The Divine Travel Agency

By A Frank Corso Mystery

Frank Corso runs his own Wall Street research consultancy and has an unusual ability to make friends. A forty year old bachelor living in New York, he is getting increasingly comfortable to a high-life marked by eroding moral virtue. On a business trip to visit a New Orleans based company, he gets more than he bargained for. In the weeks before Christmas of 2004, he is recruited by his ex-girlfriend to find her friend, a young mystic, who has disappeared.

New Orleans is a city in Transition. The economy has been improving post the dot com crash, and local government and business leaders are leveraging the city’s crown jewel, The French Quarter. The haven for tourists also has a dark side. The city is marred by political corruption and violence. In 2004, it has the distinction of being the murder capital of the United States.

Corso soon finds The Big Easy culture known for its architecture, food and music, filled with a rich marinade of diverse and unusual characters. Befriending people with deep roots in the shallow clays of the Mississippi River, his life is about to change course. He is about to discover the secrets of…The Divine Travel Agency.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Nov 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665713993

A Frank Corso Mystery

Frank Corso is quirky. He is a compulsive researcher, has an uncanny ability for recall, learning things fast, and makes friends easily. He has a vivid imagination, eats Chinese food in the bathtub, and while lucky, tends to find himself in rather unusual situations.

Book preview

Copyright © 2021 A Frank Corso Mystery.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.archwaypublishing.com

844-669-3957

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Interior Image Credit: Darren Wotherspoon and Giuseppe Colosimo

Copyright © The Gideons International. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1397-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1398-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-1399-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021921038

Archway Publishing rev. date: 03/31/2022

Contents

Author’s Note

Interlude

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Envoi

Acknowledgements

Prelude

Chapter I

In the weeks before Christmas in 2004, The Divine Travel Agency takes readers on a roller-coaster ride through New Orleans with a mystery that leads to a staggering discovery. The culture of The Big Easy is revealed in a Creole feast by some lovable and, not so lovable characters. This extraordinary story captures the magic soul of North America’s most European city in transformation, in the year before Hurricane Katrina.

Meet Frank Corso, a Wall Street field analyst and almost middle-age bachelor. He drinks far too much; is inclined to self-analysis, with a natural tendency to be influenced by powers of suggestion; and, has a peculiar ability to recall things. When he’s recruited to investigate the disappearance of a young mystic in The French Quarter, strange things happen. He discovers more about her, and about himself, than he ever imagined, when his personal disposition and unique research techniques are summoned in a struggle to understand an unusual encounter with the supernatural. What he uncovers will change his life, and could threaten the course of human history. He is about to discover the secrets of…The Divine Travel Agency.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

#1-9-9-3-2-7-8-6-8-2-1

Registration #: TXu002231185

SR#: 1-9932786821

Archangelo Francesco Corso

The Divine Travel Agency: A Novel/Frank Corso

I.        Mystery-Fiction

II.        New Orleans

III.        Supernatural

IV.        Theistic

Typeset in Dante MT Pro

Map and Art by Darren Wotherspoon & Giuseppe Colosimo

Coming for Christmas 2022, the next Frank Corso Mystery:

The Yellow Agent from Hong Kong (read on for a selection)

Author’s Note

This is a work of fiction. Certain main persons, who appear as: Father Sal, Father Sal, Tom O’Hara, and Archangelo Francesco Corso, A/K/A, Frank Corso (my alter ego’s alter ego), perhaps have a basis in reality – as do some of the events and places during the timeline that supports the internal logic of the story. There are also actors like, Jim Bob Moffett, Chef Paul, Caveman, Major Nagin, Judge Feldman, and Joanne of Faulkner House Books, who populate pieces in the book, which are actual individuals. All other characters that make-up the raw material in this story are invented – although, perhaps to an unusual extent, it may appear they don’t realize it.

