Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 54, No. 3, March 2009

Oil Slick by Jay Brooks

Andy lumbered out of the hot tub like an astronaut stepping onto the moon. Rubbing his thinning hair with a towel, he sat down in one of the loungers facing the Olympic pool.

“Nothing like the whirlpool after a good workout, right? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Andy Belton.”

I introduced myself. We hadn’t met, but I knew him. He’d played pro football for ten years after college and had been in two Super Bowl games. After four years as a network color commentator, he’d married, according to my research, very well indeed. He’d picked up thirty or forty pounds since his playing days, and his fleshy body could use all the workouts that The Desert Palms Spa and Health Club could provide. Ice clinked as he poured himself a drink from a Thermos. Somehow I didn’t think it was lemonade.

“Hot enough for you?” he said.

“Arizona’s not that bad. Venezuela was worse; just as hot and wet to boot.” As I hoped, the mention of Venezuela roused his curiosity.

Now I started the tale. I let Andy tease out my experiences with the big oil companies in Mexico, Venezuela, and Chile. I told him a few funny stories and let slip that I was no longer employed by the majors.

“You’re retired then?” he asked.

“I work mainly for myself now,” I answered.

The mainly is the hook. I’m working the Oil Game. It’s a simple scam but reliable and one of the few long cons that don’t require a team. I don’t need a steerer or a talker, and I cool the mark myself.

He bit on the mainly. I admitted that four or five times a year, I scouted out some likely property, leased it, and formed a small group to drill for gas or oil.

“And that provides a comfortable living,” I concluded. Comfortable is the right word, low key but promising.

“So you hit pretty often?” he asked.

“Well, out of my last forty wells, thirty-one are producers, seven paid their way, and two were dry.”

Andy whistled. “You must be loaded!”

“Well first of all, we lose twenty percent leasing the well to a production company, but that avoids storage and distribution costs. Then I have to pay my partners. At any rate, nobody who started with me has to work for a living anymore.”

“Started with you? You mean...”

“Oh yeah, several people have rolled their profits over three or four times, and they haven’t been sorry.”

Nothing I had said constituted any kind of guarantee, but I could almost see his mind working. Thirty-one out of forty producing wells; profits rolling over...

On this scam, so far I had nine other investors who, unbeknownst to each other, had put up twenty to thirty thousand apiece. After I roped Andy in, I’d start drilling with an old rig I’d leased cheaply from a tapped-out wildcatter. After three weeks or so, I’d regretfully announce our lack of success and close up shop with the money, about two hundred large after expenses.

“I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. I’d like to hear more about your operation,” Andy said. “Come on out to the house this Saturday. We’re having a garden party. It’ll be at about eight... to avoid the heat, you know.”

“That would be great. I’ll look forward to it. Just give me some directions.” I already knew where he lived. His house was in a posh gated community built around a country club.

Saturday I stopped at a florist and picked up the bouquet that I’d ordered. The bouquet was small but rich in color and fragrance. It was tasteful and expensive. A thickly treed access road led to the community gatehouse. The gate guard had my name and checked my identification carefully before he raised the steel gate. I drove past swollen houses built to impress with wide, green lawns running down to the curb. Andy’s house looked like a floodlit stucco wedding cake on two acres of manicured desert. A parking valet met me at the curb and gave me a ticket. I walked up the wide flagstone walk to the open front door. The air conditioning was still going full blast. The two-story entrance hall looked and smelled like a refrigerated greenhouse.

Andy stepped out of what appeared to be a living room. His smile was strained, but he appeared to relax when he saw me.

“Great to see you. Let me show you around.” We walked though the immaculate formal living room into a smaller room with comfortable chairs, sofas, and hassocks. The lighting was indirect, and vaguely Eastern music played from concealed speakers.

“Pretty nice, yeah? Look at this.” At the press of a button, a huge screen descended down the wall directly in front of the seating. At the touch of another button, two football teams appeared on the screen playing in what appeared to be a blizzard. “That’s from my last pro season. On this next play, I...”

I never found out what happened on the next play.

A firm voice with the crack of a whip interrupted, “Turn that off! I told you to save those tapes for your drunken football buddies. Nobody else is interested your athletic history, such as it was.”

She walked into the entertainment room like an inspecting general. Her dress hung with that Grecian simplicity that cost a bundle but looked casual. I couldn’t tell her age, which I imagine was the point. Her taut, unlined face spoke of botox or plastic surgery rather than youth.

Andy introduced me. A quick, creaseless smile flashed across her face. My gift of flowers got the briefest of glances and no comment. She turned her attention to Andy.

“Did you get the pomegranate nectar? I told you the caterer wouldn’t bring it. Never mind. I’ll take care of it. You go into the kitchen and make sure they’ve got fresh calamari for the salad. Fresh, I said, and don’t get anything on your shirt.”

Duty done, she sailed out of the entertainment room toward the front door like an elegant sloop with a following wind.

“Stella’s a little upset,” Andy explained. “She invited a lot of important people, and she...” His explanation trailed off with a shrug.

Clearly Andy and I didn’t fit in the important people category. He lumbered off to his duties while I meandered out to the broad teak deck to get a drink. I asked the bartender for a club soda with a splash of cola. That’s my working drink.

Well-groomed, well-dressed people sauntered across the garden. A quartet played in a gazebo surrounded by raised beds of flowers. A hum of conversation came from the tent where the caterer had set up the buffet.

Andy came out of the kitchen into the living room and hurried onto the deck. He led me off the deck into the garden. He introduced me to two or three couples, all of whom were somewhat the reverse of Andy and Stella. The men were in their fifties or sixties with the wives fifteen to twenty years younger. They were cordial to Andy and me in a casual, offhand way. No one engaged us in conversation; they appeared much more interested in each other. Their clothes and bearing reeked of money. The cost of their wristwatches alone would feed me lavishly for a year. Some of the gentry looked like promising prospects, but I had to concentrate; Andy was tonight’s target.

