new dawn, Joe was coming out of his skin. Not only did his friend not offer any solutions, he had actually discouraged him from doing anything at all. Think about it, the friend said, you survive by keeping your head down, becoming invisible. This is the opposite of that. Anything you do calls attention to you. If you complain, people come out and register the complaints. They take notice of you. Other people take notice. You have to keep talking about it, answer questions, have your name in print. Sooner or later, even if his motives weren't suspect, law enforcement would be involved. His name would be run through computers.
His security wasn't in keeping a low profile. It was in having none. No trace of him must be found. Given a clue of any kind, the state and tribal police would dig like manic prairie dogs until, at very best, they discovered a solitary neighbor who had no history at all. Then, he'd go straight to the top of their lists.
He wanted no particular harm for those involved with the project. After all, they had no way of knowing what they had started would bother anyone, except maybe for some die-hard tree huggers. He just wanted them to go away.
He sat on his porch for over an hour, thinking, considering. Then he sat with his cell phone and made two very important calls.
Six
I made arrangements for Sylvia Souther, the daughter of my friend Dan and Clyde's favorite kid, to feed and walk Clyde and then had my office and home phones routed to my answering service. You can get voice mail for me but I'm old fashioned. I want callers to get a human, even if it's not me.
I pay an exclusive to have my calls answered by one or the other of two women: Jayne I uen or Denise Lambert, both of whom also do occasional temp work for me. Denise—"D," as she insists I call her—does my accounts payable and receivable, while Jayne, a former law clerk, does my administrative work and taxes.
They make sure my phones are always covered and I pay for custom ringing so they can answer as my receptionist at home and on their cells, as well as at the service.
They both practice a certain lack of respect with me that I pretend to abhor but secretly love.
Jayne got me onto a Horizon direct flight to Spokane and arranged to rent a Chevy Blazer at the airport. I was at Sea-Tac and in the air by 8 p.m. and into Spokane before 10.
On my way out to Sea-Tac, the cell rang and I fumbled it to my ear while steering with my knees.
"Tru North."
"Well, what the fuck do you want now?" a voice chuckled.
"Nice language from a corporate president and pillar of his community, Bud," I smiled, "How's it hangin', Gerald?"
"Sales are up, panties are down. Life's good," he chirped. Jerry Meinhardt may be the most happily-married man on the planet and for the best of reasons. He and Liz, his bride of 24 years, will hop a plane to San Francisco for lunch. Their efforts at keeping it fresh are the stuff of Seattle legend. She casually mentioned, one Wednesday, that she'd like to have French food for their Friday date night. Jerry flew them to Cannes and had a full dinner served to them on a terrace overlooking the ocean. They're an inspiration to all of us who think that a marriage has to peter out after the first ten years.
And a pain in the ass to those of us who aren't in relationships.
"I don't want to hear it," I sighed, "You two should get a room."
"We have eighteen of 'em here, sport," he laughed, "How many more do we need?"
"You busy?" I asked.
"Just relaxing with a beer and a two-foot pile of overdue paperwork. What's up?"
"I need to ask about one of your former guys, Rod Hooks," I replied.
"Roddy?" he sighed, "The one that got away. Best right-hand guy I ever found and those limey bastards snatched him right out from under me. What about him?"
"His London firm is one of the principals in a thing I'm working on right now," I yawned,
His security wasn't in keeping a low profile. It was in having none. No trace of him must be found. Given a clue of any kind, the state and tribal police would dig like manic prairie dogs until, at very best, they discovered a solitary neighbor who had no history at all. Then, he'd go straight to the top of their lists.
He wanted no particular harm for those involved with the project. After all, they had no way of knowing what they had started would bother anyone, except maybe for some die-hard tree huggers. He just wanted them to go away.
He sat on his porch for over an hour, thinking, considering. Then he sat with his cell phone and made two very important calls.
Six
I made arrangements for Sylvia Souther, the daughter of my friend Dan and Clyde's favorite kid, to feed and walk Clyde and then had my office and home phones routed to my answering service. You can get voice mail for me but I'm old fashioned. I want callers to get a human, even if it's not me.
I pay an exclusive to have my calls answered by one or the other of two women: Jayne I uen or Denise Lambert, both of whom also do occasional temp work for me. Denise—"D," as she insists I call her—does my accounts payable and receivable, while Jayne, a former law clerk, does my administrative work and taxes.
They make sure my phones are always covered and I pay for custom ringing so they can answer as my receptionist at home and on their cells, as well as at the service.
They both practice a certain lack of respect with me that I pretend to abhor but secretly love.
Jayne got me onto a Horizon direct flight to Spokane and arranged to rent a Chevy Blazer at the airport. I was at Sea-Tac and in the air by 8 p.m. and into Spokane before 10.
On my way out to Sea-Tac, the cell rang and I fumbled it to my ear while steering with my knees.
"Tru North."
"Well, what the fuck do you want now?" a voice chuckled.
"Nice language from a corporate president and pillar of his community, Bud," I smiled, "How's it hangin', Gerald?"
"Sales are up, panties are down. Life's good," he chirped. Jerry Meinhardt may be the most happily-married man on the planet and for the best of reasons. He and Liz, his bride of 24 years, will hop a plane to San Francisco for lunch. Their efforts at keeping it fresh are the stuff of Seattle legend. She casually mentioned, one Wednesday, that she'd like to have French food for their Friday date night. Jerry flew them to Cannes and had a full dinner served to them on a terrace overlooking the ocean. They're an inspiration to all of us who think that a marriage has to peter out after the first ten years.
And a pain in the ass to those of us who aren't in relationships.
"I don't want to hear it," I sighed, "You two should get a room."
"We have eighteen of 'em here, sport," he laughed, "How many more do we need?"
"You busy?" I asked.
"Just relaxing with a beer and a two-foot pile of overdue paperwork. What's up?"
"I need to ask about one of your former guys, Rod Hooks," I replied.
"Roddy?" he sighed, "The one that got away. Best right-hand guy I ever found and those limey bastards snatched him right out from under me. What about him?"
"His London firm is one of the principals in a thing I'm working on right now," I yawned,
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