Similarly, some locations, establishments, and events which move the story are historically factual, and necessary to provide a reference structure for readers looking forward to experiencing New Orleans, I have done my best to make that clear. Writers of fiction, however, often use a mix of fact, fiction, and history to immerse their readers and to make their stories ‘work’ in what is sometimes referred to as, ‘faction’. As you may learn from a reference to dreams in reading the story, ‘faction’, like a wake-like dream state, does not – in fact – actually exist. It is, in reality, fiction. Accordingly, many of the places, businesses, and incidents, are the product of my imagination, and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, locales, and/or episodes, may be purely coincidental.

Lastly, the quality of this writing is not Faulkner, despite the very interesting fact that between 1925 and 1927 he made the French Quarter home. He spent most of his time, when not writing, whiling away the hours drinking in cafés and observing characters who, no doubt, like me, supplied him with raw materials for his work. Thus, any expectation that this work is intended for the critics of literature would be misplaced. Rather than an attempt at high art, this book is a Journal based on contemporaneous notes made for the story at the time.

-Sunday the 26th of December, 2004

Cultural Norms in the 21st Century continue to erode the ethical standards of the last century, which guided The United States and its allies through two world wars and The Great Depression.

Civil servants and business leaders, and the partieswho enable them, are an inspiration for this book. Youknow who you are, and the public shall know who youare by the examples you set.

I’m an investigator of sorts, mostly focused on providing high quality and differentiated field research of public companies, and their businesses. I make my living performing this service for a personally hand selectednumber of Wall Street firms. There are times, however, when my limited talents stray. On a field trip to New Orleans, in the weeks leading up to Christmas of 2004, something extraordinary happened…

- From a Frank Corso handwritten Journal.

(Reproduced in French Script MJ)

New Orleans, Circa 1878

ImageA.jpg

The French Quarter

ImageBFrenchQuarterMapv2JPEG.jpg

Interlude

She was lying on the Mississippi River side of the levee on the West Bank in Algiers. She was face down in the mud when the Butterfly Man flew down from the top of the hill to save her. Her hero was beating them up. All those bad boys, who had been pushing her, pulling her hair, and hurting her, were being punished. She was dreaming of another time, and another place, as she skipped home to Mama and Daddy when those bad boys started chasing her and calling her names. The smell of the river mud was familiar as she lived just across the road on the dry side at the bottom of the grassy hill. The mud stuck to her body now, she could hear the burble of the river in between the thuds of the Butterfly Man flapping his wings at those bad boys. She saw her superhero come close and she looked up as the start of a smile came to her face. You take me home? she said. He scooped her up in his wings and spoke: Where do you live young Princess? She was confused. It had turned to night in the time the bad boys chased her, pulled her hair, threw her down, and when the Butterfly Man beat them up. She had never been allowed out in the dark before. She was supposed to be home before dark. It should be over there, she pointed and said in a voice that seemed more or less coming from a girl half her age. She looked down, her dress was dirty and she thought – oh no. I will get in trouble for this. In her mind she kept pointing and forgot what she was saying to the Butterfly Man, when - all of a sudden - he was laying her down on her front porch swing. He smiled at her and then flew away. She felt at ease now. There was no more panic. But her breast hurt underneath the wire of her bra, and the backs of her legs were scrapped as she moved her hands over them. She looked at her hands and began to cry uncontrollably. Mama, Mama, Mama, she screamed. She heard sounds of pots falling and chairs falling. Her Mama came running from the kitchen straight out the front door as she was peeing herself from the fear of seeing her own blood. Mama helped her up and brought her inside saying, It’s all gone, it’s all gone, it’s all gone, Mama’s here and Daddy will be home soon. It’s almost dinner time. It’s all gone, it’s all gone, and it’s all gone. Her Mama held her hand under warm running water over a kitchen sink. A wave of calm came over her when Mama held her hand. The water streaming through her fingers washed away the memory of blood. Mama repeated, It’s all gone, it’s all gone, it’s all gone, all gone, all gone, all gone, gone, gone, gone…

Chapter 1

Tuesday the 14th of December

2004

(12 Days to Christmas)

Image1Chapter1.jpg

The Ring of Fire

Warning sirens rocked me out of a deep sleep. Irritated and groggy, I cursed whoever adjusted the ringer’s volume on the hotel phone for a deafening headache. Who is this?