“Look,” Andy said. “Could we talk in private for a minute?”

He steered me back onto the deck and into the entertainment room. Crossing in front of the darkened screen, we entered an inconspicuous door into a small office. On the wall behind the desk, two crossed sabers hung over some framed historical documents. On the side wall were pictures of Andy in football uniform from college to the pros, plus some shots with celebrities. Two trophies stood on the desk. The room could barely hold the desk, his chair, and the one I took in front of the desk.

“Look, I’ve been thinking about your oil proposition.”

“Whoa, Andy. I didn’t make any proposition. I’ve just barely finished my survey work.”

“I know... but I’d really like to get in on the ground floor. Things haven’t been going too well for me lately.”

I could imagine. Stella seemed to treat him like someone between a servant and an unruly child.

Andy sighed heavily. “I need to get back in the game. You know, put some points on the scoreboard.”

I knew. He had to reestablish himself as a winner. He was looking for the pot of gold, and I was the man with the map. Andy was well and truly hooked. Now I could work him.

“Andy, I usually have four to six partners to spread the risk.” He didn’t need to know that I already had nine. “If it’s going to be just you and me, I’ll need a good chunk of front money.”

Andy frowned. “What’ll it take to get the operation going?”

Now my experience came into play. I had to name a figure that seemed plausible but was still affordable. I paused for effect.

“With my thirty thousand, another seventy thousand should do it. You get sixty percent; I get forty.” You can’t get too generous with a mark; they get suspicious.

Andy took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I can handle that. Will a check be all right?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “I’ll have to wait until it clears before anything happens.” We shook on it.

He laughed. “I feel just like I used to after I made a big play, kind of tingly and short of breath. Does it hit you that way too?”

“Every time,” I said. I meant it, too, but not the way he did.

We met for lunch about a week later, and he handed over the seventy-grand check. Seeing the two signatures on the check, I looked at him questioningly. He grinned sheepishly and explained that most of his money was in a joint account. Stella had been reluctant to co-sign but finally had to admit Andy’s right to his personal share of their account.

“Boy, will she be surprised,” said Andy, grinning widely.

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

“Okay, Andy, today’s the twenty-eighth. I had some luck finding an idle rig. He’s on the way to the site now. As soon as this check clears, I’ll pay him and start the drilling. We should have some results within two to three weeks.”

“Perfect! Can you give me a map? I’ve never seen an oil well before.”

I slid a map over. “Go down any time after Monday. It’s about a two-hour drive, but take some water. It’s in the boonies.” Marks always relaxed for a while after they saw the rig in operation.

The check cleared, and I put the crew to work. After two weeks, it was time to pull the plug. I called the other investors and told them that technical problems made it necessary to quit drilling, but I’d be in touch when we could resume. With Andy, who thought he was my only partner, I went by the house. I wanted to cool this mark in person.

He took it hard. “Problems, what problems? What went wrong?” He twisted his hands as if they hurt.

“Look,” I said. “We hit some granite substrate. The rig we’ve got can’t handle the necessary drill bits without modifications.”

He groaned. “Does this mean we won’t hit any oil or gas?”

“No,” I said slowly as I thought. “The granite’s a cap, like a dome, over the oil shale. That’s why nobody tapped this field before. The granite’s actually a good sign.” Marks need hope like corn needs rain.

“Look,” Andy said, “I thought you’d have good news by now. I’ve got a big problem.”

You still don’t know the half of it, I thought, but I looked questioningly at him.

“That check I gave you wasn’t for seventy thousand. I altered it from seven thousand. I thought you’d bring the well in by now, and I’d surprise Stella. She’ll find out about the check when the bank statement comes in on the fifth of next month.”

I thought, You poor bastard, but he interrupted my sympathetic musings.

“Can’t we speed up the bit change? What would it take?”

If he was cheating his wife I had better speed my departure. Nothing good could come from sticking around, but Andy surprised me.

He opened a small wooden case on his desk. “You see this?” he asked. “This is the mate to the pistol that killed Alexander Hamilton.” He pushed the wooden case toward me. Inside was a slender antique dueling pistol. “Feel the balance,” he said, “Look at the bore, no pits or scratches. It’s in mint condition. The owner of the other pistol offered me fifty thousand for it. Would that be enough?”

I couldn’t pass this up. He was making it so easy. I returned the pistol to its case.

“Look, Andy. It’ll cost sixty grand for the air transport, new bits, and the pipe. I’ll kick in ten if you can get the fifty. Your percentage goes to seventy-five. Deal?”

“Great,” Andy said, “I’ll have it by Monday. Can you come by the house Monday night? Stella and the staff will be gone.”

Monday night I came though the gate and drove toward Andy’s place. Without the floodlights and the parking attendant, the house looked stark, dark, and lonely.

I walked to the front door which stood slightly ajar. I called out “Andy!” Walking toward the living room, I heard something move ahead of me. The sound led me into the entertainment room. I walked toward the open door of Andy’s office. Suddenly I saw a flash of light though the doorway and heard a thunderous boom. Shock pinned me to the doorframe until someone ran over me like a city bus. When I got up, still holding the doorframe, I saw Stella sitting in Andy’s chair lit by the desk lamp, her chest a red ruin and a look of wonder frozen on her face. Only the sound of a door slamming behind me brought me to my senses. Suddenly I knew. Somewhere close was a dueling pistol covered with my fingerprints, and the altered check would be near at hand. I heard a siren from the direction of the gate. It was too late to run. I was well and truly had, but I could almost admire the con. Almost.

Copyright © 2008 Jay Brooks