Excerpt
The sliding doors were opened onto the deck and the ocean, and a light breeze was flicking the drapes. I had a cigarette going, one hand behind my head, looking at the ceiling and silently humming that old Dean Martin aria about going back to Houston, Houston, Hou-ou-ston.
That Texican metropolis, it should be mentioned, was going to be the biggest engagement yet joined by the Slumberhaven juggernaut.
Lonestar Family Properties, 20 funeral emporia fanning out like a squadron of hearses over most of East Texas, was owned by a group of good old boys whose life work was messing with the remains of fellow Texans.
Pure gold. And right on SCI's doorstep, which made it even more toothsome. Toothsome Houston. With them in the fold, I'd be pushing 50 stores.
The Lonestar group had resisted overtures from SCI more than once when the world's largest operator approached them. So why had they been receptive when Al and I first talked to them?
I don't know. Perhaps the old small-frog-big-pond syndrome. Perhaps they knew something we didn't. But I knew something they didn't. If I could cinch in that big old Texican belt buckle, I would double the number of our locations and probably triple our total assets.
I looked over at Luella, at her long bronze hair spread out over the pillow. The girl was devastating in most of the ways that tickle a young man's fancy. My fancy was no exception.
So, young Mr. Roehmer, what was your problem? Was I nuts or what? Something missing in the mix, probably in me. Or perhaps more that I hadn't yet come to realize.
The afterglow wasn't supposed to be this way, according to conventional wisdom, with her sleeping immersed in the follow-up to championship bed athletics, and me thinking about burying thousands of pass Texans.
After such a performance, any reputable sex therapist worth his diploma will tell you, the guy is supposed to be in a state of lassitude, invariably conking out. Meanwhile, the girl is filled with complete cloying, if not clawing, tenderness, wanting to stay awake forever, head on shoulder, shmoozing about orange blossoms and a little nest somewhere in the West.
Not, apparently, on my watch, at least on this occasion. At the moment, the little nest somewhere in the West had something to do with Houston and sticking it to SCI, right in their own back yard.
I shifted and tried to ease out of bed by sliding over her without waking her. I didn't succeed. As I was in mid-slide, her eyes opened, she looked up at me and she tightened her grope.
"Not me, boss," Luella said. "I's just de bridesmaid."
"You're putting me on," I said, staring down at her, "which isn't a bad idea."
"Where are you going, baby?" She was looking up at me at a range of about three inches, still just coming awake.
"I have to make some notes while I'm thinking about them. Houston stuff."
"Screw the good old Houston boys and the hearse-drawing horses they rode in on. Hold me, Chuck. Never let me go, not to mention Lu-Air Corporation."
"I won't be long."
"You will be when I get through with you."
"Hold onto that thought," I said and completed my roll out of bed.
I slipped into a pair of swim trunks and padded down the hall to my office, which faced the river side of the Peninsula. I had just flicked on a light and sat down at my desk when the doorbell rang.
"Que pasa?" I wondered and looked at my watch. It was only 10:30. Luella had showed up with her movable feast, we'd had a few drinks on the deck. Then early to bed and all that other healthy stuff.
I got up and walked to the front door, flipped on the outside light and flung the door open.
It was Bess, quite fetching in white shorts and a tee shirt. It's always a feast or a famine, right?
"Hey," I said with surprise, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Darling, I thought it was time we smoothed things over. I had a long talk with Mona, and she's finally convinced me that the business about Buddy wasn't ulterior on your part. She insists you didn't even know us at that point, and your whole approach was honest and above-board."
"That's right," I said apprehensively.
Bess gave me a little hug, and then wrinkled her nose slightly. For a moment I wondered if I smelled a little musky, or whatever it is they call the aroma of the rutting season. But she seemed to let that pass.
"Besides," she said, "I've got some interesting stuff to show you about the Lonestar acquisition. Aren't you going to ask me in?"
I admit I was unconsciously still barring the door. "Sure," I said with a slight laugh, and waved one hand toward my office. She sailed on in and I followed, with a nervous glance down the hall.
"Ernie's been to Houston and has lined up a great selling group. I'm sure First Georgia won't mind - they'll still manage
Bess was looking past me at the hallway as if she'd just witnessed a home invasion. As a mater of fact, she had. Luella was standing there wearing nothing but one of my Abercrombie tees.
Fortunately, it managed to cover her from the knees north. Unfortunately, she looked too damply lovely for words. Like one of James Jones' Honolulu courtesans the morning after pay day.
Any other time, I would have admired Bess's speed of recovery. The British call it savoir faire, the sort of composure the lady of the manor is expected to display when she happens on his lordship tupping the upstairs maid in the linen closet.
Her dark eyebrows elevated just slightly and she took a step back, but managed a twisted smile and the understatement of the year. "Well, I can see you're busy."
"Not at all," I offered. "We were just going over some marketing plans for Lu-Air."
"Yes, well -" Bess was still staring at Luella, who returned the look with a post-orgasmic glance that would have won an Emmy. "I'll leave this with you and we can go over it another time."
"No, no - join us," I started. That was clearly the wrong thing to say, I realized as I said it.
But I was saved momentarily by the phone on my desk ringing. I picked it up as Bess and Luella maintained their dramatic two-shot, quite motionless.
"Chuck Roehmer," I said into the phone.
"Well, well, you're at home." It was Pamela. All we needed to complete the family feud. Or foursome. "I haven't seen much of you lately. I was wondering - "
"It's not a very good time right now. In fact, Bess is here, and we were just about to talk a little business."
"Oh, yeah? And how about the frizzed-out redhead - is she there too?"
"Well, no. You see -"
"You're a lying sonofabitch, because I just drove by your house about fifteen minutes ago and that fucking kraut convertible of hers is parked in front."
"All part of a business meeting." With an eye fixed on Bess, who was beginning to look a little exasperated.
"Yeah, funny business."
"I have to go. I'll talk to you later." I dropped the phone.
"And so will I," Bess said as I hung up, visibly under control, but with her mouth set in a firm line. She tossed a sheaf of papers, half of which made it to the desk, the rest fluttering every which way like autumn leaves.
Before they'd settled, she was out the door, and the ensuing slam knocked two or three pictures off the wall.
Nothing big. An Escher etching or two and a small Jackson Pollack print. I never did like the thing that much. I go more for realism.
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