Is Zat you, Mr. Frank? It’s Miss Angel, the night manager said, Miss Margaret, she’s downstairs. She says, ‘she needs to see you’. She’s cryin, Mr. Frank. She don’t look good.

I had left Maggie at her gin mill on Bourbon Street sometime after midnight. I checked my watch on the nightstand: it was 7am. What the hell was she doing here? Miss Angel, tell her to come on up. I’ll leave the door unlocked.

I rolled off the bed and into the bathroom to splash some water on my face. The creaking stairs outside my second floor, front-of-the-house room indicated Maggie was just a few seconds from my door. I threw on the hotel robe hanging next to the tub. Come in, Maggie, I shouted in anticipation of her knock.

She rushed me coming out of the bathroom, grabbing the terry-cloth lapels and burying her head into my chest. I need your help, Frank. She looked up at me, holding tight. My friend, Miss Rachel Harley, she called bout an hour ago looking for her daughter, Aerial. She’s the pretty little Creole teenager, with the long curly black hair, who came in and sat near you after you came into my bar last night.

Calm down, you’re rambling. I can remember vaguely, I said, gently pushing her back.

Maggie took a long breath and, shaking me, began speaking faster.

Mondays after school, she stops by to see Carson. Then she goes to pick up dinner. After that, Aerial goes home to her Mama. But, she never made it back last night.

Back up a sec, I said, unlocking her grip. Why did her mother wait until this morning to call? Why didn’t she call you last night?

I don’t know.

Did you call the police? I said, putting a palm to my head.

"Frank, you know the police can’t do anything unless she’s been missing for at least twenty-four hours. Turning it up an octave, she continued with emphasis, Sometimes, I think you’re stupid."

Maggie tended to raise her voice when angry; prompting my switch to a louder tone and a snarky remark I wanted to forget three seconds after. "Yah, I’m so sorry. Apparently, when we were dating, I didn’t make it perfectly clear: I’m in the business of investigating companies – not, tracking down missing persons."

I was fortunate once to be one of a handful of financially oriented people to have uncovered a massive fraud at Enron at the turn of the century. I stumbled across it really, but that’s another story. It put me on the Wall Street map of field analysts coveted by big institutional investors, and required the kind of travel schedule one could easily confuse for touring with a rock band.

On Monday the 13th of December, in 2004, I had checked into a charming inn, The Maison de Ville, in New Orleans’ famous French Quarter. I was making the landmark boutique hotel my home-away-from-home for a few days on a planned trip to visit a locally based

company. However, as dedicated bachelors often repeat the mistake of dropping in on girlfriends of Christmas Past, my attention became diverted from my business, and the following two weeks resembled a long night at Ebenezer Scrooge’s house.

In one of those odd long moments of suspended silence, I became temporarily invisible. Maggie was looking at me, but staring past me. Her brain freeze telegraphed a kind of half-scared and half-wandering focus of a mind in panic – struggling with what to say and do next. Her expression suggested that maybe I was – in fact – actually stupid. I squeezed hands over my ears in a hear-no-evil gesture, and stepped into the bathroom to search for the Advil in my Dopp kit.

You don’t understand, she shouted, suddenly snapping out of it. This girl’s very special. She doesn’t just go disappear, or go missing for no reason. Something’s wrong, Frank…I need your help. I need you to help me right now! I’m terrified something bad has happened to her.

I spoke loudly from the bathroom, making another snide and headache induced remark I regretted right after: "Special – as in – stupid, like me?"

Noooo– Maggie started crying.

I stepped out after swallowing a couple pills I had fumbled and dropped on the floor. Alright, alright, calm down. Let me get some clothes on, we’ll go for some breakfast, and figure out something sensible to do.

A sigh of relief projected from her face. Do you have a coat? It’s cold outside.

_____

Putting on my button-down collar white shirt, I grabbed the pilot jacket out of my leather Polo bag and we headed downstairs. I had discovered a convenient diner near the corner towards the river after being kicked out of Maggie’s apartment last Christmas. It reminded me of every neighborhood joint in New York. The sign on the door: ‘DINER’, made it easy to remember the place with this morning’s hangover.

