Pipeline

By Daniel Kuttner

Spring, 1975, Los Angeles. Jake hopes his new auditor's job at Dyno Oil will replace the danger and stress of Naval Aviation with security and stability.

But Jake's old CIA "frenemy," Fred, pushes him into a whirlpool of corporate fraud and government drug smuggling. The trail leads him into the clutches of a ring of child sex traffickers.

Jake's unresolved fears return in full force, but escape is not an option.

He'll have to join forces with the beautiful leader of a rowdy band of Basques to overcome the crooks, perverts, and government thugs to save the captive children.

But first, he must escape the kidnappers with his life... and his mind!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Kuttner
• Release date: Mar 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201857981

Daniel Kuttner

Daniel Kuttner was born to German-Jewish immigrant parents. He grew up in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania -- coal and steel country.  Since then, he's lived in many other areas of America and has seen much of the world during his time in the U.S. Navy. Daniel has worked in diverse occupations since his Navy days, including Oil, Airline, Railroad, Television and Radio. His experiences pepper his short plays and stories. He just finished his first novel, "Pipeline," an action-adventure based on his experiences while working on the Alaska Pipeline. His second novel, in progress, is a thinly disguised sequel to the film "Forbidden Planet." He also has a bushel-full of notes for additional short stories, plays and a self-help book entitled "Be Brave, Be Free." Daniel lives in Sun City, CA,  He shares his house with two small parrots, Jasper and Zeke. Of his early writing, he says, "I started at about age 9, writing about pirates and buried treasure."

Book preview

Chapter One

Phil’s Big Audit

Tundra Pipeline Headquarters

Fairbanks, Alaska

Late May, 1975

Mid-Evening

This job was supposed to be a piece of cake.

Report to the Pipeline construction office, scrutinize some paperwork, party, sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat. But now, Phil was hiding in a dark office.

A second window shattered, this time in the lunchroom. Glass tinkled as someone climbed through the window and jumped to the floor. Whispers pierced the air. How many had broken in? Were they burglars... or worse?

His coworkers warned him, but for Phil, duty always took precedence. Now, the dire words had become real. Maybe he could hide the evidence and use it for bargaining, or even shred it all tomorrow. Pretend he’d found nothing.

If he could get out of this, his new motto would be Go along to get along. In the meantime, better to hide what he’d found. He took off his shoes and tiptoed, lugging the box of evidence to an unused desk. Climbing onto it, he pushed aside a white ceiling tile, stowed the box atop an adjacent panel, then pulled that tile back into place. Brushing the itchy asbestos flakes from his neck and hair, he clambered down, crouched, and peered over the desk.

A door creaked open. Footsteps and more whispering. A heavy object scraped across a desktop, fell, and shattered.

Sticking to the shadows, Phil grabbed his briefcase and slinked toward the front exit.

From a dark hallway to the left, a metal ashtray skittered across the floor and clattered to a stop at his feet.

Phil slipped out the front door and squinted in the Arctic glare. He sprinted toward his car, wincing as bits of gravel pierced his thin Ban-Lon socks. He fumbled for his keys.

Inside the car, he scanned the area. All was still. Beyond the parking lot lay Fairbanks, its dirt roads lined with Western-style clapboard storefronts and saloons. The cow-town motif included the company parking lot. Every space had a metal hitching post, though horses had faded into history. In winter, the posts supplied electrical power to heat each car’s engine block, preventing it from cracking. In spring, the posts sat idle, holding their looped power cords.

He tapped his fingers on the dash. A plan. He needed a plan.

Tomorrow, he’d call Jake, the new guy in LA, a straight-arrow right out of the Navy. Phil had already sent him an explanatory note so, Jake could blow the whistle if anything happened up here. The hidden box of evidence was Phil’s life insurance.

The motel wouldn’t be safe. He ran his fingers through his thinning red hair and felt in his pocket for the note Molly, the pretty clerk, had given him. Her lingering fragrance clouded his head. He pictured her long, auburn hair glowing in sunlight. With a lump in his throat, he dug out the slip with her address and phone number. He stared at it wondering, why him?

No matter. He could hide at her place and arrange a flight out. If not, he’d drive his rental car back to LA.

He visualized Molly’s slim figure, her blouse open, her hand reaching toward him. He licked his lips.

