handling of hazardous waste. A handwritten note attached to the file copy said that the decision to move to Mexico had been made with Justin Sinclair’s full support.
“So that’s how we wound up being a—what the hell is that word, Edward?”
“Maquiladora. It’s time for you to remember it.”
“You know what that word means, Strider?” Arthur challenged.
What a condescending bastard. “It originally referred to plants along the U.S.-Mexico border that assembled products for companies based in other countries. Now it includes operations like yours that provide mostly services.” He couldn’t resist adding, “By the way, most people call them maquilas.”
Arthur shrugged that off. “Anyway, Montana located an 800-acre site on the outskirts of Juarez, across the Rio Grande from El Paso. We bought the site from PEMEX, the giant Mexican oil company, along with a dozen warehouses and the tanks they used to store oil. Montana greased the deal through the bureaucrats, all the way to the top.” He took another drink. “Then we invested millions in equipping the plant to treat the most toxic waste known to man. Montana even got a special water line run from the city to the plant site. That’s why I take good care of Montana. I reward people who get things done no matter what it takes. That’s also why four hundred union pricks who used to work for us are now playing pinochle all day out in Concord.” He lifted his glass in a mocking toast.
Four hundred fired. Wonder if the people who pushed passage of NAFTA saw that coming?
“For quite a while, things were fine,” Edward said. “Suddenly we’re being hassled, just like with the unions, except this time we’re buried in citations.”
“What we have is a sweet deal we’re damn sure going to protect,” Arthur broke in. “Profits are piling up faster than we can get to the bank. And that, dear brother, is what it’s all about.”
Edward struggled to his feet. Light from the chandelier outlined tension lines around his eyes. “We make money, sure, but Montana swore we’d have no problems in Mexico. Now the government is trying to shut us down. How much money will we make if that happens?”
“Calm down, Edward,” Sinclair cut in. “I think it’s time to get some input from the front lines. I’ll tell Mrs. Pounders to set up Montana for a video conference on that monitor in the corner.”
Within three minutes, Jack was looking at Tom Montana on a 30-inch screen. The man was leaning back in a leather chair, one elbow hooked over its back. He had the air of a minor movie star—deep set eyes, thick eyebrows, sleek black hair swept back without a part. His unlined face gave no clue to his age.
He’d obviously adapted to his Mexican environment. He wore a guayabera shirt designed not to be tucked in, white with yellow stallions embroidered on it, and unbuttoned half way down his bare chest.
Without a greeting, Arthur took control. “For God’s sake, tell Edward there is nothing to worry about down there.”
“Just a few bureaucratic flunkies jerking us around,” Montana said. “I’ve told you that the people at the top know the Mexican economy lives or dies on the money maquilas bring in. I’ll take care of this.”
“You always say that,” Edward said. “But when I ask you questions, you give me the shortest answer you can get away with.” He grumbled under his breath, “I want our company back.”
“Relax,” Arthur said. “Tom keeps me posted on everything.”
Edward’s round face flushed. “That’s what I’m saying. You’ve cut me out of the loop.”
“I’m sure there’s no conspiracy here.” Sinclair projected his calm voice between them. “Tom, Jack Strider is here with us. He’s familiar with Palmer Industries’ business, and he’ll be in our Mexico City office to work with me on this problem. Jack, do you have any questions for Tom?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Sinclair watching him with
“So that’s how we wound up being a—what the hell is that word, Edward?”
“Maquiladora. It’s time for you to remember it.”
“You know what that word means, Strider?” Arthur challenged.
What a condescending bastard. “It originally referred to plants along the U.S.-Mexico border that assembled products for companies based in other countries. Now it includes operations like yours that provide mostly services.” He couldn’t resist adding, “By the way, most people call them maquilas.”
Arthur shrugged that off. “Anyway, Montana located an 800-acre site on the outskirts of Juarez, across the Rio Grande from El Paso. We bought the site from PEMEX, the giant Mexican oil company, along with a dozen warehouses and the tanks they used to store oil. Montana greased the deal through the bureaucrats, all the way to the top.” He took another drink. “Then we invested millions in equipping the plant to treat the most toxic waste known to man. Montana even got a special water line run from the city to the plant site. That’s why I take good care of Montana. I reward people who get things done no matter what it takes. That’s also why four hundred union pricks who used to work for us are now playing pinochle all day out in Concord.” He lifted his glass in a mocking toast.
Four hundred fired. Wonder if the people who pushed passage of NAFTA saw that coming?
“For quite a while, things were fine,” Edward said. “Suddenly we’re being hassled, just like with the unions, except this time we’re buried in citations.”
“What we have is a sweet deal we’re damn sure going to protect,” Arthur broke in. “Profits are piling up faster than we can get to the bank. And that, dear brother, is what it’s all about.”
Edward struggled to his feet. Light from the chandelier outlined tension lines around his eyes. “We make money, sure, but Montana swore we’d have no problems in Mexico. Now the government is trying to shut us down. How much money will we make if that happens?”
“Calm down, Edward,” Sinclair cut in. “I think it’s time to get some input from the front lines. I’ll tell Mrs. Pounders to set up Montana for a video conference on that monitor in the corner.”
Within three minutes, Jack was looking at Tom Montana on a 30-inch screen. The man was leaning back in a leather chair, one elbow hooked over its back. He had the air of a minor movie star—deep set eyes, thick eyebrows, sleek black hair swept back without a part. His unlined face gave no clue to his age.
He’d obviously adapted to his Mexican environment. He wore a guayabera shirt designed not to be tucked in, white with yellow stallions embroidered on it, and unbuttoned half way down his bare chest.
Without a greeting, Arthur took control. “For God’s sake, tell Edward there is nothing to worry about down there.”
“Just a few bureaucratic flunkies jerking us around,” Montana said. “I’ve told you that the people at the top know the Mexican economy lives or dies on the money maquilas bring in. I’ll take care of this.”
“You always say that,” Edward said. “But when I ask you questions, you give me the shortest answer you can get away with.” He grumbled under his breath, “I want our company back.”
“Relax,” Arthur said. “Tom keeps me posted on everything.”
Edward’s round face flushed. “That’s what I’m saying. You’ve cut me out of the loop.”
“I’m sure there’s no conspiracy here.” Sinclair projected his calm voice between them. “Tom, Jack Strider is here with us. He’s familiar with Palmer Industries’ business, and he’ll be in our Mexico City office to work with me on this problem. Jack, do you have any questions for Tom?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack caught Sinclair watching him with
Similar Books
