A Meeting In the Pines

It was a very big house, but it was also considered by many to be the most beautiful house in all of Dixon County.  Over 6,000 square feet, with a palatial exterior fronting Pine Street, it looked like something out of Gone with the Wind.  Stark white roman columns fronted a vast entryway, and in front of that was a semi-circular driveway paved in a vibrant Tuscan red brick.  Parked in front were several cars, ranging from Houston Grave's sporty new BMW to Reggie Crowley's weathered Ford Supertruck.

The house belonged to Forrest Compton, owner of the Okefenokee Bank & Trust.  It wasn't originally his.  It was built in the fifties by a Yankee entrepreneur, Martin Olivet, who had bought out Darben Textiles, and had planned on exploiting cheap southern labor to enhance his fortune.  That lasted only a couple of decades when even cheaper labor was found in Bangladesh.  Darben Textiles was shuttered, and the whole Olivet clan moved on to Malibu.  The house lay empty for several years when Forrest's bank repossessed it, and finally Forrest got it for a song.  That meant, without a huge mortgage, Forrest and his wife were able to invest huge sums into its restoration.

The back had a huge veranda, with many sun chairs and rocking chairs, with umbrellaed tables and serving tables.  There was an Olympic sized pool, and an elaborate garden that included a shrubbery maze.  In the distance was a tennis court, where two men were busily smashing balls at each other.

Forrest's elegant wife, Marcia, looked out at the guests gathered on the veranda and gave a weak smile.  Thin and blond, her blemish free face shone like a bright light form heaven, her firm, round breasts were well defined by her pale blue sweater, and her shapely perfectly tanned legs were displayed up to the start of her pleated white skirt that ended two inches up from her knees.  She was stunning.  Of course it was mostly a magic trick.  Extreme diets, the most expensive makeup and plastic surgery all contributed to the illusion that she was extraordinary.  But the thing that contributed most was just her overwhelming belief that she was homo superior, that indeed she was better looking than everyone else.

"Reggie, can I get you anything?" Marcia said to the slumped over Reggie Crowley, lounging in a sun chair, his two sons in their own chairs near him.  Reggie and has sons were dressed in dirty blue jeans, with Reggie having on a faded brown work shirt, and the two boys in t-shirts, Freddy's adorned with the slogan Rednecks Rock and Digger's having a picture of Lynyrd Skynyrd.  Marcia noticed with a kind of terror that Reggie and Digger were cudding a chaw of tobacco, and was trying to motion her maid, Maisie, to bring over a trash can or something for the inevitable spit.

"Nah, Marcia, we fine," cooed Reggie, a Budweiser on the tray next to him.

"I apologize for the condition of our lawn, y'all," Martha said to the gathering.  "I haven't been able to get our black yard boy out her this week."

Forrest winced.  No matter how much he tried to teach Marcia restraint, she still popped off with stuff like that now and then.  Marcia had come from a rich West Texas patrician family, and their prejudices were even more ingrained than Crowley's.  He didn't disagree with the sentiment, just its expression.  Oh, well.  At least there wasn't anybody thee who might even notice it.  Except for Maisie, and she was just the maid.

"Them boys quit that stupid tennis game we can get this confab started," oozed Reggie.

"Yeah, Forrest," echoed Andy Caldwell, the insurance agent and brother of the mayor.  He was dressed in suit and tie and seated closest to Forrest.  On the other side of Forrest was Houston Graves Senior, the prominent partner of the CPA firm, Graves & Robinson.  A supremely tall man, over six and half feet, he had closely cropped black hair and a long face with compassionate, brown eyes.  He was well respected throughout the county, and people revered what he said in their dealings with him as an accountant, although no one was quite sure what he was saying. 

Seated centrally in a comfortable, oversized, wooden rocking chair was Daddy Delco himself.  Daddy Delco was a massive man, over six feet tall and tipping way past three hundred pounds.  But he was also a furniture store tycoon, and dabbler in other successful enterprises.  "Houston!  Trey!  Quit banging your balls and get over here so we get this party started!"  shouted Daddy Delco.  "Sorry, y'all.  I got a big delivery this afternoon and I need to get on to it soon."  Unbeknownst to the rest his anticipated delivery wasn't at the furniture store, but with Mindy Simmons.

