The District Manager (9 page)

The table next to ours is filled with Mexican government officials. Now I see why my boss is sitting where he is: not so much for the beautiful angel seated to his left, but because directly behind him is the Governor of Nuevo Leon. Because of where I’m seated, I overhear the bulk of the conversation. I’m reasonably bored by it, and more interested in interjecting myself into the conversation presently engaging the guests at our table; that is…until I hear the name, “Jack Clark,” mentioned by the governor.

“Ah, yes, very talented,” the mustached governor comments in his heavy accent, “very talented indeed, Representative…”

“I know he spent some time in your country, I assume you worked with him…or know someone who has?”

“President Fox! Did he not tell you? He is a very modest man, that Clark. This is his claim to fame in our country. Jack Clark managed former President Fox’s campaign, not only in Nuevo Leon, but Tamaulipas, and Coahuila as well. He is a fundraising machine, that man!”

Through the duration of dinner, I hardly say two words to Brenna. The D.A. and the sheriff act like I don’t exist. Brandy shoots me sly looks from time to time, as if she knows how frustrated I am with the whole seating arrangement and is getting a kick out of it.

After dinner, I make sure I’m standing behind Brenna as we vacate the tent in single file. Brandy—goddamn her—is right behind me. She pinches my ass while I struggle to make conversation with Brenna. All I can come up with to talk about is the food we just ate.

“A bit well done, wouldn’t you say?” I comment.

“Mine was fine, actually,” Brenna refutes.

Ouch!

“So was mine. God, Mason, you’re so picky!” Brandy adds.

She’s fucking with me and it’s working.

The air outside is as heavy as a house without ventilation, but it’s a big house and sparsely furnished, the ceiling reaching up into space, so it is a convincing surrogate for freedom. The plant is some fifty yards away—just far enough for this freedom to be spoiled by sweat. But the brief trek from the tent to the plant is like a hike through Antarctica compared to the stuffiness inside.
No wonder the invite said “casual dress.”

Our party thins as we start the tour, diluted by the immensity of the plant.

Where the hell is Brenna?
The sound of my boots on the slick concrete floor masks the shattering of my soul, mind, and heart. The weight of the air is making it hard for me to breathe as I contemplate the possible reality that my window of opportunity is closing fast—maybe closed. I’ve got to break off from the scattered herd to try and get my shit together.

I’m standing behind a large condenser when a bureaucratic voice interrupts this self-intervention. “Hot as hell in here, huh?”

“I’m sorry?” I ask, turning around. I can feel the beads of sweat on my face start to succumb to the law of gravity.

“Hot.” The man states timidly, but definitively. He is dressed in pinstripe tan slacks and coat, his round spectacles a bit foggy. “Hi, I’m Henry…or ‘Hank’ Garcia. I work for the PUC: the Public Utilities Commission.”

“I know what PUC means, Hank,” I retort in restrained irritation.

“Of course you do, Mason,” he replies calmly, disarming me.

“Sorry if I was rude, Hank. It’s just this weather is…well…”

“Awful?”

“Right. Awful.” The humor of this situation does not escape me. “How do you know my name, Hank?” I ask suspiciously.

“You’re District Manager for Haliburton Crane, right?”

“Right. Have we met? I meet so many people, Hank.”

“No, I don’t believe we have. Someone pointed you out to me.”

“How can I help you, sir?” Our conversation is actually therapeutic, as it’s getting my mind off of what I’ve determined is a panic attack.

“I was just curious.”

“Curious about what?”

“Curious as to how much you know about the company that owns this power plant.”

“They’re out of Monterrey, Mexico. That’s all I know. Why?”

“Nothing really. I’ve just been assigned to investigate them.”

“Investigate what?”

“I’m a CPA, like your boss. I do compliance audits for the PUC.”

“Does AUE owe money to the I.R.S. or something? Oh and by the way, my boss is a CFP, and a former banker, and then just an accountant—and in that order.”

“Oh is he?” Hank snickers awkwardly, and then answers my question. “Nothing like that, Mason. The audits I handle have to do with congruency of information.”

“What the hell is congruency of information?”

“Well, it’s probably better if I just explain the circumstances.”

“That might be better.” I want to go, but I’m trapped with this nerd.

“I handle cases regarding ERCOT providers. You know what that…”

“I know what ERCOT is. Yes, sir.”

“Of course you do, Mason.”

“What have you found?” I ask sharply.

“I can’t say definitively yet, but based on what I’ve reviewed, there seems to be a discrepancy regarding their reported output juxtaposed with area billing.”

“But isn’t AUE not just a generator, but a retail distributor as well?”

“Yes, that’s correct, and though they have largely cornered the market in this area, there are still a few retail distributors that have not been bought out. And that’s where I find the discrepancy with the billing associated with those companies’ customers.”

“What are you saying?” I ask, confused.

“It doesn’t add up, Mason. I can’t make heads or tails of it. They report so much output—and I know this is summer so everyone is working at full capacity—but what I’m looking at is April and May, and even that wouldn’t justify…”

“Mason?” a soft quilted voice asks from out of sight.

“Excuse me, Hank,” I interrupt. “Yes?” I ask, recognizing the voice with both relief and surprise.

Brenna now appears. “Are you planning on joining the group?” she asks, innocently. Her sudden appearance is like balm. Her pretty ivory face is flushed: the nose and cheeks, the color of cotton candy. A moist film glistens under the florescent lights that suspend some three or four stories above.

“Hank, I would like to introduce you to Brenna Spears. Brenna, Hank Garcia here is from the PUC.”

“I’m sorry what does that stand for again?” she asks, shaking Hank’s hand.

