The Alpha Chronicles (11 page)

The SUV pulled into the headquarters’ underground garage where Mr. Lewis’ assistant waited with a tablet computer and forced smile.

“What’s up, Linda?” Cameron stated more than asked.

“Your first appointment of the afternoon is waiting for you, Mr. Lewis. He’s early.”

Rubbing his chin, Cameron studied his secretary’s expression. “Is everything okay? I mean… I’m wondering why you decided to wait down here and not at your office.”

Shifting her weight from one foot to the other while staring at her shoes, the woman responded, “That man makes me uncomfortable, Mr. Lewis. I’m not sure why, but the way he looks at everyone makes me shiver.”

Nodding with a knowing air, Cameron motioned for Brenda to walk with him. “I understand. He is a bit of a character and operates at the lower levels of society.”

The executive and his entourage rode the elevator to the top floor of the 14-story building. With his security detail in front, Cameron entere
d his private office to find a guest surveying his environment through the suite’s floor to ceiling windows.

“Good day, Mr. Lewis.”

Cameron ignored the greeting, hanging his jacket on a hook behind the door and then moving immediately for his desk. “I’m not happy with our arrangement, sir. You’ve been late on the last two deliveries. Yesterday’s was considerably short on product.”

“And I accepted less payment for the product. We had equipment difficulties,” he answered. “It happens.”

“When we entered into our contract, you promised to deliver 10,000 pounds of food per week in exchange for gasoline, generators, liquor – and of course the continued care of the patient. So far, you’ve missed that mark half the time. I’m feeling the need to cancel our contract and secure another supplier.”

“Mr. Lewis, we’ll catch up. We’ve found a new source that should provide a significant amount of goods.”

“Where you get the food isn’t my concern, sir. I’ve got 20,000 hungry people, and they’re getting restless. I need you to hold up your end of the agreement.”

West Texas

January 17,
2016

Theodore Bonaparte Belou rubbed the five days of gristly, salt and pepper beard darkening his chin. Unlike so many men of the times, Mr. Belou’s facial growth had nothing to do with lack of access to shaving accessories, his appearance and habits relatively unchanged since well before the collapse.
Why waste the edge of a perfectly good razor more often than need be
, had been his motto for years.

The elder man’s eyes scanned row after row of discarded machinery, rusting metal and broken components randomly deposited across his 20-acre patch of West Texas paradise. He was searching out his son, waiting to see if a critical part could be salvaged from the yard. Another truck had broken down, the loss disrupting their business enterprise and drawing the ire of Mr. Cameron Lewis.

The product of a Louisiana Cajun father and a Nationalist French mother, Mr. Belou had located to this very swath of arid sand 46 years ago. Chasing fortune and sick of the damp Louisiana swamps, the latest oil boom in central Texas had lured the young man away from his boyhood home.

Rig-boss, after foreman, after field manager had turned him away. There were droves of men seeking jobs, and most had experience in the oil field. A discouraged Teddy had been just about ready to return home when one sympathetic supervisor had pointed to a rusting heap of drill pipe and busted valves scattered nearby. “Haul those off for me, boy, and I’ll pay ya fifty dollars cash.”

“Where would I haul them, sir?”

Pulling a pencil from above his ear, the man tore a corner from his brown lunch bag and began sketching a map. “This here land is leased by our company for storage. Dump that junk along there. No one ever goes out that way, so put it anywhere.”

And he did.

The $50 paid for a bag of food and a full tank of gas in his beat-up old Chevy pickup. It also inspired an idea. The next few days, Teddy visited rig after rig, offering to haul off scrap, trash, and junk. He had been stunned at how quickly clientele had been established. Sleeping in his truck and occasionally showering at the truck stop, Teddy survived. The roll of money stashed inside his glove box grew larger by the day.

A few weeks later, he pulled into his original customer’s location, the Edwards #14 rig. Shocked at finding the worksite all but abandoned, Teddy made for the small mobile home that served as the rig’s office. After knocking on the door, he was greeted by the agitated foreman. “We’re shutting down, Teddy. The money ran dry just like the well. The investors have pulled out. Anything that’s left after midnight tonight, you can haul off.”

“What about the land where I’ve dumped the scrap?” Teddy asked.

“That lease was paid in full for 99 years, Teddy. If you’re camping out there, no one should bother you for a long, long time.”

The next morning, Teddy’s truck was seen pulling a relatively nice house trailer toward the junkyard. He took full possession of his new home that afternoon, discarding the few reminders of Edwards #14.

Over the years, Teddy became known as T-Bone. He wasn’t sure how he earned that title. It might have been because of his given name. Perhaps it was due to his claim to fame – his personal, entrepreneurial effort - running what many of the locals referred to as a boneyard. Regardless, Mr. Belou embraced the handle – it sounded more like a proper Texas name, and he liked fitting in and staying under the radar.

T-Bone quickly diversified his stream of income, adding spare parts sales to his junk hauling enterprise. The improved business model ensured that T-Bone made money regardless of the direction the iron moved. Within a year, he hired another oilfield drifter to help. At 18 months, he expanded his small business again, broadening his “commercial fleet” by acquiring a second truck with more towing capacity.

Movement in the distance interrupted T-Bone’s reminiscing about the good old days and snapped his attention to the present. His oldest son was sauntering back toward the house empty-handed, the firstborn’s disappointed shuffle a redundant indicator that their truck was going to remain out of service until a suitable widget could be salvaged.

As he watched the now middle-aged man return, T-Bone couldn’t help but notice how much Lyndon reminded him of his mother. 

