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Donnelly wiped his fingers on a napkin and rose from his chair and began shaking hands and introducing himself to the people around him, moving from one table to the next, until he was standing directly in front of ours. His eyes were bluish-gray, his hand soft inside mine when I took it. “It’s nice meeting you. I hope both you gentlemen enjoy my little talk,” he said.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I replied.
Then I realized he was not actually seeing or hearing me. His eyes were fixed on the people behind me, or on the wall, or in neutral space, but not on me or on Clete. He saw them in a collective fashion, as part of a purpose, but he didn’t see the individual whose hand he was shaking. It was strange to find myself extending my hand to a man who I was convinced did not care whether I lived or died, and I wondered how such a man took in so many people, and I wondered why I was actually holding his hand in mine.
I heard Clete drain his Bloody Mary down to the ice, then set the glass heavily on the table. “I’ve seen you in the movies,” he said before Donnelly could get away.
“Beg your pardon?”
“Have you ever done any character roles? Maybe a low-budget independent film. I’m sure I’ve seen you in one,” Clete said.
“I’m afraid I have no experience of that kind,” Donnelly said. “You must be thinking of someone else.”
“A romantic comedy, maybe,” Clete said. “I’m sure of it. It’ll come to me. Just give me a minute. You ever do any film work in Tijuana?”
“It’s been such a pleasure meeting you,” Donnelly said.
“Do you have a big mole on your left rear cheek?” Clete asked.
Donnelly kept moving, but the back of his neck was flaming.
“Have you lost your mind?” I said to Clete.
“I found a bug in my office this morning. I wanted to send him a message,” Clete said.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I can’t prove who put it in there. Now lighten up.” He snapped his fingers for the waiter and ordered another Bloody Mary.
Donnelly sat back down and cleaned his hands with a hand wipe. Later, two men in navy blue suits, shades, and shined black shoes entered the room and stood by the door. They looked like they were wearing makeup, perhaps to cover a serious bruising. Clete touched me on the arm. “Check it out,” he said.
“I see them. You think they’re the guys Gretchen busted up?”
He pulled the celery stick out of his second drink and began chewing on it, making loud crunching noises. “See the guy with the greased hair and the bump on his nose and the scalp job around his ears? He’s got to be one of them. She said the second guy was fat. She broke off some of his teeth up front. Maybe we should forget about the Brit and the albino and tune this pair up.”
“No, we don’t get into it with anybody.”
“Whatever you say. Waiter, I need a refill.”
Hubert Donnelly went to the podium and smiled politely while he was introduced. Then he launched into a long presentation of all the remedial measures his company and others were undertaking in order to undo the damage they had done. His tone was confessional and humble and filled with references to the men who had died on the rig. A medieval penitent on the road to Canterbury could not have been more contrite. The audience was made up of business-people who had a vested interest in the drilling industry and should have been receptive to the emotional nature of his delivery. In this instance, local rage trumped both unctuousness and long-term profit, and Donnelly’s mojo was not sliding down the pipe.
He loosened his tie and put aside his prepared remarks. I began to realize the level of my own naïveté about the intelligence and complexity of the enemy. Donnelly wasn’t an oil executive or a geologist. I wasn’t sure which company he worked for or why he was here. He kept referencing electronic technology and talking about oceanic grids and the Atlantic community of nations that depended on oil from the Persian Gulf. He wasn’t talking about a business anymore but a nongovernmental empire that encompassed most of the world and dr
ove the engines in it, all of it maintained by corporate interests that could never be compartmentalized or separated one from the other. Flags and national borders were an illusion, he said. The issue was energy, and it had been the issue since 1914. His teeth were small and crooked and looked crowded inside his mouth. He began talking about T. E. Lawrence. I doubted that more than three or four people in the room were listening.
Clete stirred the ice in his drink with a fresh celery stick. “I think our man is losing it,” he said.
“I’m not sure about that,” I said.
People were looking at their watches and trying not to yawn. When Donnelly finally sat down, he might have just climbed from the wicker basket of a hot-air balloon. Later, Clete and I followed him and Woolsey into the parking lot. Clete had stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth and was snapping and unsnapping the top of his Zippo. The two men in shades and navy blue suits were leaning against a Buick out in the sunlight, watching us, seemingly indifferent to the heat radiating off the metal.
As I looked at Donnelly and Lamont Woolsey and their hired security men, I experienced a strange sensation I couldn’t quite define. I felt that I was part of a grand folly, not only here, outside the restaurant, but in every aspect of my professional life, in the same way that the survivors of Flanders Fields and the Battle of the Somme had come to think of their war as the Grand Illusion. I also felt I had just listened to a cynic tell the truth in a way that was so candid, it would never be recognized as such nor have any influence on anyone or anything.
“You got a minute, Mr. Donnelly?” I said, opening my badge holder.
“What is it?” he said, turning around, the dappled shade of the live oaks sliding back and forth on his face.
“You’re an intelligent man. Why do you work for a collection of shits?” I said.
