The Big Bamboo (15 page)

“Classy crew,” said Chi-Chi. “Respected their elders, which isn’t exactly a trend these days. They put us up in nice suites overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, one of those Panhandle resorts with the staircase architecture. We were there three weeks, a regular vacation like they promised. Top-shelf room service kept coming while we sat around rehearsing. They even had tailors drop by and fit us. Finally, we were ready. The teams split up. Us old guys go to the country club.”

“Were you members?” asked Serge.

“Doesn’t matter at our age,” said Chi-Chi. “Act like you belong and have the right clothes. They won’t dare insult you. That’s where the wardrobe came in. Expensive navy-blue blazers with big brass buttons and yellow silk hankies poking out breast pockets. Plaid pants, white shoes. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead. Each afternoon we set up camp in the men’s-only bar overlooking the eighteenth pin. Dark paneling, cigar smoke. You know the kind of place: Talk always ends up about money. And did we have a story! This particular club was big with bank types, presidents, board members. A bunch were from Alabama, since it was so close to the state line. Second homes on the Redneck Riviera. Fish in a barrel. We’d grab a private cocktail table in the corner each day, the ones with the big cushy chairs you sink into, which were hell on my knees. It was Sergio’s finest hour. Underplayed his role to the nines. He’s obviously the most important because the rest of us are acting like loud fools, and he’s the quiet one handing out big checks. I don’t just mean the amounts. We ordered a set of the largest business checks we could find, then casually left a couple on the table, catching guys at the other tables trying to read the dollar figures upside down, which were five and six digits. What did we care? We weren’t going to cash them. After our Rémy Martin comes, all of us make a big show of whipping out our own leather books and writing a pile of checks back to Sergio. The mojo started. Club members begin trying to strike up conversations, but we’d quickly put our stuff away and act coy. The more secretive we were, the more curious they got. It was killing them! Went like this two whole weeks. Finally, one day, we pretend we’re drunker than usual. On cue, Sergio goes to the restroom, and we spill the beans to the next table. Then we see Sergio returning and act all guilty: ‘Don’t say anything! We weren’t supposed to tell you.’…”

“And that’s when we started drilling for oil,” said Coltrane.

“You want to tell the story?” said Chi-Chi.

“No, I want another drink.”

“Then don’t interrupt. Where was I?”

“But you can’t drill in Florida,” said Serge.

“That’s why we had to go to Alabama,” said Coltrane. “Shit, they don’t care. They take money from other states to bury garbage that makes the hills glow at night like a black-light poster.”

“Will you two shut up?” said Chi-Chi. “Now I lost my place.”

“Bartender!…”

“I remember,” said Chi-Chi. “We baited the trap; time to spring it. And this is where the young kids really impressed us, because you always hear how this generation wants everything handed to them. Not these guys. They didn’t just grab the easy money—to them it was as much about tradition. They read their history, and they did their homework. That’s why it worked. The game was so preposterous, not even other con men would suspect. But these kids showed us the old court photostats. It really happened before: Louisville, Kentucky, in 1958, and again the next year outside Lubbock. The last case popped up in Oklahoma during the OPEC embargo. And that’s how we came to own an oil well.”

“Where on earth do you buy an oil well?” asked Serge.

“Oil
derrick,
actually,” said Chi-Chi. “The whole thing is the well. You lease them, for less than you’d think. There’s dozens of companies—ship anywhere as long as you pay.”

“But you don’t have an oil field.”

“They don’t care,” said Chi-Chi. “They’re in the derrick-renting business. As long as your check clears, you can sink it in your living room and pump champagne.”

Serge was skeptical. “But bankers check out everything. Weren’t they bound to find—”

“Covered,” said Chi-Chi. “There are very specific paperwork rules for this kind of thing. You follow them. Find a farmer in bib overalls willing to be an accomplice. Offer a few grand for six months’ mineral rights, which is a windfall to him ’cause there ain’t no oil. It’s a standard contract—the people in those country clubs know all about them. Farmer gets front money and an eighth of whatever you strike. Split the rest in sixteen shares. File all the proper documents with the county and state, incorporate. Then, when those bankers from the country club start snooping around, it’s all in order. Only thing left is to strike oil.”