It seemed unseasonably cold in the short walk to the Diner – like, New England cold. I noted my over the waist length overcoat was better suited. "So…what’s so ‘special’ about the girl?" I asked, making air quotes to emphasize.

Maggie paused and, tearing-up intermittently, said, The child…is gifted. She’s a true mystic. Aerial has a real gift, Frank.

Come again? I said, trying to shake cobwebs from my head.

I know you’re gonna think this is crazy – but, she can conjure up souls…she’s a medium to the dead. Her mother is a Hoodoo Witch.

Com ’on, you’ve gotta be kidding me. Stop messing around with me this early in the morning, Mag.

Frank…it’s true. People who live in the Quarter, and tourists that are interested in séances, know who they are.

What? You got me outta bed this early on a drunken morning for a shake-up call to look for someone who performs Voodoo parlor tricks?

Why would it matter? They’re my friends…and it’s not Voodoo, it’s Hoodoo, she said, tearing up again.

Holding open the Diner door for her, I said, What’s the fucking difference, Mag? My hangover’s moody tone sparked a decidedly full-on crying burst – and, realizing what I had done – I put my arms around her. I’m so sorry Maggie. I didn’t mean to raise my voice. It’s the aftereffects of drinking on the plane before getting drunk at your place last night. Sorry…com ’on, please calm down. We’ll find her. She’ll show up.

Voodoo is bullshit, Frank. Her voice was trembling from the whoosh of a whipping wind that pushed her up against me as we went through door. I wiped a tear from her cheek when we stepped inside. She said, But…but…Hoodoo, it’s for healing souls.

Okay, okay, try and relax.

I guess expecting you to understand– she said, trailing off into another thought summoning state.

Understand what? I said, waving a hand in front of her face. Com ’on; let’s sit down."

You see…Aerial can connect and guide us through time with the immortality of the spirits. She’s a gateway for the dead. Someone has kidnapped her for this reason, don’t you see?

No, I don’t see, I said a bit louder, attempting to remain calm. I really don’t. Do you hear yourself, Mag? I know you’re superstitious, but this is ridiculous. I continued, Pretty soon you’ll be telling me: ‘The Force is strong in her’.

Tears began flowing again, and I sensed arguing common sense in her state would result in the customers thinking this guy beats his girlfriend.

We had taken a two-top booth in the back next to a nickel-plated door time-stamped from the fifties. The place was like most diners in New York: narrow, about fifteen feet wide, and likely wedged into a spot that was originally built for transferring horse carriages to livery stables before rising rents prompted landlords to enclose the bridle paths. The coral speckled Formica counter and the pleather red fixed stools, reflected way too bright fluorescent lights. A path impassable by more than two separated a row of tight single-seat two top booths running parallel from the counter. A face, like my grandmother’s, on the other side of a port hole in the fifties swinging door, stared at us from the kitchen side.

I ordered a couple coffees when she came around; recalling when I first found the place the waitress was a bit of a sourpuss. She looked at me with the I-know-it’s-your-fault look my grandmother used to, no doubt assuming I was the cause of upsetting Maggie.

Leaning across the table, I chose a softer tone: Maggie, I’m here on a job for just a few days from New York to visit the chairman of a public company. As much as it would indulge my fantasies, I don’t have time to be playing private detective. You’ll have to just wait and tell the police to search for Aerial.

"It’s not Aerial, Frank…it’s Aureole, ˈôrēˌōlˈ," she said, mouthing pronunciation phonetically. It means, ‘a circle of light’, like around a holy person.

Sorry, I hear in a Boston accent sometimes.

"I know you’ll find this very hard to believe. But trust me; this is no Ouija Board con. This child does not just go, missing. Someone must have kidnapped her, she said, and then raised her voice again. Are you gonna fucking help me, or what?"

Shush, quiet please. They’re gonna think I beat you, Maggie, I said, lowering my head and pointing to a set of incoming patrons.

Thankfully, the waitress returned quickly with the coffees. I said, May I have a scrambled egg, bacon, and cheese on a roll, please? I looked at Maggie, Anything?

