Durwood drove to the Hogan Consolidated headquarters. The executive offices were on the fifth floor, over the factory. Durwood and Sue-Ann took the stairs. Stairs were murder on the dog's hips, but she'd never in her life boarded an elevator. Durwood stopped every few stairs to let her catch up. Sue-Ann gimped along, stubborn, mouth quivering.

Durwood watched the assembly line through a glass wall. Men and women pushed machine handles. A foreman squinted at a clipboard. Belts and rotors turned. Durwood smelled grease, even through the glass.

Nothing amiss here.

He used a posted directory to find Jay Hogan's office.

His secretary wore nicer clothes than Carol Bridges, and seemed unlikely to keep dog treats in her desk.

"You—you honestly thought bringing a dog to see the chief executive of Hogan Consolidated would be acceptable?" the woman said, looking at Sue's spots like they were open sores. "OSHA would have a field day if they showed up now."

Sue-Ann laid her chin down on her paws.

Durwood said, "She can stay here while I see Mr. Hogan."

The woman's nameplate read Priscilla Baird. She stood—tall, nearly Durwood's height—and seemed ready to eject Durwood and Sue. Or flee herself.

"I don't know that you will see Mr. Hogan today," she said. "You're not on his schedule. Jones, did you say?"

She checked her screen.

"Won't find me in your computer," Durwood said. "Is he here?"

Priscilla Baird glanced back at her boss's door. It was closed.

"He is...on site. But I'm not at liberty to say when he'd be available to speak with arbitrary members of the public."

"I'm not arbitrary. I'm here on authority of the mayor."

"The mayor?"

"Mayor of Chickasaw."

At this, Priscilla Baird rolled her eyes. Durwood thought he heard, "Getting desperate" under her breath but couldn't be sure.

Durwood waited. He did finally tire of the woman's dirty looks and take Sue-Ann out to the van. She didn't like dogs, fine. He'd not be difficult just for the sake of it.

The lobby featured oil paintings of executives. The available magazines were US Weekly and Field and Stream. Durwood didn't read them. He thought what questions to ask Jay Hogan. He looked at the slate walls, the exposed beam running down the center of the space. Pimpled, showy. Nowadays folks built like that.

He waited an hour and a half. Others entered and were admitted to see Jay Hogan. Men in pinstriped suits. A made-up woman in her late forties, two minions hustling after her. Kid in a ball-cap and shorts carrying two plastic bags.

The kid left without his bags.

Durwood caught him at the door. "Pardon, youngster. What did you drop off?"

The kid ducked so Durwood could read his hat.

Crepes-a-Go-Go.

An involuntary growl escaped Durwood. He crossed to Jay Hogan's door.

"Excuse me," Priscilla Baird said. "Mr. Hogan's schedule today is terribly tight, you'll have to be patient if—"

"It just opened up," Durwood said.

He jerked the knob and blew inside. Jay Hogan was stuffing a crepe into his face with a plastic fork. Ham and some cheese that stank. Red smear at the corner of his mouth, ketchup or raspberry jam.

Must've been jam.

"The hell is this?" Hogan said. "You—what...Priscilla..." He placed a hand over his scrawny chest and finished swallowing. "Who is this person?"

Priscilla Baird rushed to the door. "I never admitted him, he went himself. He forced his way in!"

Durwood breathed at the ground.

To Hogan, he said, "Let's us talk."

The young CEO considered the proposal. He held his crepe one-handed and seemed unsure where to put it down. He looked at his secretary. He looked at Durwood. Hair slicked back with Pennzoil. Skin alabaster white.

You'd sure have to keep inside, you wanted to stay that color in southwest Texas.

Durwood extended his palm. "I can hold your pancake."

Jay Hogan stiffened at the remark. "Who are you?"

"Name's Durwood Oak Jones."

Hogan tried saying it himself. "Duuurwood...Oak...J—Jones?"

"Right." Durwood assumed Jay Hogan, like the mayor, wasn't a Soldier of Fortune subscriber. "I'm a concerned party."

"What does that mean?" Hogan said. "Concerned about what?"

"About this town. About the financial standing of your company."