Phil snapped back to reality as a silhouetted figure stepped in front of the car. Its gloved hand reached for the heater control atop the hitching post. Its power cord led to Phil’s car. Before he could speak, the hand flipped the switch.

Electricity punched him in the chest. A bright flash filled his head. His heart fluttered. He smelled smoke. His ears rang. Through the colored spots before his eyes, the figure jerked the electrical cable free of the car and tossed it aside. A blurred face peered at him through the windshield.

Phil gasped like a beached fish.

The car door opened, and a needle stabbed his neck. Fiery fluid coursed through his body. He slumped toward the passenger side of the front seat, his view veiled as if through gauze.

The car bounced as someone dropped onto the driver’s seat, pushed Phil further to the right, and slammed the door.

Footsteps crunched toward the car. A woman ordered, Start the car.

The man drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Delivery or disposal?

Doc says he has no use for this one. Thump and dump.

Phil silently screamed, No! Wait! I won’t talk. I’ll shred everything tomorrow. Let me go. But like the rest of his body, his mouth wouldn’t work.

The woman opened the passenger door, pushed Phil upright, and patted him down. She retrieved the note and stared into his eyes. Sorry, Bud. I said I had a surprise for you. Still, it is a hot date.

The tip of Phil’s swollen tongue protruded from his swollen lips. Spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

Ugh. The man pushed Phil further away.

The woman hissed, Start the car and follow me. She slammed the door.

Another engine revved. With a screech, the two vehicles spun onto the paved road.

Red-tinged sunlight flickered as trees swished past.

Phil cursed himself. How had he gotten into this mess?

On his previous audit at Dyno Oil headquarters in Los Angeles, he’d caught the president and his wife embezzling cash. Instead of praising Phil for uncovering the scheme, the Audit Manager had confiscated his notes and banished him to Fairbanks, this premier frontier dust-hole.

The first few days, he’d found so much fraud he’d worked late into that night and every day since. The crimes were easy to spot among the stacks of time slips and equipment logs. All this evidence would certainly put him in good with his boss.

Then came the warnings.

The other auditors had badgered him. No one cares what goes on up here. Everything’s arranged. The crooks pocket some money, politicians get their perks, and we get big bucks. Everyone wins. You want to end up like the last guy?

Phil never asked about his predecessor.

A few days later a gray-haired man with piercing black eyes pushed into Phil’s motel room. You’re a smart guy. You could go far, but around here, snooping opens a can of snakes. The setup is Christmas for everyone, and you don't want to be Scrooge. Without awaiting a reply, he did an about-face. At the open door, he halted and scowled. Watch out for Number One, Bud. Ask your gal, Molly. Think it over. He pointed at Phil. Maybe I’ll be seein’ ya, but you’d better hope not. Then he’d faded into the night. If only Phil had listened.

The car accelerated, swayed around a series of curves, then stopped.

Escape. Phil ordered his hand to grab the handle, but his fingers wouldn’t respond.

A gate clanked open. The car drove on, then stopped again.

Arms pulled Phil out into the dusty air. The Sun hovered low in the sky over a construction site. A breeze brought a chorus of birds and deep-voiced frogs. A gray, swirling haze of mosquitoes buzzed overhead, chased by a black cloud of bats. Everyone was part of a food chain.

Phil’s captors dragged, then lowered him into a hole that smelled of damp clay. He sagged, wedged against cold, metal bars. Something pierced his right arm as they bound him. His heart fluttered erratically. Conscious but paralyzed, he heard the thump of his briefcase as it flopped into the hole beside him.

Footsteps crunched away. The two cars started, their headlight beams scanned the trees as they turned and left.

One by one, the nighttime animal sounds returned.

He struggled to move a hand, a finger. If he could shout, who would hear?

He lost consciousness.

Throbbing diesels and clanking machinery awoke him. A man barked orders. A truck backed up, beeping a warning.

A construction crew! Maybe they would see him! Phil strained to shout, his mouth forming a silent O. His eyes would not focus.

Above him, a machine revved, clattering, creaking, then splashing. Hot muck plopped, then poured onto Phil’s feet. It slid up his ankles, then his knees. The powdery smell slammed home the source: Concrete!

Panic cramped Phil’s stomach. He tried to squirm, to cry out, but the drug had reduced him to a barely conscious scarecrow.