“But if there’s no oil,” said Coleman, “how’d you strike it?”

“We didn’t strike it,” said Chi-Chi. “We bought it.”

“Bought it?”

“Five gallons of crude to be exact,” said Chi-Chi. “Splashed it over the derrick that we never turned on. All set for the big day. After blabbing to our new friends at the club, they wouldn’t leave us alone. Begged to meet the next time we went out to the well. The following Tuesday this long line of big-ass luxury cars heads north on U.S. 331 and crosses the state line at Florala. They drive deep into Covington County: spooky, unmaintained roads through moonshine country with a bunch of scraggly oaks making canopies.”

Coleman waved for the bartender. “You’d think they’d get lost. Or scared.”

“Turns out they knew the area better than we did. Foreclosed on properties all over the place. One of them even knew the last turn, which was through this broken cattle gate and up a bluff until they came to the most surreal sight: a giant wedding tent surrounded by grazing cows. They met us and shook hands. Then they asked the pink-elephant-in-the-room question: What’s the tent for? And why wasn’t the derrick running? We explained that a quick strike is good-news, bad-news. Good: less investment in exploratory drilling. Bad: the closer to the surface, the smaller the pocket, nothing remotely compared to the vast reserves farther down. We told them we didn’t have the problem of a quick strike.”

“Yeah, but why the tent?” asked Serge.

“I’m getting to that,” said Chi-Chi. “We told them we had so many tanker trucks coming and going on these back roads that talk was starting. Sergio only had the one lease. He was forced to shut down and hide everything in the tent so he could go around buying more rights before too many people got wise. After that, those bankers couldn’t whip out their checkbooks fast enough. We told them: Hold on, we weren’t out to screw anyone, but we’re the guys who had to sweat it out a month paying for pipes and bits going down a dry hole, no guarantee we’d ever hit anything. They couldn’t just come in at the end. They’d have to spend backward up the well and amortize our risk. They said it was more than fair.”

“And that’s when you took them?” said Serge.

“No, that’s when Sergio drove up and kicked everyone out,” said Chi-Chi.

“Now I’m confused,” said Coleman.

“Thing of beauty,” said Chi-Chi. “Giant limo comes barreling across the field kicking up a giant dust cloud. Parks next to the tent and Sergio gets out with this terrific-looking blonde. She was in her mid-forties, but Sergio was eighty-six at the time. For the bankers, that math confirmed the oil strike more than any geologist ever could. They run over to him with big smiles and outstretched hands, but he just starts cursing at the rest of us about not being able to keep a secret. Tells everyone to get the fuck off the property. Then he jumps back in the limo and speeds away. We rush over to apologize. Promise to talk to Sergio and smooth everything. Then we make plans to meet them back at the club in a few days.”

“And
that’s
when you took them?” asked Coleman.

“No,” said Chi-Chi. “We never went back to the club.”

“So what happened?” said Serge.

“Exactly what we knew would happen,” said Chi-Chi. “They bought up the mineral rights on all the surrounding property—and a whole lot more. We’d been by to see the farmers in advance and cut deals. Everyone made out. But here’s the cherry on the sundae. After we cleared town, the bankers came back to that first field and found no hole. They ran to the police demanding charges be pressed, except there was no crime.”

“Of course there was a crime,” said Coleman.

Serge smiled. “No, there wasn’t.”

“Yes, there was,” said Coleman. “When they…well, but when they…definitely when they…shoot, you’re right.”

Chi-Chi signaled the bartender for another beer.

The smile on Serge’s face got bigger. “An interesting coincidence of geography?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” said Chi-Chi, starting to smile himself.

“Where did these young kids grow up?”

“Not sure,” said Chi-Chi. “Might have been that same county.”

“Where those bankers did a bunch of foreclosures?”

Chi-Chi nodded.

“Any of those foreclosures happen to be these kids’ parents?”

“Now that you mention it…”

Serge raised his orange juice for a toast. “Sweet.”

Chi-Chi clinked it with his jar. “Your granddad’s finest hour.”

“What was the take?”

“Over a million, almost two. But the best part is, except for expenses, the kids didn’t keep any. Let the community divide it up. Told you they were class.”

