thinks that she might have been hurt in some way, in some fashion that Mr. Cummings never intended—”
“Well, I’d like to make it right,” Cummings says, catching on to the script now, the general direction in which Charlie is headed.
Charlie, whose afternoon buzz seems to be wearing off, ignores Cummings completely. “I’m sure we could come up with something that might make her feel better about what she imag ines may have taken place.”
“How much?” Jay asks.
J.T. pops another Tums in his mouth, and Charlie runs his fingers along the rim of his martini glass. “One thousand dol lars,” Charlie says.
Jay laughs out loud, the first time in a week.
Charlie cuts an eye toward his client. Cummings nods.
“Five thousand dollars,” Charlie says, tossing the words across the table like a winning roll in a dice game. “Can’t beat that.”
If he’d said ten, Jay would have taken it on the spot. He’d had that decided before he walked in the door. His cut would run about three thousand, minus expenses. Nothing that would turn his life around. But still something, without having to worry about the expense of a trial, which, by the way, there is a good chance he will lose. He’s still looking for a witness, somebody to put his client in Cummings’s car. Without that, he’s screwed. He would have taken ten in a heartbeat. Five, he can’t do. “I was thinking more like twenty,” he says.
“Now, wait a minute.” J.T. slams his fist on the table. “I’m going to do right by this girl. But twenty thousand dollars is horseshit.”
Jay shrugs, as if his hands are tied.
“I can’t advise my client to entertain this any further, to even consider such an outlandish suggestion, Mr. Porter.”
“See you in court then,” Jay says, pushing back from the table, hoping somebody will try to stop him.
“Seventy-five hundred,” Charlie says.
“That gal woulda lived like a queen on five,” J.T. says.
Jay and Charlie both ignore him.
“Least you can do is put it to your client, see how she takes it.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Jay says. “But I can’t promise anything.”
J.T. looks at the two of them, not sure if he should be pissed off or celebrating. He turns to his very expensive lawyer. “That’s it?”
“He said he’s gon’ talk to the girl.”
“Damnit, Charlie, I said I wanted this wrapped up today.” He sounds more confounded than angry, as if he can’t understand why a man of his stature should be subjected to the machinations of a low-rent call girl. “This is a fucking nightmare.” “Your faith in me is remarkable, J.T.,” Charlie says.
He turns away from his ungrateful client, catching sight of a familiar face across the dining room floor, a man in his early fif ties wearing a gray summer suit the exact color of his eyes.
“Thomas Cole,” Charlie calls out eagerly.
As the man turns toward their table, Jay recognizes his face from pictures in the papers. He’s the CEO or some such bigwig at Cole Oil Industries, the homegrown oil and petrochemical giant started by Johnson Cole in the late 1940s and now run by his sons Patrick, John, and Thomas. The Cole name is sprinkled throughout the city and its surrounding environs. They have buildings at both Rice University and U of H, and they spon sored construction on a research wing at NASA. Lindy Cole, their mother, and only living parent, has an elementary school named after her in Baytown, where she was born. The Coles are the closest thing to royalty this city has (the Coles and maybe Jerry Hall, or George Bush, depending on your political sway). As Thomas Cole starts across the room to their table, Jay can see Charlie’s face kind of light up at the fact. Charlie eyeballs the room, wanting to know who all is watching Thomas Cole walk over to
“Mr. Luckman,” Thomas says, patting Charlie roughly on the back, his eyes never straying too far from the girls onstage. “How’s Rita?” he asks.
“You see her, you let me know,” Charlie says with a frat boy’s smile.
“Well, they do come and go,” Thomas says.
He tells Charlie to expect a call from him, and then he’s off, stopping at another table.
Cummings watches Thomas work the room. “If the union moves forward with this strike,” he says, his voice almost a whis per, as if he’s speaking the unspeakable, like a cancer or a death in the family, “the whole port will shut down. Nothing coming in, nothing going out. The whole goddamned economy will come to a screeching halt in a matter of days, and we’ll all be in a huge heap of shit. The mayor’s getting pressure from both sides, but she can’t decide if she’s business or labor. She can’t hardly decide anything ’cept what color lipstick to wear or how she’s fixing her hair this week.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe they let women vote these days, let alone serve in public office.
“They’re not going to strike,” Charlie assures him.
“You better hope you’re right, Charlie. Rest of the country ain’t doing so hot. You get north of Oklahoma and it’s a whole different story, boy. The rest of the country is on the verge of a goddamned recession. Oil’s the only thing keeping this goddamned city afloat. And we’re down to thirty dollars a barrel as it is. That’s another five from last week. Now you throw a port strike in the mix—”
“Oil don’t run through the port, J.T. That’s not your jurisdic tion. Those oil tankers up and down the Ship Channel dock on
