Black Water Rising

“Well, Mr. Smart Fucking Lawyer,” Minty says, ignoring a taming hand on his shoulder from Wayne Kaylin. “I got cops coming to my house, to my fucking job. They were real clear on what this kid thinks he saw me do. And I’m gon’ tell you what I told them, and then I ain’t gon’ say nothing more about it. It couldn’t have been me, okay?” he says, looking Darren in the eye. “I was at work. It’s on the fucking books. You can check it just like the cops did.”

Jay looks to the Rev, who shakes his head. This is news to him too.

“And I can do you one better,” Minty says, cooling his tone now that the facts seem to be turning in his favor. “Thomas Cole and a couple of suits from downtown were doing a site visit at the refinery that night. I had a cup of coffee with the man myself. He told the police as much already. Unless he’s lying too.”

“You were working at Cole Oil when this happened?” Jay asks skeptically. “Ten o’clock at night?”

“I was working the late shift as a matter of fact.”

“The story checks out,” Wayne says to Bodine. “I mean, legally, the cops don’t know what to do with it. They got the kid’s statement. But Minty was at work, Pat. It’s on the books. He clocked in for the night shift at seven fifty-five pm and didn’t clock out ’til morning. And as far as the police are concerned, if a man like Thomas Cole says he saw Minty at work, then it’s enough for them.”

“Look, kid, I’m sorry about what all happened to you, I am,” Minty says, not sounding sorry in the least. “But it wasn’t me, okay?” He looks around the room at the others. “And even if it was,” he says, suddenly smug, as if he’s just dying to admit that it was him, as if he’s daring them to do anything about it, what with the law and Thomas Cole on his side. “Don’t matter much anymore. You got your strike in the end, and now it’s done. We can all get back to work.”

“Let me get this straight,” Jay says, still stuck on one thing in particular, one thing that seems mildly incredible to him, or just plain odd. “You’re telling me that Thomas Cole, the CEO of Cole Oil Industries—”

“CFO,” Minty corrects him, bragging, kind of, as if it were his job.

“You’re telling me the CFO of Cole Oil . . . is your alibi?”

Minty eyes Jay coldly. He seems to take the question as a per­ sonal attack. “I’m not just some peon down there. I put in nearly thirty years at that refinery. I’ve earned the respect of a lot of people. And yes, Thomas Cole is one of them. I do an important job for him, not that you would know about it.”

“He’s a production coordinator for Cole,” Wayne says, back­ ing him up.

“Senior supervisor,” Minty corrects him. “I keep track of the crude.”

“Is that right?” Jay asks.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m the one seeing to the tankers out there,” Minty says, still bragging. “I mark the levels down in the books when the oil comes in off the ships and the tanker trucks. I keep track of how much or how little we got on hand, what sets the prices, you know. So I’d say I’m pretty important down there, somebody Mr. Cole might want to say hello to once in a while.”

Jay, all of sudden, feels something hot behind his ears.

He’s had this sensation before, like two live wires touch­ ing, something in his mind getting ready to ignite. It’s some­ thing about the mention of Thomas Cole that doesn’t sit right. Minty just happened to be working the late shift that night, and Thomas Cole just happened to be by the refinery at the exact time Minty needed corroboration for his whereabouts? There’s no doubt that Minty is lying. The real question is, why would Thomas Cole play along? Why would the CFO of Cole Oil lie for a man like Carlisle Minty? Why help him get away with a crime? Unless, of course, Jay is reading it all wrong . . . back­ ward, in fact.

He stares at Carlisle Minty, the callous look in his eyes.

“Who keeps track of the crude during the walkout?” he asks.

“Nobody,” Minty says. “The plant’s dark.”

He says it like he thinks Jay’s an idiot.

The strike, of course, has shut down everything.

“Nothing going out,” Jay says out loud, rolling the words around in his mind, then finishing the thought, “and no workers to bring any oil in.”

“That’s right,” Minty says.

Jay gets a sudden image of oil tanker trucks in High Point, the old man’s description of them secreting away oil in the middle of the night. The cleanup, he called it, and said it stopped short just about a week ago . . . right about the time the strike got started, when the Cole refinery in Houston went dark.

Pat Bodine looks down at his watch. “So what are we doing here? Are we in a place to put this behind us?” he asks Reverend Boykins and Darren. “ ’Cause I’d like to make some statement to that effect as soon as possible.”

“So that’s it, huh?” Darren says.

“Look, if the police investigation says it wasn’t Minty, I just don’t know what else I can do here,” Bodine says. “The sooner we put this behind us, the sooner I can go out and negotiate the best deal on your behalf. And that’s what we should really be focused on. I’m on your side with this thing, I really am.”

Jay’s got his eyes on Carlisle Minty still, taking in the gold watch on Minty’s left wrist and wondering to himself what a pro­ duction supervisor makes in a year, how he got himself a watch like that. When the meeting breaks up a few minutes later, Jay sees Pat Bodine drive out of the parking lot in a fifteen-year-old Chevy, while Minty climbs into a late-model Cadillac.

Cole Oil has apparently been very good to Carlisle Minty.

Darren tells the Rev he’s not going to the port commission meeting. As far as he’s concerned, this whole thing is over. “You got to see it to the end,” the Rev keeps saying over and over. Dar­ ren shakes his head. “It’s over, man. They got us in a corner now. There’s no way we can win.” And anyway, he’s tired.