Maggie waived she wasn’t hungry. No thanks, Anita.

You know her? I pointed when the waitress walked away.

Everybody in the Quarter knows everybody.

What about your barman, Carson? Did you try calling him? He was serving the girl whiskey last night. What’s that about?

It’s not whiskey, you dumb dumb. It’s iced tea, but in a whiskey bottle. She’s sixteen and a minor for God’s sake. You think we would serve her booze?

This is The Big Easy, isn’t it?

She gave me the ‘you’re stupid’ look again, sucking in a long deep breath to overtly express her exasperation. …Aureole, she comes in on Mondays after school, and pretends she’s an adult. She’s a special child, and goes to the famous NOCCA School for gifted children. The school: the New Orleans Center for Creative Arts, only takes the most talented kids.

Psychic studies are a creative art down here?

Of course not, she studies music, Maggie said, shaking her head. She comes around to visit with Carson. She doesn’t have a father. He treats her like an adult – which, most girls her age like to make believe they are. They talk about her school week, that’s all. She goes to Papa Nik’s restaurant after, where she picks up dinner for her and her Mama. Then she walks home to their house down by the French Market. It’s a regular routine and it doesn’t change…until last night.

Let me ask you again, did you ask Carson to look for her?

"He was first on my list. Coincidentally, he lives at the Maison. He gets room and board for cleaning and handyman stuff. He wasn’t

in. You didn’t tell me where you were staying when you left last night, but I remembered you had checked-in there after our fight, so I asked Miss Angel if you were there."

It wasn’t our fight. You started it.

Don’t get me going, Frank. You were an asshole.

I was an asshole? I came to your apartment one night, thinking everything was going fantastic, and you randomly initiated throwing hard objects at me.

Let’s not rehash the reasons for that, okay? You’re the one that stopped by my place unannounced yesterday, after almost a year. I’d forgotten all about you.

There was no winning any argument going down this rabbit hole. I said, Alright, go on.

She moved on after a mean squint. Miss Angel told me, Carson hadn’t come back from running this morning. But, she said he’d ‘be back by eight or nine because he has to clean the back of the house’, I guess before coming to work for me at eleven. So basically, you were my back-up.

Let me see if I understand. He works for you until well after midnight, wakes up before dawn, and has the energy to go out for a run? Who is this guy, Superman?

That’s what he likes to do. Whenever I look for him outside the bar, he’s always running.

Why do you suppose?

He may think I’m trying to get him in my bed, and he has the common sense not to sleep with the boss.

Sensing she threw that in to see if it would make me jealous, I made the mistake of saying yet another thing I would regret right after: What’d ya think would give him that impression?

She furrowed forehead, wrinkled her nose, and gave me the mean squint again. Listen Buster, I’m not dignifying that with an answer.

Carson seemed very fit, and sort of a descent looking guy, if you like the blond stubble for hair and the Bruce-Willis-meets-California-surfer look. He and Maggie would make a decent looking couple, except for the fact he had the verbal engagement skills of a fish out of

water. After a stale minute, I made perhaps too sly an innuendo. It seems to me, you might ask him where the girl is.

Noooo…you might think he’s a perv because he’s quiet, but he’s not. He doesn’t drink, or go out, and keeps to himself. In his free time, he’s generally working out.

"Totally normal, I said with extended sarcasm, he should be the number one suspect. Has anyone checked under the floor boards in his room?"

We’re wasting time, Frank, she said, looking at the clock on the wall. It’s eight o’clock. I’ll go find Carson and Miss Rachel. You take a shower and meet me at my place in an hour.

She liked to do that: give orders. And, for the most part, because Maggie had cast a spell on me, I tended to follow them. Alright, I shrugged. It’s clear you still like me and won’t leave me alone unless we can find things for us to do together. But, no-can-do at nine, I have a meeting at the Freeport Building. I’ll meet you after that back at your saloon before lunch time. If she hasn’t shown up by then, we’ll go over to the police station and see if we can’t make friends with somebody who might help us.

Thank you, Frank, she said, and the tension in her face softened to a smile in harmony with relief.

