THE MORNING RIVER

Chapter Two

The offices of the Pawnee Oil and Gas Exploration Company were opulently appointed and not a penny had been spared in the décor. The company occupied the twelfth through the fourteenth floors of the tallest building in the center of downtown San Antonio. Each floor was over three thousand square feet and the eleventh floor housed two cafeterias and the executive dining room, plus their corresponding gourmet kitchens. The tenth floor was comprised of the original ninth and tenth floors, in order to have the width and depth needed for the Olympic-sized lap pool, up-to-the minute exercise equipment, a sauna and steam room, a masseuse on call and a dozen soundproof cubicles for the suggested half-hour naps when needed. These small rooms were designed by experts who specialized in the rejuvenating properties of deep sleep and they had special sensors inside that could detect more than one occupant. Any employee attempting to use these “nap rooms” for anything other than rest would be immediately discharged, no excuses or pleas allowed. Soft music was piped into the pillows and the walls morphed into a mesmerizing series of pastels when the occupant stretched out on the memory foam mattress welcoming his fatigue with promises of peaceful sleep within minutes. The ultimate cosseting of the fortunate employees of PO and G was an investment that resulted in returns greater than monetary gains. Nobody ever wanted to leave the company willingly.

Tinted plate glass wrapped the outer walls in a soft hue of marine blue, in honor of the success PO and G had enjoyed with their off-shore operations. The thick carpet was custom-made in Peru of the softest mohair wool interwoven with a special polyester blend developed by two brilliant creative engineers within the R&D department. The polyester threads protected the fragile mohair but didn’t hamper the softness. The carpet itself had a sheen that seemed to change color depending upon the way light hit it; sometimes it seemed as green as grass and at other times, it had a silver shimmer, with almost a cerulean undertone.

The New York interior decorator had been trained in Paris and it took him and his staff over fifteen months to complete their five million-dollar project. None of the hallways were completely straight; they curved and twisted, forming inviting alcoves along the way, each with individual themes. There were some with wing-backed chairs and commodes, others with discreetly medium-sized leather armchairs and a handsome Italian floor lamps, and yet another with a fire-engine red swivel rocker and a white porcelain magazine rack. The bank of elevators was necessarily standard but nothing else was. Even the receptionist’s desk was a large, curved, clear glass aquarium, five feet tall and two feet deep, filled with a thriving display of rare tropical fish constantly moving languidly among the various sea plants swaying gently in the water. The three receptionists worked behind the fish tank, with only the girl in the center seated up high and visible from the other side; the other two worked the multi-line phones that never rang. Only a soft blinking green light indicated an incoming domestic call; a blue light meant an international call and a red light meant a conversation was in progress. The center girl was chosen for outstanding beauty and poise; she was the one who greeted visitors and offered them refreshments and suggested they relax in the cobalt-blue velvet chairs around the small tables, placed strategically for observing the beautiful fishes. No one ever complained about having to wait for an appointment as they sipped their imported coffee or jasmine tea or Cristal champagne from a Murano flute.

Each of the company’s floors was almost independent of the others, with separate staffs and governing boards. All international explorations were controlled from the offices on the twelfth floor; domestic operations originated from the thirteenth floor; and the CEOs and CFOs offices and their immediate staffs were housed on the fourteenth floor.

From the eleventh floor up to the fourteenth, a curving, grandiose staircase curved up through the center, connecting all the floors. There was a tacit understanding among all the employees that their employers encouraged their using the stairs, for health reasons. Elevators were available for heavy file carts and other deliveries, but were not recommended for everyday errands between floors. The inner staircase integrated the top four floors together by a living flow of good-looking achievers walking up or down the Aubusson-carpeted steps, some caressing the gilded banisters gently, the more recent hires still wearing the awe-struck expression that took about eight months to fade. Some didn’t even notice the billion-dollar collection of fine art gracing the walls until a couple of years had gone by.

Pawnee Oil and Gas Exploration’s home office in San Antonio was like a small city within a city. The company’s holdings were world-wide and their explorations, their relentless searching for more oil under the earth’s crust was unceasing and tireless. Millions and millions of dollars were at stake, and no one knew that better than the man in charge of the company: Charles Arthur Monroe, Jr.