The thick, swirling mix climbed to his waist, then his shoulders, chin, his mouth. Finally, it crept over his nose. Alkaline vapors burned his eyes.

He held his breath until his lungs ached; reflex forced him to gasp. Hot, thick sludge filled his sinuses, windpipe, then his lungs. Weak coughs pushed out a few bubbles.

His drowning panic waned, leaving only his sense of floating in the seething mire.

The muffled sounds of machines and men faded. If only his assailants had let him explain.

He pictured Molly reaching for him, her auburn hair haloed by moonlight. He called her name, then surrendered to the blackness.

Chapter Two

Into the Corporate Jaws

Palms Area, West Los Angeles, California

Mid-June, 1975

Early Morning

Jake awoke before his clock radio clicked on. He still slept lightly, a habit from Naval flight training and three years aboard ship. His nerves tightened as he considered facing another day at his new job as an Internal Auditor at Dyno Petroleum. The move from sleepy San Diego to Los Angeles put him further on edge.

LA was changing fast, many would say declining. It was still vibrant, full of adventure and promise, but decades of inner rot started to show, cracking the carefully crafted facade.

Cars lined up for hours for gas. Many would be turned away empty. Drugs and suicide took some of Rock’s biggest stars. Disco, first fresh and orchestral, had become cheap, weak, and tinny, strained through bad speakers in elevators and restrooms.

Imaginative filmmakers broke from the once resplendent studios as conglomerate accountants took over. MGM's vaunted back-lot with tons of classic sets collapsed into ashes, possibly by an arsonist’s torch. The new bosses ordered precious film negatives, art, and costumes discarded, the land sold and bulldozed for condos and trendy office buildings. At secret parties, moguls and politicians plied their deals and dirty connections, sealed with orgies allegedly forced upon drugged children.

Jake plunged into this simmering cauldron after four years as a Naval Officer. His special missions and their aftermath lay heavy on him. Some of his friends had returned from Vietnam with parts missing, others not at all.

He sat up and stretched. No more 1MC loudspeakers to announce reveille, no ship’s bell to mark the progress of the day.

He stood and glanced through the bedroom window. Sometimes The pretty, lingerie-clad woman across the alley would pose and return his smile. Today a grizzled, glaring man whisked the drapes shut.

As Jake showered and shaved, he smiled at his good fortune. He liked his 60s-era apartment in the quiet West LA area of Palms. The three-story building lay only five blocks from what remained of the MGM studios. Across Venice Boulevard, Culver City offered a bakery, unique, affordable restaurants, and a flatiron-shaped former hotel, housing echoes of illicit affairs, gangsters on the run, and 1940s detective agencies.

On weekends, he biked to Venice Beach or Santa Monica, each with its own attractions. Life in LA might be OK after all. He might even catch a side-gig hypnotizing people at parties or even night clubs. It had brought in some pretty good money as a college sideline.

Jake rubbed his hands quickly through his wet curly black hair, flicking droplets onto the mirror. He selected a brown cotton shirt, cream double-knit bell-bottomed suit, a Navajo belt with silver mosaic buckle and a Jimi Hendrix-themed tie. Wearing non-standard attire was a release from corporate conformity. Creativity made the required business uniform less confining. Still, the tie choked like a flea collar.

Jake used a sock to buff his goatskin Frye Jet Boots, reminders of his Naval Aviation days. Because of the image, Phoebe, the pretty blonde at the company credit union, sometimes called him Sky King.

He glanced in the mirror, running a final comb through his bushy hair, slim mustache, and dark, wiry eyebrows. He saluted. Everything passed inspection. Time to catch the bus downtown.

The Number 436 Express pulled up as Jake arrived at the stop. He greeted the driver. Henry, you ol’ speed demon. How’s the bass guitar doin’?

Henry flashed a smile. Jus’ fine, Lieutenant. Learned some new licks over the weekend. He offered a fist bump, closed the door, and nosed the bus back into traffic.

Jake worked his way to the rear. LA’s density loomed through the open windows, which also brought the homey smell of Helms Bakery.

The bus hissed to a stop at La Cienega. Several suited, bland-faced men got on, including Jake‘s coworker, Shel.

Hey, there he is, the Dyno ‘Zap’ logo personified! Wearing another gray suit, I see. How many do you have?

