someone in the doorway, and he looked up with a start.
“Are you here for the funeral tomorrow?” a man asked in place of a greeting.
Joe pushed back awkwardly from the desk because one of the rollers on the chair was damaged, and stumbled when he stood up. The man in the doorway was tall and thin with light blue eyes, sandy hair, and a pallor that came from working indoors in an office. He wore a tweed jacket over a turtleneck, and Wrangler jeans so new they were still stiff. The trendy hiking boots that poked out from his jeans looked like they had been taken out of the box only a few hours before.
Joe introduced himself and held out his hand. The man shook it languidly, and pulled his hand away quickly.
“Should I know you?” Joe asked.
“I would think so,” the man said. “I’m Assistant Director Randy Pope. From headquarters in Cheyenne. You were supposed to be here Monday night.”
Joe certainly recognized the name, even though he had never met Pope personally. Randy Pope was in charge of fiscal matters for the agency. Most of the memos that crossed Joe’s desk concerning procedure, the wage and salary freeze, the abuse of overtime and comp time, the unaccountability of game wardens in the field, had been issued by Randy Pope.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pope,” Joe said, trying to sound friendly. “I’m late because I was helping Trey Crump out with a problem bear.”
“The director is out of the state at a conference,” Pope said, disregarding Joe’s explanation. “He asked me to come to the funeral on behalf of the agency.”
That explains your getup, Joe thought. This is how you think people dress in Jackson.
“You probably know I’m here to fill in,” Joe said, feeling the need to explain why he was behind the desk in Will Jensen’s old office.
Pope shifted his eyes from Joe to something over and to the right of Joe’s head. “I heard about that,” he said flatly.
Clearly, Joe thought, Pope didn’t approve of the arrangement. “We expected you earlier this week.”
Joe patiently explained the hunt for the bear, saying he didn’t know if the dispatcher forgot to forward the message or whoever got it didn’t inform the office. Pope didn’t seem to accept the excuse.
Joe had heard through Trey and others that Randy Pope desperately wanted to be named the next director. The current director was rumored to be short for the world, thanks to the pending gubernatorial election, and an opening would be likely. Directors were chosen at the discretion of the governor and the Game and Fish Commission, and historically had come from within the department, from the ranks of game wardens or biologists. To Joe’s knowledge, there’d never been a director who came from the administrative side of the agency, the side that issued memos. Yet it was said that Pope had done his best to ingratiate himself with both gubernatorial candidates, as well as with the legislators who oversaw the department. He positioned himself as a man who was both within and without; a fiscally responsible insider who would curb rampant financial abuses as well as rein in the cowboys in the field. Joe had no doubt he was considered one of the cowboys.
Pope said, “Joe, do you realize what kind of trouble our agency is in these days?”
The question was out of left field, Joe thought. He shook his head.
“We’re running deficits, bleeding red. We’re being asked to take on more and more responsibilities by the state and the Feds, but our income streams are drying up.”
This was no secret to Joe. Salaries had been capped and positions cut statewide.
“There are fewer hunters out there every year, Joe. It’s no longer socially acceptable in many parts of the country to be a hunter. That means fewer hunting licenses are being purchased every year, which means less money for the agency to manage wildlife and everything else that has been thrown to us by the Feds—wolves, grizzly bears, endangered species . . .
“Are you here for the funeral tomorrow?” a man asked in place of a greeting.
Joe pushed back awkwardly from the desk because one of the rollers on the chair was damaged, and stumbled when he stood up. The man in the doorway was tall and thin with light blue eyes, sandy hair, and a pallor that came from working indoors in an office. He wore a tweed jacket over a turtleneck, and Wrangler jeans so new they were still stiff. The trendy hiking boots that poked out from his jeans looked like they had been taken out of the box only a few hours before.
Joe introduced himself and held out his hand. The man shook it languidly, and pulled his hand away quickly.
“Should I know you?” Joe asked.
“I would think so,” the man said. “I’m Assistant Director Randy Pope. From headquarters in Cheyenne. You were supposed to be here Monday night.”
Joe certainly recognized the name, even though he had never met Pope personally. Randy Pope was in charge of fiscal matters for the agency. Most of the memos that crossed Joe’s desk concerning procedure, the wage and salary freeze, the abuse of overtime and comp time, the unaccountability of game wardens in the field, had been issued by Randy Pope.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Pope,” Joe said, trying to sound friendly. “I’m late because I was helping Trey Crump out with a problem bear.”
“The director is out of the state at a conference,” Pope said, disregarding Joe’s explanation. “He asked me to come to the funeral on behalf of the agency.”
That explains your getup, Joe thought. This is how you think people dress in Jackson.
“You probably know I’m here to fill in,” Joe said, feeling the need to explain why he was behind the desk in Will Jensen’s old office.
Pope shifted his eyes from Joe to something over and to the right of Joe’s head. “I heard about that,” he said flatly.
Clearly, Joe thought, Pope didn’t approve of the arrangement. “We expected you earlier this week.”
Joe patiently explained the hunt for the bear, saying he didn’t know if the dispatcher forgot to forward the message or whoever got it didn’t inform the office. Pope didn’t seem to accept the excuse.
Joe had heard through Trey and others that Randy Pope desperately wanted to be named the next director. The current director was rumored to be short for the world, thanks to the pending gubernatorial election, and an opening would be likely. Directors were chosen at the discretion of the governor and the Game and Fish Commission, and historically had come from within the department, from the ranks of game wardens or biologists. To Joe’s knowledge, there’d never been a director who came from the administrative side of the agency, the side that issued memos. Yet it was said that Pope had done his best to ingratiate himself with both gubernatorial candidates, as well as with the legislators who oversaw the department. He positioned himself as a man who was both within and without; a fiscally responsible insider who would curb rampant financial abuses as well as rein in the cowboys in the field. Joe had no doubt he was considered one of the cowboys.
Pope said, “Joe, do you realize what kind of trouble our agency is in these days?”
The question was out of left field, Joe thought. He shook his head.
“We’re running deficits, bleeding red. We’re being asked to take on more and more responsibilities by the state and the Feds, but our income streams are drying up.”
This was no secret to Joe. Salaries had been capped and positions cut statewide.
“There are fewer hunters out there every year, Joe. It’s no longer socially acceptable in many parts of the country to be a hunter. That means fewer hunting licenses are being purchased every year, which means less money for the agency to manage wildlife and everything else that has been thrown to us by the Feds—wolves, grizzly bears, endangered species . . .
Similar Books