Charlie was now fifty-six and dreaded turning sixty. He could not conceive of retirement and having nothing to do after being in control of this magnificent fire-breathing dragon that POGE had become. He had single-handedly wrestled the hesitant and the cowardly personnel out of the pipeline, those that were more interested in their retirement package than in the immediate success of ongoing exploration. He made no allowances for time served or for pensions claimed, always managing to have his legal team find the loopholes in the hiring contracts he himself had hidden there. He had made grown men weep when he informed them they were through and had no retirement coming, due to a small infringement of the rules they hadn’t even noticed when it occurred. He felt nothing when he turned his back on them and called Human Resources for another younger candidate’s interview appointment. They were always there waiting, those younger ones, ready to move in on the emptiness left by a worn-out engineer or geologist or soil expert. He had fought for every dollar the company had banked, or had spent on these offices that impressed everyone who entered, from delivery people to foreign royals. And he had achieved this level on his own, trusting no one else.

He also knew in order to keep it up and continue long past retirement age, he had to work at it.

“Loralie, connect me to the executive chef, please. . .” He held the receiver to his ear and leaned back in his leather recliner. “Thank you, honey.” He smiled, thinking of the young, centerfold-quality beauty he had hired to be one of the three receptionists down on the main floor. He sighed, thinking of her magnificent figure and her flawless complexion with those unbelievable eyelashes and thick, shiny jet black hair that fell almost to her nipples. She was invaluable for distracting clients or landowners who had a complaint. And she knew it.

“Good afternoon, Paul. Today I think I’ll have a small broiled salmon steak, one of the fresh ones please, with a little of your famous remoulade sauce on the side and a small raw vegetable salad, the one with red and yellow beets and a little feta cheese with some olive oil and lime juice dressing. . .Fine, and no, no bread, not today. A small glass of white wine and coffee ought to do it. I’ll be down shortly. . . Thank you.”

He hung up and after using the elegant washroom adjacent to his office, he picked up the telephone again and punched the button for an outside line.

“Hi, Margie. What’s going on?” He listened, nodding patiently, scribbling on an open file as he muttered affirmative responses to his jabbering wife. “Well, we told her what would happen if she continued to see that creep. . .No, I don’t think there’s any way in hell I’m going to change my mind. The kid’s old man is a loser and he’s just a chip off the old block. . .never fails. Tell you what. If she gives you any more lip, tell her I’ll cut off her monthly allowance and sell her BMW in a New York minute. That’s it. And I’ll probably be late tonight. No, not ‘probably.’ Will be. Don’t wait up.”

He slammed down the receiver, closed the file and buttoned his jacket as he walked purposefully out of his beautiful office, on his way to lunch then a hard mile swim and after that, he knew his regular massage would loosen the knots tightening up in the back of his neck.

Charlie smiled and nodded to many admiring glances as he made his way down the stairs, the elegant stairway he had insisted on against the opinions of the decorator and his fancy staff. He reached the thirteenth floor and glanced at the brilliant fishes in the tank, which never failed to intrigue him. Glancing up, he caught Loralie’s eye and returned her smile plus a slight wave of his hand. He noticed the flush that crept up her cheeks and before he could dare to wonder why, he had headed down to the eleventh floor and the dining rooms and the executive club room, which he wasn’t going to visit this particular day. At the next landing, he strode toward the double walnut paneled doors with the discreet gold leaf lettering above, reading “Executive Dining Room”. As he entered, Henley, the Englishman who had been the company’s headwaiter as long as Charlie could remember, approached him with his usual welcoming smile.

“Good afternoon, Mister Monroe. Your table is ready, sir.” He led the way to a large mahogany table at the back of the dining room, which held only five other tables.

“Thanks, Henley.” Charlie sat down and put the pale mauve linen napkin in his lap as Henley poured his water, then offered the bottle of sauvignon blanc. “That’s fine, I like that vineyard. Did I ever tell you Margie and I visited there when we were in France several years ago? Beautiful place. Quiet and remote. I told her I thought the wine was great because it was so rested when it finally reached my mouth.”

Henley laughed respectfully and bowed slightly as he backed away. “I’ll have your fish for you in a few minutes, sir. Would you care for a cup of soup today?

“I hadn’t planned on it but what’s our chef cooked up this spring day?”

“A marvelous cream of artichoke and chestnut, sir. Most savory. A family recipe, I do believe.”

