Angels & Imperfections Read online

  Chapter 2

   

  Spring time in East Texas, is often spectacular. This was one of those years, with the last of the redbuds just beginning to fade as the dogwoods came into full bloom. The air was fragrant, with azaleas and wisteria bursting with brightly colored blossoms. I decided to eat lunch outside.

  The phone rang.

  “Tucker Investigation, John speaking,”

  “Mr. Tucker, please.”

  “Speaking

  “Are you John Wesley Tucker, the detective?”

  “I am. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

  “I’m Walter Farley, Mr. Simpson’s personal assistant. Please hold.”

  That was odd.

  “Tucker, are you there?” a demanding voice boomed.

  “Yes, sir, how may I help you?”

  “I’m Ted Simpson, Simpson Oil and Gas, maybe you’ve heard of us.”

  “Yes, sir, I believe your offices are downtown, on the square. How may I help you, Mr. Simpson?”

  “Can you come down here? I need to talk to you, privately. I’ll buy you lunch.”

  “Let me check with my secretary to see if I have any conflicts. Please hold.”

  I punched the “hold” button.

  Tucker Investigations didn’t have a secretary, yet, and I didn’t have another appointment until three o’clock that afternoon. I just thought it would be fun to pretend. After all, turnabout is fair play.

  I took him off hold.

  “Mr. Simpson. It appears I can meet you for lunch. Where would you like to meet?”

  “Come on down here, to the Simpson building. We’ll talk first and then we’ll eat.”

  He hung up.

   

  The Simpson building was twelve stories of dark tinted glass, on the west side of the square, in downtown Tyler. Usually, it would only take me about ten minutes to get there. At lunch time, that driving time could nearly double. The lunch hour always causes a great migration. The downtown square is a popular destination for the hungry herd. There are some very good watering holes and grazing establishments on the square.

   

  Because every parking space, anywhere near the square, was occupied, I had to park in the Episcopal Church parking lot, three blocks away.

  I figured Mr. Simpson’s office would be on the top floor of the Simpson Building, and so it was. I stepped off the elevator directly into a richly appointed reception area. A stunningly beautiful receptionist with flaming red hair was seated behind a massive lacquered walnut desk. She smiled as I approached.

  “I’m John Wesley Tucker. I’m here to see Mr. Simpson.”

  “I believe he’s expecting you, Mr. Tucker. Please have a seat.”

  She stood up from behind the desk and headed down the hall. I watched her go.

  I barely had a minute to grab a business card off her desk, appreciate the tasteful décor and scan the covers of the glossy oil and gas industry magazines, before she returned.

  “He’ll see you in just a moment.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said, with a smile.

  I sat down in a giant arm chair, upholstered in black and white speckled cowhide, with big brass nail head trim. After a moment, a man appeared at the end of the hall. He looked to be in his early thirties. He stood about five nine and weighed about a buck eighty. He was wearing black pants below an open neck, black polo shirt. He was in no big hurry, and stopped to speak to someone in another office as he approached.

  “Mr. Tucker, I’m Walter Farley. I’m Mr. Simpson’s personal assistant. We spoke on the phone.”

  We shook hands.

  “I’ll show you to his office.”

   

  Ted Simpson’s personal workspace was a corner office with a spectacular view of Tyler. I was reminded immediately of why I love this city so much. The view suggested a forest with the occasional church steeple rising through it. In some places though, the bank buildings were taller than the steeples.

  As we came in, Mr. Simpson was coming around his desk to meet us. He was about six feet tall, a little on the heavy side, with salt and pepper hair, neatly trimmed. He wore an expensive dark grey suit, over a pale blue shirt with a white collar and a tie of deep blue silk. He had on black tasseled loafers. He looked ready to pose for Forbes or Gentleman’s Quarterly.

  “Ted, this is John Wesley Tucker. Mr. Tucker this is Ted Simpson.” Walter introduced me, as if he knew me personally. I shook hands with Mr. Simpson and he directed me to have a seat in front of his desk.

  Walter asked if I would like coffee, which I declined.

  “I know you’re wondering why I wanted to meet with you,” Mr. Simpson started.

  Actually, I was wondering if Walter was going to stay for the “private” meeting.

  He was.

  “I have a situation that requires some delicacy. I understand you can be trusted, and you get the job done.” Mr. Simpson said.

  “May I ask who recommended me, to you?”

  He looked at Walter.

  “Let’s just say that you have a reputation,” Walter said.

  “I would prefer to think I have references or referrals.”

  “Whatever, let’s get down to brass tacks,” Mr. Simpson said.

   

  The upshot of it all was Ted Simpson was planning to run for state office. He wanted me to do a simple investigation, to see if I could find any dirt, or potentially embarrassing incident from his past, which his enemies could use against him. It didn’t mean there actually was dirt, but it did mean they wanted an independent investigator to take a look. This was a fairly routine and sensible practice. It was certain his opponents would conduct their own investigations.

  “My fee structure is simple, Mr. Simpson. I charge $450.00 per day, plus expenses. My day rate does not imply that I will spend all day, every day, on your case. I have other clients. I will provide you with a written account of my efforts and findings. I will also invoice you and provide receipts for the expenses.”

  “No, I don’t need any written records. Walter will give you $5,000.00 as a retainer. That should cover one week’s worth of work and expenses. I probably won’t see you again, after today. Walter will check in with you from time to time, you can let him know your progress. Do we have a deal?”

  I hesitated. Aside from his aggressive approach, there was something about all of this that rubbed me the wrong way.

  “Mr. Simpson, how should I say this…there might be something that comes up, which you and I need to discuss. That discussion might not need to include your personal assistant. No offense, Walter.”

  Walter looked sort of surprised.

  I saw the wheels turning in Mr. Simpson’s head.

  “Yeah, well I don’t anticipate that happening. But in case it does, Walter will give you my private number. Don’t call me unless it’s damned important. Now then, is it a deal or no deal?” He held out his hand.

  I shook it.

  “Good. Let’s get some lunch,” Mr. Simpson said.

  To my surprise, we walked right across the hall, to another corner room with a spectacular view of the city. This space was appointed as a banquet area. There were buffet tables with a variety of delicacies from breads to meats, side dishes, even desserts.  The dining table had a sparkling white table cloth with an elaborate, low, arrangement of fresh flowers. There were crystal goblets, wine glasses, and silverware, even linen napkins.

  “Grab you a plate, Mr. Tucker. James will be here in a moment to get your drink order. I’d try that blackened prime rib, if I was you.”

  We enjoyed a delightful lunch. We were joined by a couple of other Simpson Oil and Gas employees, to whom I was introduced simply as, Mr. Tucker. I was pretty much ignored, as the conversation shifted from business trivialities to current NFL football highlights. Evidently, Mr. Simpson was a Dallas Cowboys fan.

   

  After lunch, Walter took me to his office, where he handed me a large manila envelope, wi
th $5,000.00 in cash in it. It held fifty, one hundred dollar bills, bundled into five stacks, with ten bills in each stack, the very definition of a tidy sum. He also handed me a business card for Simpson Oil and Gas, with no personalized name on it. Two phone numbers were hand printed on the back.

  “The top number is my personal cell phone. The bottom number is Mr. Simpson’s private line. Don’t call him, unless I tell you that you can.”

  I figured I would make my own decisions about who I called and when.

  He walked me to the elevator.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Tucker, keep me informed. I’ll be seeing you.” He walked away.

  As the elevator doors were closing, I looked over at the receptionist.

  She gave me a dazzling smile.