7th Son, page 22
The auto manufacturers made a slaying with the much more profitable SUVs, of course. Rookman also laughed all the way to the bank. Not only had gasoline consumption increased, but one of Rookman Oil’s many subsidiaries, ARX Automotive, made a windfall on the manufacturing of after-market SUV bumpers, hoses, body paints, and more. All fabricated from petrochemicals, that ever-profitable by-product of oil refinement.
In the early 1990s, Rookman had also pioneered the price-control tactic that most big oil companies now employ. Touted as a cost-saving measure for his company (and therefore consumers), Rookman made it standing policy for his facilities to produce gasoline at 90 percent of their capacities—instead of the usual 60 to 70 percent—and funnel it into the market right away. Since all efforts were going into production and distribution, Rookman Oil had only a few days’ reserves at any time. This convenient lack of “rainy day” reserves drove up the price of gas. It also made the market more volatile and vulnerable to production problems, geopolitical fluctuations, and the like. This ensured higher prices. As Rookman was fond of saying to his few confidants: if a mullah in Iran flapped his gums in protest of the West, prices at the pumps in Middle America could soar. Which was the whole fucking point.
Rookman Oil Inc. was also the first oil company to employ batteries of sociologists, psychologists, and financial theorists to raise profits. With their data, Rookman quickly learned that by lowering production capacities in some states and hopscotching oil supplies from one U.S. region to another, he could spike prices in different parts of the country and appear blameless. By studying people’s traveling habits, such as the plummet of travel after the September 11, 2001, attacks, Rookman Oil could “shrink” its oil supply, justified by the lowered overall demand, raise prices, and continue to gouge the American consumer.
Like all successful empires, Rookman’s corporation extended overseas. Rookman Oil wells, offshore drilling platforms, and refineries operated in more than a dozen countries. When A. U. Rookman planned an oil pipeline through Afghanistan and its neighbors in the early 1990s, he urged the Clinton administration to open talks with the Taliban-controlled Afghani government. Those talks failed, and Rookman soon knew why: Clinton and his boys were pussies. In January 2001, Rookman convinced the Bush administration to relaunch the talks. The deal was too simple and sweet for the Taliban to ignore: if you turn over Osama bin Laden and make nice-nice with the Northern Alliance (the native guerrilla force that was taking over the northern part of the country), Rookman Oil would build the pipeline . . . and bestow the Taliban with a generous cut of the billions in annual profits. The Taliban were interested, and scheduled a meeting with American officials and Northern Alliance representatives in July of that year.
The Taliban delegation didn’t show. Word quickly spread that the negotiations had dissolved because someone in the American delegation had sent a special message to the Taliban leadership: “Either accept our offer, granting you mountains of riches, or we bury you under a mountain of bombs.” When the president asked Rookman if he had sent the message, the oil baron had simply shrugged. Of course Rookman had sent it. He wanted the Taliban to go apeshit, to create serious anti-American sentiment for the CIA to record and report . . . which could then empower the United States to take a preemptive strike against the hostile government. The administration could then install a U.S.-friendly and therefore Rookman-friendly leadership base—and pay less for the pipeline privileges.
The Taliban did go apeshit. The terrorists the Taliban were protecting flew two jets into the World Trade Center. Another into the Pentagon. Yet another almost made its way to the White House. Even Rookman hadn’t expected that. But the U.S. military did indeed bomb Afghanistan shortly afterward, and the Taliban were replaced with leaders who saw the infinite wisdom of a $3.5 billion Rookman Oil Inc. pipeline cutting through their land.
Rookman got his way, after all.
Naturally, Rookman also had a hand in the 2003 invasion of Iraq. Two years previously—a few months before the Taliban talks fell through, in fact—Rookman helped pen the Energy Policy in the New Century report, which was presented to the freshly inaugurated president. The document basically stated that Iraq was the problem child of the Middle East, but it could also be the number two oil-producing country in the world. Iraqi production was being logjammed by United Nations export sanctions. If sanctions were lifted, the oil would flow freely. But lifting the sanctions would allow then-leader Saddam Hussein a symbolic victory against the West. The only way to uncork the bottleneck and save face, the report stated, would be to take out the “destabilizing element” in the equation—Hussein. Military intervention was politely suggested. American companies could “rebuild” the country after an invasion, the report said.