“All right. You’ve sold me, you smooth-talker. But just a cup, not a bowl. I’ve started developing an extra roll around my middle that isn’t the muscle I had hoped it was. . .” Charlie smiled and sipped his wine, thinking about Loralie upstairs and her gorgeous long legs. He wondered if she ever enjoyed the pool or the gym. He’d surely love to see her in spandex. Just to look at, he told himself.

The soup was a gastronomic delight, soft on the tongue with a slight peppery bite in the throat after swallowing. It was perfect for readying the stomach for a main course and by the time Henley served his salad and salmon, Charlie was confident he would remain vital and decisive forever. He finished his meal feeling sated but not stuffed and folded his napkin into a long cylinder, placing it to the left of his empty plate. He felt very content as he pushed his chair back and stood up.

Lucien Wilson, CEO of the European exploration teams, entered the dining room and nodded in Charlie’s direction as he sat down at one of the other tables. As Henley poured Wilson’s water and made luncheon suggestions, Charlie slipped out and made his way down to the lower floor, where he coded in the numbers opening the paneled door into his private dressing room, located between the pool and the fitness room where the free weights and treadmills and other machines were waiting. He loosened his Countess Mara tie and hung it on the tie hook, then took off his Hickey Freeman vanilla-colored dupioni silk suit and hung it in the clothes locker, which had a door in the back of it that opened from the other side. Then he changed into his navy blue fleece workout suit, and draped a snow white bath towel around his neck. The embroidered monogram on the towel in gold thread had the initials of the company logo, POGE, and his initials, CAM interlocked together, which had been his idea. While Charlie worked out, the valet always removed his suit from the other side and brushed it thoroughly and pressed it with a steam iron so he was presentable after his exercise. His dress shirt went into a hamper and in one of the drawers under the locker was a selection of new shirts, underwear and socks. He usually wore the same tie after his workout but there were three or four hanging from a tie rack inside the suit closet if he chose to make a change for the rest of the day.

He tied on his Nikes and left his white Givenchy spectator dress shoes in the bottom of the locker for buffing along with his cream and black patterned silk hose. He enjoyed this part of his privileged life very much, especially not having to carry any identification or money to his workout, or any car keys, either. After all, it was HIS fitness center, HIS pool, HIS private dressing room, HIS whole damned building! He felt slightly guilty and smug as he made his way to the treadmills and free weights. He was a lucky man and he had worked hard to get that way.

He hung his jacket on a wall hook and stepped up on a treadmill, which stood in a line of other machines, between an elliptical trainer and a recumbent bike. Another treadmill was on the other side of the room along with a stair climber and a Pilates machine. He started up the treadmill and lowered his head as if he were a bull preparing to charge a matador. He was determined to beat his last time and increase his speed as well. He usually exercised after lunch but the office and home pressures on this day had reversed his schedule – he didn’t want to eat late when by then he was so damned hungry he didn’t care what went down his throat. He liked to think his flexing muscles kept the food intake from changing into stored fat if he could greet it with strenuous reps on its way to his middle.

He was alone in the room, which he liked. He could let his mind free-fall and search for any loose ends he needed to pull up tight. One was the hunt for gas and oil deposits in Asia and Japan, as well as in Australia and a few parts of Ethiopia, although the latter was almost impossible to access thoroughly, as were other parts of Africa. One of his best geologists had taken a crew of twelve into the dark continent two years earlier and after gradually diminishing short wave contact, they had all vanished from the face of the earth. Dire messages from eye-witnesses filtered down from that turbulent continent and Charlie deeply regretted the loss of one of his top men – not the loss of his life, but of his usefulness to the company. That is the way Charlie had to think, or he wouldn’t have reached this level of his idea of success.

The experts he sent to Australia were actually scheduled for a secret exploratory side trip into Antarctica, where it was suspected millions of gallons of oil lay waiting to be pumped out, right into the pockets of the shareholders of Pawnee stock. The ice pack was a problem, of course, but was nothing more than another challenge for Charlie. He had some new stats for that bunch and needed to get them wired out as soon as possible. . .

“Oh. Hi, Mister Monroe! I hope I’m not. . .not bothering your exercise routine, sir. . .”

“Wha. . .? Oh, hi, Loralie! No,no, you’re not. . .not interfering with my routine at all. . .I’m about ready to head for the pool anyway. . .didn’t have time today for a full routine. . .”