He explained his contacts to date with Carol Bridges and the capacity in which he'd come: to investigate and combat injustice.

There was no reason Durwood and Jay Hogan shouldn't be allies. If the lawyers were fleecing Hogan Consolidated, or Wall Street sharks were sabotaging it, Durwood's help should be appreciated.

Jay Hogan was not rolling out the welcome wagon.

"Injustice?" he sneered. "The company's in a lousy situation, a real hole. It's not my fault. I didn't build those hinges. I didn't, you know, invent P/E ratios or whatever other metrics we aren't hitting."

Durwood glared across the desk. Every not and didn't stuck in his craw.

He said, "What do you do, then?"

"I chart the course," Hogan said. "Top-line strategy."

"Top-line?"

"Yes. Top-line."

Durwood righted his hat. "Thought the bottom line was the important one."

Jay Hogan made a sound between flatulence and a pig's snort.

Durwood said, "What's your strategy on them lawsuits?"

"Chester handles legal matters."

"Who's that?"

"Chester is the COO."

Durwood raised a finger, counting out letters. "Now what's the difference between CEO and COO?"

Jay Hogan fluttered his eyes, impatient. "The COO is the operating officer. He's more involved in day-to-day business."

"Who deals with Wall Street? The money men?"

"Chester."

"Who's handles communication? Getting word out to the citizens of Chickasaw about what's going on?"

Hogan reached again for his crepe. "Chester."

He said the name—which was prissy to begin with—in a nasal, superior tone.

Durwood's fist balled at his side. "Fella must be sharp, you trust him with all that."

"He is," Hogan said. "I've known since we were six. We attended all the same boarding schools."

"School chums?"

Hogan frowned at the question, too personal maybe. Said, "Something like that."

"He's your age, then?"

Hogan nodded.

"Couple twenty-eight year olds running a company that dictates the fate of a whole town," Durwood said. "Sound fair to you?"

The CEO's white, white cheeks colored. "They're lucky to have us. Two Ivy League graduates blessed with business instincts. Chester was president of our fraternity, graduated magna cum laude. We could be founding startups in Seattle or San Francisco where you don't have to drive a hundred miles for decent food."

Durwood recalled what Carol Bridges had said about the gully.

"You graduate magna cum laude?"

"I don't need to defend my qualifications to you or anyone."

Durwood sniffed. "Musta just missed."

Jay Hogan stood up a huff. Then saw his crepe again in its tissue-paper sleeve and couldn't resist. He took a quick bite, then, mouth full, pointed to the door.

"I'm done answering your"—he swore—"questions. As CEO, I'm accountable to a shareholder-elected board of directors, which includes presidents of prominent law firms, a former Treasury Secretary of the United States, and several other CEOs. They're pleased with my job performance."

"How many of them live in Chickasaw?"

Hogan gave a bark of laughter. "They understand the financial headwinds I'm up against."

"How about them bad hinges? From what I hear, Hogan used to make quality parts."

"Another Chester question. I don't deal with quality control."

That's for sure.

Durwood saw he would get nowhere with Jay Hogan. This Chester person was who he needed. Asking this one where the town of Chickasaw would shake out was like inspecting the hood ornament on your John Deere to see whether you needed a new tractor.

Hogan was still pointing at the door. Durwood stood and obliged him.

Leaving, he said, "You got families counting on this company. Counting on you. Be a man and do what's right."

Durwood passed the factory again, descending. It was dark now. Last shift must've ended sometime while he was in with Hogan.

Durwood's boots clacked in solitude. He thought about what ailed Hogan Consolidated and whether he could fix it. Oh, he'd poke around and get the scoop on this Chester. Try to work past further lies and evasion. Maybe he'd find Chester had his hand in the cookie jar.

The likeliest culprit, though, was plain old incompetence. Jay Hogan belonged in an insurance office someplace—preferably far from the scissors. Instead he sat in a corner office.

Did that rise to the level of injustice, though? Maybe. Maybe—with so many lives and livelihoods at stake.

Durwood didn't like cases he had to talk himself into.

He was just imagining how he'd break the news to Carol Bridges if nothing came of Chester when four men burst from the shadows and tackled him.

-----

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