Thanks to the Rookman-spawned attacks on September 11, the oil tycoon got his wish. After the U.S. military invaded Afghanistan, it swarmed and stormed Iraq, ousting Hussein. A U.S.-friendly government began to run the show afterward. Hundreds of “rebuilding” contracts were awarded, including for the construction of new oil-production facilities and oversight of older Iraqi state-run facilities. Most of those contracts fell into the laps of Rookman Oil Inc. and its subsidiaries . . . as Rookman had planned all along.
Yes, indeed. Sometimes it pays to have a direct phone line to the White House.
A. U. Rookman was the man who wore blue jeans and an I SHOT J.R. T-shirt to President Reagan’s inaugural ball. A. U. Rookman was the man who quietly convinced Washington to make Alaska’s Arctic National Wildlife Refuge—ANWR—a political buzzword. A. U. Rookman was the man who founded Castle Chemicals, the number one petrochemical supply firm on the planet. He was credited with legitimizing the synthetic-fiber industry; almost every American has a shirt, dress, or suit made from Auxillium, one of the many fibers Castle Chemicals has created over the past forty years. He was also the man who slyly suggested SUVs should have MILES OF FUEL REMAINING displays mounted in their dashboard so drivers, if only subconsciously, were always thinking one thing when they piled their rug rats into the car: gas, gas, gas.
Of course, folks living in the heartland never saw that side of Rookman. Neither did the press. The media loved Rookman’s flamboyance, his lavish philanthropy, his opulent weddings and destructive divorces. Reporters salivated over the bumblings and arrests of his drug-addled son. The Rookman name made good ink.
The press covered his health problems with equal relish.
Which is how a young man who called himself John Alpha came to contact A. U. Rookman with a very special business proposal.
Then: part two.
When Rookman finally went public with “havin’ the cancer” and the early signs of Alzheimer’s disease in 2001, it was only after the rumors of his ailing health had hopscotched from the tabloids to The New York Times. He didn’t like the way the media were using adjectives such as mysterious and frail and—perhaps the most blasphemous of all—diminished. As in, In recent months, Rookman’s vitality has appeared diminished.
That line had sent him over the edge. “They’re making like I’m some faggot dyin’ from the butt flu,” he had screamed that day, to one of the nameless women who fetched his coffee. He would later have a vague memory of tearing up the newspaper and hurling the empty coffee mug at her. “Goddamn cancer. Goddamned oldtimer’s! You want to hear what I say, toots? When in doubt, whip it out . . . and piss all over them.”
He called a press conference on his front lawn that afternoon and came out of the cancer and Alzheimer’s closet. Yes, he’d been diagnosed. Yes, he was considering experimental treatment. Yes, he’d consider chemo—if he had to, if he absolutely had to. Rookman used his “raising Cain” voice, full of bluster and hellfire. The reporters laughed when they were supposed to (goddamn vultures), the photographers snapped pictures when they were supposed to (they’re big on hand gestures), and everyone left with their quote-hungry bellies filled. All of the Texas dailies ran the story front page, above the fold.
The nationals played it below the fold, but Rookman made 1A on every pissing one of them. Dance for me, my little monkeys, dance.
But only after the pack of scribblers and shooters had left his lawn had Rookman truly felt afraid. Afeard. That was the night he realized it was true, it was all true, no sense hiding it anymore, he had the cancer, had the oldtimer’s, it was all going to end. If the rogue cells inside him didn’t do it, the chemo would. And if it wasn’t the chemo, it’d be the loss of his mind. And what then? What would happen to his legacy? His company? Everything he had built would collapse and burn, a funeral pyre to dishonor the recently departed.
Rookman cried that night, the first time in sixty-three years.