“I know how that is!” She climbed up on the elliptical trainer and began to pump her arms and rise up and down with the motion of her legs as her long hair, now in a pony tail, swung merrily back and forth like it had a mind of its own. “No wonder you’re in such good shape for a. . .for such a busy man. . .”

Charlie laughed aloud. “You started to say, ‘for such an old man’, now didn’t you?”

The girl had the grace to duck her head with embarrassment. “No, not really, and you are in good shape, sir.”

“Please call me Charlie, at least when we’re here in the gym and nobody’s around. . .”

“Okay, Charlie, I’ll do that and thank you. As I was saying, you are in great shape.”

“Mmm. I’ll take that as a compliment, darlin’.” He stepped off the treadmill and began to wipe the perspiration from his face and arms. “You’re not so bad yourself, young lady!” He made no effort to hide his visual inspection of her voluptuous body as she bounced vigorously on the machine. She had on a skin-tight pair of electric blue spandex tights with a sky-blue sports bra that left her slender midriff exposed from just below her waist up to right under her full breasts. Her pony tail was cinched with a matching blue elastic band and her fuschia-painted lips were slightly parted as she worked those long legs at an admirable pace. Charlie hated himself for mentally picturing Margie in a similar outfit with her fifty-four-year old skin and sagging breasts and thick waist and turkey neck. She enjoyed the gustatory pleasures afforded her by the “good life” he had earned for the both of them but her indulgences were taking their toll on her looks. He shook his head for a second, as if to erase the image that reminded him of his own age, like the blare of a trumpet.

“Well, ah, I think I’ll have a quick swim before I put my nose back on the grindstone. . .join me, if you want to. . .” Charlie turned swiftly and re-entered his dressing room, switching his mind into neutral gear as he pulled on his swimsuit. He wouldn’t let himself think of anything, not the possible repercussions if she did join him in the pool, or the disappointment and rejection if she didn’t.

The heated pool was twenty-five meters long, which was seventy-five feet. Charlie had been on the swim team when he was an undergraduate at Texas University and still loved the water, still had that smooth stroke that had won him awards. He kept his mind on his lap count and concentrated on feeling how his shoulders loosened up and how his legs loved churning in the bubbles and how he could still take four strokes before grabbing air. At the mid-point of his tenth lap, he made a racing turn and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another swimmer in the adjacent lane. He paused and hesitated, dog paddling in place. It was Loralie.

She switched from the crawl to the backstroke, rolling over in the blue water, swimming away from Charlie, but not very rapidly. She was wearing a black shiny bikini, with the bottom part not much bigger than one of those triangular corn chips and the bra top barely containing her firm, bouncing breasts, which strained to get out of their confining strip of cloth. Charlie followed her in his lane, but slowed his breaststroke so he wouldn’t pass her up, telling himself he didn’t want to intimidate her. She reached the far end and turned to face him, beaming one of her electric smiles with her wet pony tail dripping on her shoulder.

“This pool, oh I love it, Charlie! I really do. This is the greatest place to work!”

“I’m glad you like it, Loralie. . .I wanted only the best working environment for the very best employees. . .like yourself. I do appreciate your knack for making our visitors comfortable and when they have to wait, they are never angry or impatient. . .”

She smiled softly and looked directly into Charlie’s eyes, now on a level with her own. “Thank you, sir, for noticing. I do try to do the best I can. For the company, I mean.”

Charlie didn’t say anything for a few beats. He instinctively knew he, or they, were at a crossroads of sorts. It could go either way here. A red flag in his brain signaled a warning and he inhaled deeply and ran options across his mind’s video screen. Some givens were silently screaming at him, the loudest being the common knowledge that in-office affairs were never a good idea. Another was he could start something with this adorable young woman at any time, but once started, he might have hell to pay before he could get out of it. And another conviction was about the money the sharp temptress might demand if she wanted to dabble in extortion and he could not afford the scandal nor the financial loss. Not with his political aspirations on the back burner.

He took another deep breath and smiled warmly at the nubile and luscious piece of ass he was going to turn down. “Well, little darlin’, I’m headed back to the fray. Lots of big rats to kill ’fore dark. Take your time and enjoy the pool. See you back up top. . ”

Without another word, Charlie climbed out of the pool and headed for his dressing room, deciding to opt for only a hot shower and no massage. Actually, he thought to himself with a wry grin, topping it off with a cold shower might not be a bad idea. God, she was a hot tamale. Nice material for his fantasies, at least.