“Public Utilities Commission!” Both Hank and I answer in broken-unison.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Spears,” the nerd says, clumsily. “Anyway, Mason…” he concludes, turning back to address me, “I’m only telling you this information out of legislative privilege. I would appreciate it if you told no one. No one but your boss, of course.”

“Actually, I have no idea what on earth you are referring to, Hank, because…”

“…because I cut you off,” Brenna interjects, apologetically.

“Miss, you can interrupt me anytime you like.” Hank laughs his geeky, almost maladroit laugh.

“I concur!” I declare, hoping he gets my point.

“Well, Mason, again…please keep this conversation to yourself—with the exception of your boss, of course.”

“You already said that, Hank,” I inform him almost contemptuously.

“Yes, I did. Anyway, what I mean is…this is all surface commentary. I don’t know anything for sure. I won’t for a few months, not until I establish a pattern. I haven’t even notified my superiors, as this is still just a standard audit.”

“No problem, Hank!” I say, shaking his hand.

“Excuse me.” Hank Garcia of the PUC nods at me and Brenna, and finally gets lost.

The condenser kicks on and it’s rather noisy. Brenna signals me with her long, thin index finger, which is pointing presumably in the direction of our party.

“Thanks for rescuing me from that guy,” I say to her now that we can both hear.

“What was he talking about?” she asks as we walk towards the direction of our party.

“I don’t know. I really don’t care. To tell you the truth, I don’t really feel like continuing this tour. I mean, this sucks. This place is like a sauna on planet Mercury.”

“I know. I never thought I’d prefer the elements in August… but that’s the case here.”

“How do we get out of this colossus?” I ask, pausing us both.

“I don’t know…I’m not sure. I’m not even sure which way our party went.”

“We’re lost?”

“I came from that direction, I think,” she says pointing. Then turning around, “and I think we entered from that way.”

“All I see is a tangle of pipes and tanks in every direction.”

“Wait, I see a dude with a hard hat on!” she shouts, and marches off in his direction.

Brenna flags the guy down and starts carrying on a conversation that is inaudible to me. I take off my western coat and throw it over my shoulder. Fashion has no place in Texas during the summer.

“This way,” she directs, again heralded by her pretty finger.

The outside air is thick, but it is infinite. And besides, stretching out before us is a large man-made lake. The still water glistens like a coin under moonlight. Our footsteps switch tenor as we exit concrete for the wooden slats of a small pier.

“Umm, this is nice,” Brenna purrs as she creases her rump against the banister.

“Yes, yes it is. It’s beautiful…really beautiful,” I confirm, looking right into her green-gray eyes. “So tell me, what compelled you to come find me?”

“Oh, I was bored with that tour. Those people were bores, too.”

“So you’re saying I’m at least more interesting than boring?”

“You’re very interesting, Mason,” she says, cocking her head and smiling; like she’s a little embarrassed admitting it to me.

I feel good right now. Something is clicking. I’m wishing I had a beer to keep the demons of doubt out of my head.
But I don’t dare touch that anymore. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to take a piss.
With this shadow of a doubt lurking, an odd silence suddenly pervades our pastoral space.
This always happens to me with women damn it. Or, if I do have conversation, I fuck it up.
The memory of how our last encounter concluded jumps at me like a jaguar, from out of the black perimeter.

“Mason Dixon,” Brenna states inquisitively, “That’s a bit funny, but cute. There has to be a story there…just has to be.” She plops her bottom atop the wooden rail. Her knobby knees act as a fulcrum to her swinging calves and high heeled feet.

I’ll never understand women…what a revelation…

“You’re very observant. Actually, there is. It’s nothing too interesting, really.”

“I doubt that.”

“Actually, I never thought it odd myself until I got a little older. Oh, a teacher would comment every once in a while at the beginning of the school year; a substitute from time to time, as well. But really, I was in high school before my peers started to comment on it.”

“They weren’t mean were they?”

“Oh, not really. I had a football coach who called me ‘North-n-South’, that was really the worst of it.”

“That’s funny,” Brenna says, giggling, “and creative…for a coach!”

“Well, he taught American History on the side.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah, I guess. Nobody under the age of thirty comments on it at all.”

“Well, probably because they never were taught anything about it or…much of anything else for that matter.”

“Wow, you and I are cut from the same cloth.”

“So what’s the story?” she playfully asks.

“Okay,” I say, surrendering. My coat, which has been folded over my arm, now returns to my shoulder with one confident thrust. As I cock my hip, I feel damp spots permeate through my army green, V-neck t-shirt. I’m feeling very cool all of a sudden.
I hope it doesn’t backfire.
“My dad was a truck driver—hauled cars to be exact—and he was on the road when my mom was pregnant. He was returning from picking up a load in Philadelphia when he pulled over, right after crossing the Maryland state line, on his way to Dover.”

“Not very interesting,” she snaps back, sarcastically.

“Anyway, he called the hospital room, and the nurse answered, telling him that my mom had just had a baby boy, 3:32 p.m., Central Time.”

“So he’d just crossed the Mason-Dixon Line! That’s awesome!”

No one’s ever been this genuinely impressed by my name.

“You know, actually…the name really doesn’t mean the line of demarcation between north and south…”

“So what? That’s what everyone thinks it means and that’s what makes it cool!”

No one’s ever thought my name was cool.
I honestly feel compelled to inquire about her name. “Brenna. That’s pretty. I mean really, it’s very pretty.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, though, no story or anything, not that I was told.”

“There’s nothing special about having a story…believe me.”

“Oh, I don’t know. When I was a little girl I lied and told my girlfriends that it was the name of a French movie star. They wouldn’t have known any better.”

“I think the French movie star thing is the right way to go,” I say softly, as I move closer in.

“Ya think?” she asks, both innocently and seductively.

“Yeah, I think so,” I confirm, placing my jacket on the rail next to her flattened, green bottom.