Helluva ride, A.U. But your time to hang up the spurs is a’comin’. You’re the Titanic, ever-heading nearer my God to thee.
A few years later, his office received a FedEx addressed from one of Rookman Oil’s VPs based in California. “URGENT & PERSONAL,” read the envelope inside. It was forwarded to Rookman with great speed and efficiency—no doors hit any asses on the way in or out that day—and Rookman had opened it with a cynical scowl.
The letter was not from Boyles, as the FedEx envelope had said. In fact, it was not signed at all. But there was a message, one that both infuriated and (given the past years’ plague of nightmares) intrigued him.
Mr. Rookman,
You are a man of your word. So am I. You are a man of few words. As am I. I can help you, sir. I can cure your cancer and your Alzheimer’s. Completely.
I will not insult you by saying this solution will come quickly or cheaply. But it will come; you will experience a rebirth, and live longer than you have ever dreamed possible. You have my word.
If you wish to discuss a partnership, please contact me at the Four Seasons, Beverly Hills. Ask for John M. Smith.
Rookman had nearly torn the letter to shreds. But something stopped him. Fate, perhaps. Or fear. Or hope.
He phoned the hotel that night. He spoke to John Alpha for less than a minute. Rookman met the kid the next day, listened to his proposal, downed a triple Scotch, and shook on it.
When you’re the fourth-richest man in the world, you can spare a few billion dollars in the name of immortality. Not to mention a few million souls, including your own.
Now.
“A.U.,” Alpha said cheerily from the computer screen. “You look well.”
“Fuck you.” Rookman squeezed the bloody handkerchief until he felt his fingernails dig into his palm. Young people. Don’t give a piss about their elders. For a moment, Rookman wondered what he looked and sounded like to the youngster on the other end. A ghoul’s face, probably. A Texas accent slurred behind a translucent blue death mask. I hate talking to him. He’s young, dumb, and full of cum. Thinks he’s indestructible.
“Such language.” Alpha winked. “Now tell me, A.U.: what would the ever-nubile wife number five do if she heard such filth coming from that mouth of yours?”
“She does whatever the hell I tell her to,” Rookman snarled. “None of your goddamned business anyway. Piss on you. I reckon you’ve forgotten just who you’re talking to.”
“I’ve forgotten no such thing. You’re my Abel Magwitch.”
“What?”
“My mysterious benefactor,” John Alpha said. “My sugar daddy.” The youngster smiled his condescending smile.
Thinks he knows everything. Well, fuck you.
“That’s right. Your sugar daddy.” The oxygen mask whistled gently as Rookman spoke. “Glad you said that. Reminds me of something my daddy once told me: never bite the hand, boy. You understand me? Never. I’m the -er. You’re the -ee. Our relationship don’t get much simpler than that.”
Alpha cocked his head to one side, like a wife who knows his beloved is lying. “Our relationship is a little more complex than that, A.U. We’re collaborators. Our goals are different, certainly, but we both come out winners. I need you, and you . . . well, just look at you. You most definitely need me. Perhaps an analogy your crass Texan tongue can appreciate is in order. You and I, we have a little circle jerk going here. If we both keep stroking, we’ll both cross the finish line with grins on our faces. Everybody wins, A. U. You, most of all.”
Rookman stared at the screen. This conversation was as familiar as the doctors’ orders to lay off the bad foods. He and Alpha had danced this dance too many times over the recent years: the kid’s smart mouth would send Rookman up on his high horse, then the tug-of-war over who called the shots would begin. The kid was right, of course. They both had each other by the balls . . . but Rookman would walk away from this deal with a smile on his new face, billions richer. The kid was right, all right. But he didn’t have to be so goddamned smug about it. It was exhausting.
Rookman sighed as he thought this; the mask literally squeaked from the pressure change. “So what’s your point, young man?” His voice sounded hollow, like a line of stage dialogue uttered for the umpteenth time.