Hanging on to the edge of the pool, Loralie Simmons squeezed the excess water out of her pony tail. Her gorgeous eyes watched Charlie’s retreating back. Her own inner voice responded to his initial rejection. “. . .I’ll get you sooner or later, little darlin’ yourself, Mister Big Shot. You jus’ wait an’ see. You gonna be my own little Sugah Daddy Meal Ticket and you won’t know what hit you. . .”

She pushed her feet against the side of the pool, launching herself off in a slow, gentle back-float, keeping herself moving with intermittent motions of her hands at her sides, which made figure-eights just under the surface of the water. The warm water framed her heart-shaped face like a helmet and she couldn’t stop smiling, thinking of the beginning of a possible “situation,” one that she intended to nurture and protect, until she had milked it for all she could get out of it. This was the reason she had gone to work for P.O.G.E. in the first place. To find a well-heeled executive, married or not, she didn’t care, but one that could afford to give her the kind of life she deserved while she was young enough not only to enjoy it but also to keep his attention and his love. . .no, his lust focused in her direction.

Lorelie didn’t believe in married love lasting forever. Her life-experience had shown her different versions of “love” and as far as she knew, she had more of the assets most men seemed to look for at every age than any other 20-ish-year-old she’d ever met. She was voluptuous, she was meticulously groomed at all times, she was gracious and polite, the perfect hostess, and she was willing to be as faithful as she had to be to keep the right man very, very happy. There was a lot she would do for beautiful clothes and an elegant place to live – and therefore a lot she would do for the man that made her dreams come true.

She rolled over on her stomach and began to move in a slow breast stroke, holding her face in the water just at nose level. She wouldn’t ask much of her perfect lover, not any more than anyone would expect to give for someone like herself. Lorelie was tired of being on the receiving end of bad breaks and had learned the only way out of that “runner-up” place was to fight like hell and come in first. She had learned one had to make the breaks happen, they didn’t just appear over the next hill! So now she seemed to have attracted Charlie’s interest as well as a couple of the other executives. But Charlie Munroe was the Top Dog around here and reeked of success and animal magnetism. She wondered what he’d be like in bed. Well, if he weren’t knowledgeable, she could show him some tricks, but very tactfully. Men were so sensitive about their egos getting bruised. She’s always been on the lookout for the Red Flags indicating a lapse in their self-confidence – or their pride. Little boys, that’s what they were, most of ’em. Little boys.

She edged to the side of the pool and grasped the edge of the tile gutter running around the inner edge. Stretching her arms out, she lay on the surface of the water and exercised her legs, pumping rapidly with determination. Never for one minute did she rely on the fantasy of her stunning looks staying around forever. Or even much longer after her twenties. She was well versed in the problems of women with the battle of the bulge and the war against gravity. She worked at her looks and was convinced it was worth the trouble. She ate healthily as much as possible, did not smoke knowing what nicotine did to the teeth and wrinkling skin, she constantly slathered herself in moisturizers and lotions, and she was as strict as possible about getting enough sleep. Her maintenance habits had been her number one priority for several years and were simply a part of her Master Plan. She had to be on her toes and always at her best, living under the Boy Scout’s Motto: Be Prepared. She never knew when Mister Right would pull into view. She hoped it would be Charlie, and pretty soon. She was a lonely princess and her ivory tower was of her own making, while she waited for her prince. She grinned as she got out of the pool and dried off with a white bath sheet she pulled from the stack on the slatted bench. She enjoyed her allegorical metaphor, and realized she had thought of P.O.G.E. as the ‘castle’ she should ‘storm’, for a long time. Must be due to so many smarmy fairy tales when she was an impressive youngster, growing up under the guidance of her loving grandmother – and perhaps her grandmother had been a bit too caught up in romanticism.

Lorelie pulled the band from her pony tail and wrapped her head in the towel as she walked into the ladies’ locker room. In less than ten minutes, she was dressed in her business suit again, her wet suit rolled up in her carry-all and her make-up replaced expertly. She hurried to her post on the receptionist’ desk and looked forward to the afternoon, always expecting something exciting and wonderful to happen, which had a lot to do with the high color flushing her soft cheeks.