Read Online Call Me Joe by Steven J Patrick - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Steven J Patrick
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I feel pretty good about this one. I went into this deal in Florida, once, that looked good on paper, but I was young and green and didn't ask the right questions. Turned out, what the proposal didn't mention was that the construction first involved draining 112 acres of prime wetland wildlife habitat. A few state legislators and department of interior types got paid to look the other way, and we started destroying this land before I got wind of it. I took a bath to the tune of about 10 mil."
"This time, I feel like we've been careful and respectful of the land. I can sell this thing, if I can just get the word out."
"Well," I yawned. "My immediate answer is to drive up there and start asking some nosy questions."
"Tru is big on the elegant approaches," Art smiled, a bit painfully.
"So am I," Jack nodded, pounding his fist softly on the corner of Art's desk. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment. "Mind if I ride along?"
"Umm…no," I shrugged. "To do…what, exactly?"
"Well, most of all, it'll make asking your nosy questions a lot easier if I'm with you."
"Might," I agreed.
"After all," Jack murmured, "P.P.V.'s on-site guy might just tell you to take a hike."
"I'm sorta hard to remove," I smiled.
"He is that," Art signed.
"Me, however," Jack continued, "why, I own the place. He tries to shoo me off, I waive the partnership agreement at him and tell him to call London."
"Works for me," I grinned, "but I'm driving."
"You sure as hell are," Jack yawned. "I got up at 3:45 this morning."
Seven
"We all refer to this thing as being 'north of Colville. Actually, it's not. You have to drive about five miles west of Colville, cross a bridge over the Columbia, and then go south about two miles. You end up south of Colville, then you swing west on Route 20 about four miles. It sits on the line between the Colville Indian Reservation and what everybody refers to as the Colville National Forest. It's kinda the way people say 'New York' when what they're talking about is Manhattan," Jack explained, as we headed north out of Spokane with a packet of maps, motel reservations, and carryout from what Art erroneously described as 'a killer barbecue joint.'
"Colville and Manhattan," I sighed. "Never keep 'em straight."
"This barbecue sucks," Jack observed, through a doughy mouthful, "and the hush puppies don't have any onion."
"Welcome to the Pacific Northwest." I shrugged.
"Aren't you a Carolina guy?" Jack asked. "Must drive you buggy not getting enough barbecue."
"I go back home twice a year and bring some back on dry ice," I smiled. "Lasts about six weeks, if I exercise amazing self-control. Which I do, because believe me—ain't much sadder than what Northwesterners call, 'southern cooking.'"
"Guess I better rethink ordering crab cakes then, huh?" Jack groaned.
"Unless you're on the other side of the state," I smiled. "You come over sometime, we'll go up to Dungeness Bay. That'll light you right up."
"Deal," Jack nodded. "God, what amazing country."
We were hurtling down a small valley between two tallish hills which would, I remembered, be mountains back in Maryland.
I thought of how I had seen Washington when I first came out: A still-wild, majestic, slightly overwhelming place with such a profligate wealth of national wonders that it was like a visit to Brigadoon. I felt sorry to have lost that and a little envious of Jack's new eyes.
"I remember when I first came out here," I said quietly. "I half expected elves to pop out of every shady patch. I was born in the mountains—the Alleghenies in Virginia. So it seemed familiar, in a way, only…more so. A heck of a lot more so."
The land unspooled along side us, miles and miles of mostly unbroken forest. Tall, sky-scrubbing pines and native oaks stood guard over birch and maple and fat bristling cedars, which sheltered the laurel, scotch broom, and the
"This time, I feel like we've been careful and respectful of the land. I can sell this thing, if I can just get the word out."
"Well," I yawned. "My immediate answer is to drive up there and start asking some nosy questions."
"Tru is big on the elegant approaches," Art smiled, a bit painfully.
"So am I," Jack nodded, pounding his fist softly on the corner of Art's desk. He chewed at his lower lip for a moment. "Mind if I ride along?"
"Umm…no," I shrugged. "To do…what, exactly?"
"Well, most of all, it'll make asking your nosy questions a lot easier if I'm with you."
"Might," I agreed.
"After all," Jack murmured, "P.P.V.'s on-site guy might just tell you to take a hike."
"I'm sorta hard to remove," I smiled.
"He is that," Art signed.
"Me, however," Jack continued, "why, I own the place. He tries to shoo me off, I waive the partnership agreement at him and tell him to call London."
"Works for me," I grinned, "but I'm driving."
"You sure as hell are," Jack yawned. "I got up at 3:45 this morning."
Seven
"We all refer to this thing as being 'north of Colville. Actually, it's not. You have to drive about five miles west of Colville, cross a bridge over the Columbia, and then go south about two miles. You end up south of Colville, then you swing west on Route 20 about four miles. It sits on the line between the Colville Indian Reservation and what everybody refers to as the Colville National Forest. It's kinda the way people say 'New York' when what they're talking about is Manhattan," Jack explained, as we headed north out of Spokane with a packet of maps, motel reservations, and carryout from what Art erroneously described as 'a killer barbecue joint.'
"Colville and Manhattan," I sighed. "Never keep 'em straight."
"This barbecue sucks," Jack observed, through a doughy mouthful, "and the hush puppies don't have any onion."
"Welcome to the Pacific Northwest." I shrugged.
"Aren't you a Carolina guy?" Jack asked. "Must drive you buggy not getting enough barbecue."
"I go back home twice a year and bring some back on dry ice," I smiled. "Lasts about six weeks, if I exercise amazing self-control. Which I do, because believe me—ain't much sadder than what Northwesterners call, 'southern cooking.'"
"Guess I better rethink ordering crab cakes then, huh?" Jack groaned.
"Unless you're on the other side of the state," I smiled. "You come over sometime, we'll go up to Dungeness Bay. That'll light you right up."
"Deal," Jack nodded. "God, what amazing country."
We were hurtling down a small valley between two tallish hills which would, I remembered, be mountains back in Maryland.
I thought of how I had seen Washington when I first came out: A still-wild, majestic, slightly overwhelming place with such a profligate wealth of national wonders that it was like a visit to Brigadoon. I felt sorry to have lost that and a little envious of Jack's new eyes.
"I remember when I first came out here," I said quietly. "I half expected elves to pop out of every shady patch. I was born in the mountains—the Alleghenies in Virginia. So it seemed familiar, in a way, only…more so. A heck of a lot more so."
The land unspooled along side us, miles and miles of mostly unbroken forest. Tall, sky-scrubbing pines and native oaks stood guard over birch and maple and fat bristling cedars, which sheltered the laurel, scotch broom, and the
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