man who takes no for an answer.”
This time it was Justin fighting past a stab of anger. He said as calmly as he could, “Well, listen, I'll talk to anyone about anything, but you might as well tell your boss that it won't do any good. And, again, it's not personal. I don't know Tom Huff from Tom Thumb. But I wouldn't let either one of 'em cut this trench through my property.”
Juke shook his head. He peered at Justin, realizing he needed to size him up in detail so as to tell Huff what he was in for. His stature wasn't all that imposing, but it was Justin's posture, and eyes, that got Juke's attention. Both conveyed self-assurance, maybe even cockiness.
The friggin’ guy would probably fight this all the way. Poor bastard, thinking he had a chance against Tom Huff!
Juke threw up his hands in an exaggerated way. “Fine,” he said. “I gotcha, loud and clear. I just wanna let you know what you're up against.”
He rose, gathering his maps and papers, and said, “Thanks for the coffee. I'm pretty much bettin’ that we'll be talkin’ again.”
Grace pointed toward the kitchen exit. “Use that door,” she said. “And, I sure hope not.”
Juke shrugged. He shambled toward the door, then turned to Justin and said, “You're makin’ a big mistake, podnah. A big mistake.”