_____

Back in my hotel room, and disposed to thinking in the shower, I let the steamy water stream over my head. What’s really going on here? Maggie was pretty much on the razor’s edge of hysteria over the missing young girl. The mystic hocus pocus was way over the top – but, the kid was missing. I couldn’t just walk out on her. I wasn’t happy with the break-up. I was dating different women for a few weeks on and off. After a few drinks on the plane coming down, I now reasoned a subconscious desire for reconciliation prompted my detour into Maggie’s Bar last night.

After shaving, I threw on a clean shirt, slacks, and a necktie to tie the whole blue blazer analyst uniform together. I took a notebook from my leather duffle for my meeting.

Stopping at the Maison alcove office, opposite and below the stairwell, I poked my head in to get Miss Angel’s attention. Hello, I was wondering, has Carson returned from his run yet?

I ain’t seen him, but he’ll be back soon.

Might I ask what kinda work he does around here, and how long he’s been living here?

Mr. Jeff, he’s been here for bout…oh…comin on a year now. We were thinkin he was a drifter when he came askin for work for room and board. The owner’s and I wouldn’t have givin him none, but for Miss Margaret vouchin for him-n-all. He cleans up the back of the kitchen we share with the restaurant, and does some of the fixin things in the hotel. He’s a good boy, Miss Angel said, conclusively.

Just one last question: who’s in charge of inspecting the rooms before the guests check-in? My phone ringer was set loud enough to scare a witch.

That’d be, Mr. Charlie. He inspects all the rooms after the guests check-out and before the new guests check-in.

_____

I headed west on Toulouse towards Bourbon Street. I took a left, passing Maggie’s Bar, heading further west on my way to St. Charles Avenue, which transitions and picks-up from Bourbon on the other side of Canal Street. I made my way along St. Charles to Poydras Street in accordance with directions from the Maison provided by the Chairman’s gatekeeper, Miss Lynne. The early smell of daiquiri and beer washed sidewalks began to fade the farther I walked from The French Quarter. Miss Lynne’s route to the Freeport Building marked it directly across the street from the Superdome.

Approaching, I jumped the front steps two at a time to get out of the Nor’easter-like burst of damp winter chill that seemed bizarre for this deep in the swamps.

There was a uniformed security guard, packing a forty-five in a military holster behind a honed green granite desk, who looked like a Brinks driver guarding money. Matching stone slabs clad the atrium, and mirrored the polished version of the curtain-wall wrapping the outside of the Building. It must have required an entire mountain of

stone. The guard’s eyes tracked my line across the lobby, squinting overtly to make sure I knew he was watching me. Preempting his where-you-headed look, I answered his expected question when I approached the desk. Hello, I’m here to visit Mr. Jim Bob Moffett. Miss Lynne has made an appointment for me.

Speaking the names ‘Jim Bob Moffett’, and ‘Miss Lynne’, triggered an immediate look at the Guest List on his desk. His facial expression transitioned from suspicious to accommodating, and he said, May I have your name, please?

Corso…Frank Corso, I said, with a James Bond cadence.

He called upstairs and, after announcing me, said, Mr. Corso, the office is on the top floor…the elevators are to your right.

Elevator doors opened into a warmly lit penthouse lobby, well-appointed with pendant shaped bronze wall sconces, mounted below dark mahogany crown molding that matched the wainscot. Between the sconces, three original oil paintings of cowboys roping steers on horses at full gallop were showcased over damask wall coverings of green and gold. The style proposed a rugged elegance, and reminded me of the Ralph Lauren flagship store on Madison Avenue.

There was only one hall off the elevator lobby, and it led directly to Miss Lynne’s desk standing guard outside the boss’s office door. She was a trim blond and fading to gray haired woman with delicate features in her 60’s – and who, were it not for her light skin and hair, reminded me of my mother.

In my super-nice well-practiced delivery, which can sometimes be construed as straight-up servile flattery, I introduced myself. It’s so nice to meet you in person, Miss Lynne. Thank you so much for arranging this meeting with Jim Bob. I’m a great fan of his wildcatter history, and his remarkable achievements as skipper of the F–C–X ship.