“Just trying to clarify the -er/-ee dynamic,” Alpha said. “Just encouraging you to think about where you want to be and who can get you there. You want this to come to pass? You want Rookman Oil to become the plaything of that freak-show board of directors when you go? You want to actually stick your willy into that Penthouse Pet wife of yours? I’m the one who can deliver you, A.U. I’m your knight in shining armor. That’s something you should never forget.”
Stalemate. They stared at each other for almost a minute, saying nothing. A side of Rookman enjoyed these insipid power struggles; Alpha was the only man he’d ever met that didn’t back down, didn’t compromise, didn’t flinch when Rookman used his Texan foghorn bellow to drive home a point. Rookman appraised the slender face on the screen, its cool blue eyes, thin lips, slicked-back blonde-brown hair. The man’s goatee was meticulously trimmed. Rookman likened Alpha to a Doberman—sleek and dangerous. The ambition coursing through the kid’s veins transcended anything even Rookman had dreamed of in his youth. Rookman admired it and was frightened by it.
Are you really going to tack your future onto the coattails of this lunatic?
He recalled the wraith’s face staring back in the mirror, the vision of that music box winding down: plink . . . plink . . . plunk . . .
“Bed’s made,” he whispered.
The pixelated vision of Alpha raised his eyebrows. “Beg pardon?”
“I said I’m bored,” Rookman snarled, straightening in his wheelchair. “Piss on it. Are we here to talk business or to see whose dick’s bigger?”
“Everyone knows you’ve got a Louisville Slugger swinging between those legs. No contest there.”
“That’s more like it.” Rookman felt a smile crinkle against his oxygen mask. Goddamn kid. “So. What’s my horoscope?”
“I see a beautiful stranger coming to your home tomorrow, with knockers out to here.” The video feed became blurry as the webcam on the kid’s end tried to focus on Alpha’s hands—which now appeared to hold two invisible watermelons.
Rookman cackled, his chest rattling like a jalopy.
Alpha’s smile vanished. “Everything’s square on your end, I trust.”
“Bet your ass it is. The will’s been changed. The board, even now, can’t fart unless I say so. And I expect you to bring you-know-who for a little meeting tomorrow, just as planned.”
Alpha nodded, then his face darkened. “Nothing can go wrong, A.U. Understand? Nothing. Your contact will arrive whenever she can and will take care of everything. It’s not going to hurt. The rest is up to you and the unwitting—and undoubtedly unwilling—participation of your host-to-be. This is it, old man. Tomorrow is your day. Fuck it up, and you’re fucked. Our little scheme will be all for naught. Dig?”
Rookman nodded impatiently. He tore off the oxygen mask for emphasis. “Yes, yes. I’m not a child, you pissface.”
“That much is clear.”
Rookman leaned toward the computer screen. He licked his lips. “And what about our other little scheme up north? The clincher that makes you rich and me even richer?”
“Already under way.”
Rookman grinned; his face was like that of a leering corpse.
Alpha smiled on the screen. “We’ve talked business. Now let’s talk pleasure. What are your plans for tonight?”
“I’ve made plans with Chenille. Paint the town, live it up while there’s still living to be done. I’ll have ye olde Houston paparazzi snap a few with that buxom bitch by my side. Great fodder for the fallout.”
“Splendid word choice,” Alpha said. “Sounds delicious.”
“Victory always is.”
“Make a splash, A.U. Tomorrow night, you’ll be a new man. And you’ll soon have a new place to plant your company flag.”
“Christ on a crutch. That’s terrific. Just terrific.”
John Alpha agreed. It was terrific. It was indeed.
TWENTY-ONE
The Bucky Lastard landed at Edwards Air Force Base at 7:00 p.m. local time. Pilot Les Orchard’s V-22-X Osprey had logged a six-hour flight, his personal best. Not that anyone would ever know about it. Off the books, you know. As would be the flight back. Oh, yes, they were round-tripping it. The orders from General Hill were clear: Drop them off. Refuel. Bring them back. Orchard and Schubert would need a little pill of the pick-me-up variety for the return jaunt.