Serge set his OJ back on the bar. “But how did you meet them in the first place?”

Chi-Chi laughed, then his face went dead serious. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Oh, my God! I thought he told you!”

“Told me what? What’s going on?”

“It never dawned on me,” said Chi-Chi. “I must have been drinking too much telling the story. Oh, man, Serge. You have to go to L.A.!”

“Did you say L.A.?”

“Can’t believe nobody told—I guess with the heart attack and all our excitement…”

“Grandpa mentioned something about L.A., but I just thought it was just more ranting.”

“He wasn’t ranting,” said Chi-Chi, climbing off his stool. “Okay, I’m going to do this right. I’m going to let your granddad tell you.”

“Now,
you’re
ranting.”

“Wait here.” Chi-Chi walked quickly out the front door to the parking lot.

Serge hit the bar with his fist. “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?”

Chi-Chi retrieved an envelope from his glove compartment and headed back to the lounge. Behind him, a white sedan with blackwall tires drove by on highway 192.

A man in a dark suit and a thin, dark tie turned around in the passenger seat. “Just passed the place.”

“I did?”

“You can make a U at the next light.”

The sedan pulled into the left lane and stopped at a red. “Think he might be in there?”

“Not after that close call at the cemetery. But we can lean on his friends.”

Chi-Chi hurried back into the bar, catching his breath. “Here.” He handed Serge the envelope.

Serge took it and began tearing the flap, giving Chi-Chi a wary expression. “You sure you’re okay?”

Chi-Chi nodded, still panting. “Your grandfather gave me that a few months ago. All happened in the last year. With you off to who knows where, he was afraid he wouldn’t see you again. Made me promise to deliver that if anything happened to him.”

Serge was still giving Chi-Chi an odd look as he pulled the letter from the envelope. He began reading.

A white sedan pulled up in front of The Big Bamboo. Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties opened the doors.

Serge’s eyes were almost out of his head as he finished the letter’s first page and frantically flipped to the second. “Holy shit!”

“Something, eh?” said Chi-Chi.

Serge suddenly jumped up. “Come on!” He yanked Coleman off his stool. A jar of beer went flying. They ran out the back of the bar as two men in dark suits came in the front.

The men walked up to the counter and leaned against the end with a half-full jar of orange juice. The bartender grabbed the jar and dumped it in the sink. He set out fresh squares of toilet paper. “What can I get you fellas?”

One of the men showed the bartender a black-and-white photo. “Know this guy?”

The bartender leaned and pretended to study the picture, then stood up. “Nope, never seen him.”

He turned to Chi-Chi, about to show the photo again when he realized the previously noisy lounge had gone silent. Everyone staring into their drinks.

The man shot his partner a knowing glance. He began walking behind the row of stools. “So this is how it’s going to be? Well, just from where I’m standing I can see at least a dozen fire violations…”

His partner bent down. “What’s this?” He picked a piece of paper off the floor. “Looks like a letter.” He turned it over to the empty back side. “It’s just the second page.”

Chi-Chi smacked himself in the forehead.

“Let me see that,” said his partner. His lips moved as he read. He reached the end of the letter and looked up in puzzlement. “Los Angeles?”

Another Friday evening sunset on Ivar Street. Shadows grew tall. A green-and-yellow neon sign came on outside the Alto Nido apartments.

In a third-floor unit, four roommates worked combs, cologne and a hair dryer. The fifth tapped typewriter keys. He was starting to grow his first beard.

“Ford, this isn’t good,” said Pedro. “You haven’t left the apartment since you were fired.”

“Why don’t you go out with us tonight?” said Ray.

“You have to snap out of it,” said Mark.

Tino slipped into a sports shirt. “All the signs of depression—”

“Actually, I’m doing my best work,” said Ford. Tap, tap, tap. “At first I only wanted to occupy my mind. Then it just started coming.”

“What started coming?” asked Mark.

“New script.” Ford twisted the roller, removing the sheet. He set it neatly on a stack of pages next to the typewriter. “And now it’s done.”

“That means you can go out with us?”

Ford stood. “Okay.”

Pedro capped a Speed Stick. “That’s more like it.”

Ford turned on an electric razor with turbo-cut action. “Just give me a minute.”