FCX was the stock symbol of Freeport Copper & Gold. Under the stewardship of Jim Bob Moffett, it owned the second largest copper mine in the world, Grasberg, which is located, of all places, in Papua, New Guinea, on the other side of the world in Indonesia.

As the legend goes, Jim Bob, a geologist by training, went up into the mountains searching for gold along what miners call, ‘The Ring of Fire’. The view from space marks the perimeter of thousands of years of volcanic eruptions, and earthquakes in conflict with tectonic plates smashing along the coastal edges of the Pacific. The colliding forces have pushed-up a mountain range ring that has given birth to high concentrations of rare ores man has coveted and fought over for centuries.

Jim Bob was exploring around a nearby depleted Dutch mine, abandoned in the 1980’s. Chipping away on rocks a few kilometers away, he discovered a copper mother lode. In another stroke of luck, Grasberg Mountain produced enough gold as a byproduct of copper; it became the single largest mining producer of gold in the world. In my Initiation Report, I pitched FCX as the Powerball Winner of mining.

Large mahogany double doors opened to the boss’s office with a push of a gold button Miss Lynne fingered on her desk. A tall trim John-Wayne-of-a-man, en route to his mark on set, was in-step to the doorway reaching to shake my hand. It’s a pleasure to see you again so soon, Frank.

Thank you Jim Bob. The pleasure’s all mine, I said, shaking his hand. Your kind invitation to visit is appreciated by my clients.

Com’n in, Frank, he said with a cowboy’s camaraderie, and the folksy wave of a seasoned bronc buster inviting young cowboys into the breaking corral.

I followed into his office. His desktop alone must have been five by ten feet, and it occupied a section in the room that was larger than my entire office in Manhattan. It was situated next to large fishbowl curved windows overlooking the Superdome. His full floor executive office was exceptionally well furnished: gold leaf taffeta curtains, saddle leather club chairs, and three original Remington sculptures showcased on credenzas behind two large gold silk couches. The top floor, no-expense-spared, chief executive’s sanctuary like this would, in most instances, raise questions about how shareholders money is being spent. But here, the king of the gold mountain had free reign.

Mooring another corner of the office was a rectangular lacquer conference table, inlaid with rare woods in a Marcus Aurelius pattern I had seen in a piazza at the Vatican once. The ambiance, mood, and design of Jim Bob’s plush office conveyed wealth and, ‘this is what the gold buys’. Nice office…I like it, I said.

Times are very good, son. We’re fillin our bellies right now, and gettin fat, he said, illustrating by rubbing his stomach – which, is Jim Bob lingo for: ‘we’re gonna be richer than we already are’.

Let’s have a seat at the conference table over here. I have one of my boys comin up to give us a little brief of where we’re takin this thing. Where’re you stayin while you’re here, son?

I’m at The Maison de Ville Hotel in the Quarter.

I could tell he was a pro schmoozer. Convincing investors to put-up a billion dollars to dig up a mountain on an island on the other side of the world makes pro schmoozer a prerequisite.

Jim Bob continued: Your first time down here?

No, I visited many times last year, travelling almost every other weekend. I’m getting to know my way around.

A woman?

Yes sir, I met her in New York while she was visiting.

We were interrupted by one of his executives entering the room. Hello, I’m Robert Di Stefano, he said, reaching to shake my hand. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

Jim Bob cut in, Rob here is a very talented engineer, and he’s our chief technical man at Grasberg. I thought we’d take the opportunity to visit with him since he’s just arrived back from the mine.

I’m all ears, I said.

Rob– Jim Bob motioned to him to start.

We greatly appreciate your taking the time to visit with us. I’ve taken the opportunity to update some developments Jim Bob may have touched on at last week’s New York mining conference. He’s shared your reputation with institutional investors with me, and we look to your input to help shape our presentation for Wall Street as required.

Well-rehearsed, I thought.