Houston Graves Junior and Trey came up from the tennis courts, both glistening with sweat.  Huston Junior was as tall as his Daddy, if not taller, black hair like his Daddy (with less dye) and a face like his Daddy (with fewer wrinkles and less compassionate eyes).  Trey, the nickname for Forrest Compton III, looked nothing like his Daddy, only about five-nine and a bit of a pudge, which even exercise didn't seem to abate.

They were now all gathered.  Daddy Delco took the lead.  "So what are we all gonna do about damn nosy Kayak Kelly and that damn stone fruit he found?  This could set us back years."

A very nervous Andy Caldwell interrupted.  "Look, I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't have years.  If I don't get a return soon, I'm going down hard."

"Calm down, son," soothed Forrest.  "We're all in this together."  Andy had put a larger percentage of what he had than the rest.  Three hundred grand meant a lot more to Andy than it did to Reggie and Daddy Delco.  But Forrest was lying about then being it all together.  If Andy fell behind too bad, he would cut him out almost as fast as he would anybody else, if it meant preserving his own position.

"The swamp is a big place.  Lots of dangerous things.  Why, sometimes people go in there and they never come back out," intoned Reggie, and then he spit.  Marcia blanched.  Reggie's boys chortled.

Forrest sighted.  "No, Reggie, we're not going to do that.  I don't even like the hint of what you're implying. "

Reggie guffawed.  "You can't build mountains of gold from piles of chickensh..."

"Enough!" Daddy Delco shouted.  "There's no point to that.  He already sent it to that scientist in Florida.  That's where we got to stop it."

Reggie mused for a second.  "He might be a mite harder to get rid of."

"Good God, Reggie!  The way you think, how are you not in jail?" chimed in Houston Sr. "No, what we need is a lawyer, an injunction or something.

"Or a bribe," added Daddy Delco.

"How about a lawyer who can bring a bribe?" questioned Andy.

The Compton Park Development's group lawyer, Smith Walton, had died a month ago, keeling over from a body-exploding heart attack, and they had not gotten around to replacing him.  They all now realized that would have to change.

"You're right, gentlemen," said Forrest.  "I hate to bring somebody new in, but we need a good lawyer.  Anyone have any suggestions?"

"How about Thomas Cooper?" asked Trey.

"No, he's way too straight and narrow.  I'm not sure how he would handle some of the things we have to do," replied Daddy Delco.

Reggie couldn't resist.  "I'm telling ya, it's not unknown for people to disappear in the swamp."

Forrest shook his head.  If only Reggie wasn't the richest man in the county.

"How about Rondy?" inquired Houston Jr.  Rondy Strickland was Thomas Cooper's young partner and a member of the Honey Dew Lunch Bunch.

"Rondy," mused Daddy Delco.  "Don't know too much of him, other than his Daddy was one hell of a Judge.  And my daughter Christie speaks very highly of him."  He certainly looked more of a man than that weaselly, weak-looking Yankee that Christie married, Gariton Hollander.  "Houston, have you ever talked with him about the Compton Park Development?"

"A little, at lunch.  I don't think he has a problem with it.  Well, honestly, he really hasn't said much about it."  Houston Jr. thought that if it didn't have much to do with sports, skirts, or his own legal cases, Rondy didn't think much about anything.

"Feel him out," urged Daddy Delco.  "See if you think he can handle it.  I'll have my daughter feel him out, too."  Houston Jr. resisted a grin. That wouldn't probably take much persuasion.

"And then maybe, if he's the right man, he can take a little trip to Florida and see what he can do to persuade a certain scientist to give up on what is obviously a hoax perpetrated by his kind but old and increasingly old friend, Kayak Kelly," said Houston Sr.

"And let Christie go with him for good measure," added Daddy Delco.  "Let her add her feminine wiles to our legal and monetary urgings.  There's a trifecta no man can resist!"

The Compton Park Developers all raised their glasses to toast their brilliantly devised strategy.

And that's how Rondy got to spend an all expenses paid weekend in Gainesville with his lover Christie Delco Hollander.  Sometimes life was just sweet that way.