He remembered the simple offices in the now razed old convention center, which would have fit into the foyer of this place. “Nice digs,” he said to himself, his eyes moving over the magnificent Western art and sculptures. The lobby of these offices showed the Rodeo had arrived. This was no longer “a small town goat ropin’”; it was the biggest charity in the state and the largest indoor rodeo in the United States.
Behind the huge mahogany reception desk sat a gray-haired lady gatekeeper. She asked his business and he explained who he was and that he was to meet someone from the rodeo staff.
“You’re expected. Miss Taylor will be available to see you shortly,” she announced. “Please take a seat. Any seat is fine. Miss Taylor will be right out.”
Storm sat on one end of one of the overstuffed leather sofa and continued to study the art and memorabilia in the lobby. There were gorgeous paintings of Western scenes, handsome bronze sculptures, replicas of Remington’s and cases of Show memorabilia, along with 18’ X 24’ framed photographs of past Rodeo presidents. Things had changed considerably, as most things change with huge increases of revenue; where the old offices were understated and belied the amounts of money that were accumulated and disseminated, the new offices were opulent. There was no doubt that this was an institution with financial strength and grandeur.
Since this was the active season of the rodeo (the business was year round) people scurried back and forth and in and out, some already looking frazzled, while others appeared preoccupied with their radios and cell phones next to their ears. Activity would now be twenty-four hours a day; this was the beginning of the three-week period when the preparations of the previous year came to fruition, entertaining the throngs of patrons and garnering money for the scholarship fund. Storm didn’t envy these people or what they had to put up with over the next three weeks. The work of collecting donations for scholarships for Texas’ future leaders included soothing the never-ending complaints of spoiled patrons and members, covering up dropped balls that the public never saw, currying favors to keep donors happy, staving off various and sundry potential problems—and that was on a good day. No thank you, Storm smiled to himself. He didn’t like people that much, anyway, so God bless those who did, or could at least abide them without giving away their real thoughts.
Storm had not been waiting long when a very attractive blonde woman with impeccable hair and a cute figure hidden by a suave business suit appeared. She was followed by a tall man in a rumpled corporate suit of armor that gave him that slept-in look. The receptionist pointed out Storm, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch, next to a display case containing countless belt buckles, trophies and pictures from past decades of rodeos. He stood as they approached (his momma had always taught him good manners and Angie would never have forgiven him if he hadn’t—“You stand in the presence of a lady!”), the blond extended her hand and said, “Hello, I’m Dakota Taylor, head of marketing and the assistant general manager of Show, and I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Vern Nagel from the mayor’s office.”
Storm introduced himself, shook hands with Miss Taylor, and said, “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nagel.”
Nagel nodded and grunted, held out his hand for Storm to take and said, “Detective Storm, Vern Nagel, assistant to the mayor.”
Storm looked quickly at Nagel’s business card: “Second assistant to Mayor Richard Lemay,” it read. He must think “assistant” sounds better than “second assistant,” Storm reckoned.
Nagel looked like he had been pulled out of his nice warm bed early that morning by the mayor, probably given the lowdown, and told to report to the rodeo offices. Storm figured he was with Miss Taylor to be the eyes and ears of the
Behind the huge mahogany reception desk sat a gray-haired lady gatekeeper. She asked his business and he explained who he was and that he was to meet someone from the rodeo staff.
“You’re expected. Miss Taylor will be available to see you shortly,” she announced. “Please take a seat. Any seat is fine. Miss Taylor will be right out.”
Storm sat on one end of one of the overstuffed leather sofa and continued to study the art and memorabilia in the lobby. There were gorgeous paintings of Western scenes, handsome bronze sculptures, replicas of Remington’s and cases of Show memorabilia, along with 18’ X 24’ framed photographs of past Rodeo presidents. Things had changed considerably, as most things change with huge increases of revenue; where the old offices were understated and belied the amounts of money that were accumulated and disseminated, the new offices were opulent. There was no doubt that this was an institution with financial strength and grandeur.
Since this was the active season of the rodeo (the business was year round) people scurried back and forth and in and out, some already looking frazzled, while others appeared preoccupied with their radios and cell phones next to their ears. Activity would now be twenty-four hours a day; this was the beginning of the three-week period when the preparations of the previous year came to fruition, entertaining the throngs of patrons and garnering money for the scholarship fund. Storm didn’t envy these people or what they had to put up with over the next three weeks. The work of collecting donations for scholarships for Texas’ future leaders included soothing the never-ending complaints of spoiled patrons and members, covering up dropped balls that the public never saw, currying favors to keep donors happy, staving off various and sundry potential problems—and that was on a good day. No thank you, Storm smiled to himself. He didn’t like people that much, anyway, so God bless those who did, or could at least abide them without giving away their real thoughts.
Storm had not been waiting long when a very attractive blonde woman with impeccable hair and a cute figure hidden by a suave business suit appeared. She was followed by a tall man in a rumpled corporate suit of armor that gave him that slept-in look. The receptionist pointed out Storm, sitting on the overstuffed leather couch, next to a display case containing countless belt buckles, trophies and pictures from past decades of rodeos. He stood as they approached (his momma had always taught him good manners and Angie would never have forgiven him if he hadn’t—“You stand in the presence of a lady!”), the blond extended her hand and said, “Hello, I’m Dakota Taylor, head of marketing and the assistant general manager of Show, and I’m sure you’ve met Mr. Vern Nagel from the mayor’s office.”
Storm introduced himself, shook hands with Miss Taylor, and said, “No, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Nagel.”
Nagel nodded and grunted, held out his hand for Storm to take and said, “Detective Storm, Vern Nagel, assistant to the mayor.”
Storm looked quickly at Nagel’s business card: “Second assistant to Mayor Richard Lemay,” it read. He must think “assistant” sounds better than “second assistant,” Storm reckoned.
Nagel looked like he had been pulled out of his nice warm bed early that morning by the mayor, probably given the lowdown, and told to report to the rodeo offices. Storm figured he was with Miss Taylor to be the eyes and ears of the
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