Three years after his first haul, T-Bone had decided to venture home for the Christmas holiday. Swelling with pride at his success and sporting a truck that was only two years old, T-Bone had made the drive to rural Cajun country brimming with gifts, new clothes, and the confidence of a “home-town boy done good.”

At first, his family’s reception had been icy, indicative of skepticism born of poverty-induced disappointment, some uncles even openly condescending to him. “Ain’t no way an uneducated boy like you has got spending money in his
pockets. You been out robbin’ banks, son?” Another had voiced his disdain with “Nobody here got no use for a show off, Teddy.”

Angry, frustrated and ready to bail, T-Bone had toughed it out. Vowing to head back to Texas first thing after the presents were opened, the young man had withdrawn, opting for the solace of isolation over the festivities of the family reunion. He had no way of knowing that his life would change forever on that Christmas morning.

Eva’s father was an uncle’s old army buddy who was passing through. Sitting on the porch swing, T-Bone would never forget watching the off-green Ford LTD with its clanking muffler pull into their lane. When the rattletrap old junker finally smoked to a stop, the image of the leggy beauty that climbed out of the backseat would be imprinted in his mind forever.

The young girl’s family led a simple, pastoral life, surviving mostly off the land with a little help from the county when times were
really bad. Her dream of escaping to the far away Lone Star state was an idealistic concept Eva had nurtured since she was a youngster. A mystical place where jobs were available for the asking fueled bedtime stories about a land of milk and honey, intriguing the little girl who sometimes fell asleep with a rumbling tummy. While the security of a constant food supply would have been romantic notion enough for Eva, her suitor’s genuine infatuation sealed the deal.

T-Bone would have considered kidnapping the girl if her desire to escape a mundane, and sometimes precarious, existence
hadn’t been compelling enough. He was relieved to find the new love of his life eager to make her own move. On New Year’s Day, Eva secretly left a note for her parents and slipped out the back door to T-Bone’s idling getaway-truck. As soon as the Texas state line was in their review mirror, the two tied the knot in front of a Justice of the Peace in Beaumont. The newlyweds honeymooned in a swank Houston hotel, Eva fascinated by what T-Bone called “room service.” What began as a young man’s fancy quickly grew into a deep love and affection on both sides.

Lyndon had been born nine months later.

“Dad, that tie-rod isn’t going to fit. I guess we’re down to a single truck until we can find a 2004 Ford V8 lying around somewhere.”

T-Bone shook his head, “Tell the boys to keep a look out for another vehicle to
salvage
. Given how strong
business
has been of late, we need something a little bigger anyway.”

Lyndon grinned at his father’s phrasing, knowing all too well that “salvage” meant steal or loot. He wasn’t embarrassed or surprised – the Belou clan
had crossed the ethical line to do what it took to get by, even if it meant bending a law or two to put food on the table.

Sauntering up to the porch, Lyndon eyed his father with a certain amount of pride. The man had worked his way out of the hopeless cycle of poverty that had plagued their family for generations. Despite having to fight for every inch of ground, Teddy Belou had never been bitter, never given any indication of quitting - even when he was unjustly sentenced to two years in prison.
That actually motivated him
, thought Lyndon.
That’s when he started living as if it was every man for himself.

The story had been told a hundred times. T-Bone being asked to remove equipment that seemed in better condition than most of his loads…the Sheriff pulling into the bone yard a week later…T-Bone being handcuffed and hauled off to jail.

As it turned out, the oil company had asked T-Bone to haul off that nice looking machinery because they were desperate for money and reported it stolen in order to collect the insurance. Both T-Bone and the rig’s manager claimed they were innocent. In the end, the district attorney convinced the jury that both men had conspired in the scandal and both were sentenced to two years at Huntsville.

Lyndon had been nine years old when the police had taken away his father. He already had three younger brothers, and his mother struggled desperately to make ends meet.

T-Bone returned from Huntsville a changed man. Aggression replaced a laid back, mellow demeanor; a drive to dominate superseded his sense of fairness. Before his internment, T-Bone believed the best business arrangements were those that benefited both parties. Afterwards, he wasn’t satisfied unless he screwed the other guy. The business suffered, but he didn’t seem to care. The only people who weren’t targets of T-Bone’s new assertiveness were his wife and children.
To hell with everyone else
.

T-Bone scowled at his first-born and scratched his stubble. “We’ve got to acquire something bigger, Lyndon. Our customer is demanding more and more merchandise, and we both know what will happen if we can’t deliver. This bullshit of a pickup load here and there isn’t going to cut it. We need a truck of some sort – something big and heavy that will haul a lot of weight.”

Lyndon tilted his head, his face brightening after a moment of thought. “I think I know exactly where to find just the truck, dad.”

Alpha, Texas

January 17,
2016

Diana shifted her weight, the motion eliciting a loud squeak from the folding metal chair. She was thankful no one could hear the seat’s outburst, a fringe benefit of the musicians playing nearby.
A brass band
, she thought,
who would have thought we’d ever have the time or a cause for a band
?

She exchanged glances with Nick, who made brief eye contact and winked before turning his attention back to the musicians. A reasonable rendition of John Philip Sousa’s
The Thunderer
rolled across the lawn to the delight of the gathered citizens of Alpha, the throng of election-eve voters practically filling the city park.

While Nick tapped his toe to the march, Diana’s attention wandered through the crowd. She was reminded of old black and white photographs depicting elections from long ago. While she couldn’t remember any details of the time or place, the grainy pictures reflected a carnival-like atmosphere – a gala event. Alpha, Texas was experiencing its own version of those times – practically the whole community was on or near Main Street - reclining on blankets or lawn chairs and otherwise perching wherever else they could improvise a seat
along the strip. There were even three sets of legs swinging happily beneath a low branch belonging to one of the park’s large elms.