Robert handed me a PowerPoint presentation. We have three initiatives we think will drive the growth in our business, and create value for our shareholders. The last two are in support of the main thrust of our plan to mine the deep core of the mountain. This will require the expansion of our processing, and port facilities, to export higher volumes once we’re deep into the heart of the sweet spot underground – which, we hope can be sometime next year.

He went through the slides, explaining how mining underground would result in significantly higher yields of copper and gold per ton mined. After which, I asked, How much of this proposed plan have you shared with analysts at investment banks?

Jim Bob interjected, I spoke with several sell-side analysts at the conference. Your investment house colleagues provide their research free of charge, unfortunately, which can dilute its value to investors. We’ve found institutional shareholders prefer independent analysis someone like you performs.

True and he was playing me for sure, I thought. I appreciate your confidence, I said, and I’d like to hear more about the underground initiative. But, for now, could you please enlighten me as to how you manage this Grasberg asset from so far away? Also, what is the glue insuring your concession with the Indonesian Government doesn’t change? There is concern on the ‘Street’ that a change in government may dilute F–C–X’s prospective value if you’re forced to take a lower revenue share?

Frank, Rob here is one of three technical managers – who, along with hundreds of geologists, engineers and executives, travel every two weeks on our seven-fifty-seven to our camps in Grasberg. On site, we manage thousands of indigenous workers on a two-week on, and two-week off basis. I myself am there every month as well. My boys have been with me for years, and know what they’re doing. And, you can trust me when I tell you that we have a very strong relationship with the powers in and behind the government. No matter who’s in power, they need us more than we need them.

His response to my second question required unadulterated trust and, while I’m inherently wired to be skeptical, I believed him and felt satisfied with knowing he was personally hands-on, despite the distance between the New Orleans corporate headquarters and the mining operations in Indonesia. Jim Bob went on: Let’s go down to the War Room, where we’d like to show you how we’re designing this new underground initiative. Standing on Jim Bob’s lead, he led us to a private elevator next to an alcove bar in his office. He made conversation on the ride down. Do you plan to stay awhile with this girlfriend you got down here?

No sir, I don’t go out with her any longer. Her dad passed away and left her a saloon she’s busy running. At some point last year, she freaked out a little on me.

That must be Big Sal Greco’s daughter, Robert said. The place is named after her. It’s been in the Quarter since I was a teenager.

Jim Bob, a few inches taller than me, pitched his head down and said, You best be careful now. These crazy Eye-talian Creole girls that grew up in the Quarter, they get a man on their mind…they get that man, and wrastle him down to livin down here.

I’ll keep that in mind, I said, as the elevator door opened into a large conference room.

Below crown molding in the War Room, walls were clad in cork and white boards on rollers were positioned all around for on-the-fly demos and spit balling. Dozens of engineering plans and renderings, side-by-side with aerial photographs of the Grasberg operation, were pinned up on walls and spread on tables. Robert proceeded to draw a picture on one of the white boards of what he termed, ‘the block caving method’.

Underneath this mountain, Frank, is the core of the sweet spot in The Ring of Fire, Jim Bob said, pointing at Robert’s drawing with a steady conviction. For us geologists, this is The Holy Grail. Mining it, I believe, will reveal The Mother Lode of the mother lode.

Back in his office, I offered to circle back with Robert after doing a little homework. Jim Bob said, Rob can take as much time with you as necessary now, Frank.

I’m so sorry; I have to run, Jim Bob. I promised my ex, I’d meet her for lunch and help her with a lost friend.

Ha! Jim Bob laughed out loud. She’s playin you, boy.

Yah, you’re probably right.

Robert said, I’ll call the driver to take you where you need to go, Mr. Corso.

Thanks so much, I said.

A random switch suddenly changed Jim Bob’s mood, as if a darkness was moving him in a different direction. I felt the conversation shift to a language unrelated. He turned deadly serious, and his raised in the bayous patois took over. You watch yah’self in the Qua’tah now. It’s a Ring of Fi’ah.

Shaking his hand, I said. Yes sir, I will.

I greeted Miss Lynne with a courteous wave, thanking her again before heading down the hall with Robert Di Stefano. In the elevator I asked, "What’s your elevator pitch on