Shel’s normally strained expression came as close to a smile as it ever would. The bus jolted forward. It’s actually green, if you look closely. Looking Jake up and down, he scowled. In Auditing, flashy dress is never... indicated. He wiped a layer of dust off the seat next to Jake and grimaced. What’s this grit?

It’s fallout from the concrete they’re grinding near my place. They’re pulling up the old Red Line trolley rails. Jake slid toward the window to give Shel more room. Pulling up the commuter rails in the midst of a so-called gas shortage. That’s LA for you. They’ll probably spend a billion rebuilding it ten years after this crisis ends.

Shel placed his briefcase between his feet. Well, that’s why riding a bus is... indicated.

Shel, didn’t you measure the big tanks at the Carson refinery last month? Weren’t they all full?

Yes. The company’s sending a few trainloads of gasoline east as some kind of deal.

Probably to DC and New York so the politicians won’t have to wait in line like we do.

You can’t keep questioning company policy. Go along to get along.

Don’t worry, Shel, I’ll become a total company man just like you. I even learned the new radio jingle. He sang, If you want your car to go-go-gooo, fill your tank with Dy-y-no.

Shel’s face turned pink.

Jake patted his arm. I know... singing on the bus isn’t... ‘indicated.’

Shel‘s tight-lipped half-smile reappeared. He pointed out the window. Check the limo. They get to use those new Diamond Lanes to get around the rest of us.

Yeah. Jake pointed outside. A black helicopter zoomed above the Ten Freeway. That guy knows an even faster way. That’s one of those new Italian choppers, like the Agusta that lands on our building downtown. The craft zipped past them, its engines whining and the flutter of its rotor rattling the bus window. At least someone has a few bucks.

Didn’t you used to fly one of those? Shel asked.

Nothin’ that sleek. The stuff I flew in the Navy was all clunky, dirt-streaked, and dripping oil. That helo is the rich, sexy side of aviation. Who’s important enough to fly to work?

Shel grimaced. You don’t want to know.

The bus turned to make one of its short loops back onto Venice Boulevard. No one waited at the corner, so the bus continued east.

Shel put his hand on Jake’s arm. That last corner’s where Phil usually gets on. Wonder why he’s not back from Alaska.

I told you about the note he sent me. He said he’s worried about some shenanigans he found up there on the Pipeline. People are following him.

Shel nodded. Before they sent him north, he found something big down at the Wilshire Building. Next thing I knew, they took him off that job and sent him to Alaska. What do you think he found?

I don’t know. He didn’t say why he wrote me instead of calling Harold. He may be an asshole and a bully, but he’s still the boss.

Why not give Phil a call from the office?

I hope it’s just his imagination. Jake's focus shifted to the entrance door as three women boarded. He whispered to Shel, Lass alert!

Uncharacteristically, Shel stared. Check the second one. She walks up the aisle like it’s a fashion runway.

Yeah, definitely a model. I’ll bet she gets off at the Fashion District.

But she looks so sad.

They teach ‘em to make that face. Somehow it sells more clothes.

Jake stood to let her have his seat. As they traded, she cocked her head at Jake’s Jimi Hendrix tie and smiled. Thank you, she said with a Mexican accent.

You like my tie?

Shel nudged Jake and whispered, What about Phoebe?

Jake leaned toward Shel. No worries. I’m a one-woman man... one at a time, anyway. He straightened and returned the model’s smile. She blushed and turned to the window.

Outside, dark twin towers dominated the downtown skyline. One of them housed an international bank, the other, Dyno Petroleum. The buildings shared a street-level plaza, beneath which bustled a multi-level shopping mall.

The bus lurched on. As Jake predicted, the model got off near the Barth & Dreyfus fashion showrooms at Eighth and San Pedro.

A few stops later, Jake and Shel stepped off at the Flower Street plaza at the Dyno Building.

Jake and the driver waved at one another. Over his shoulder, Jake shouted, Thanks, Henry... See ya!

A warm, moist breeze hit them in the face. The two auditors joined a stream of people heading for the building entrances.

Jake tapped Shel on the shoulder. It’s still early in Fairbanks. I’ll call to check on Phil after our morning meeting.

I hope he’s all right.

Why wouldn’t he be? He’s just an auditor, like us. We’re no threat to anyone.

Shel’s eyes widened. Yes, but do they know that?

Chapter Three

The World of Auditing

Dyno Oil Plaza

Downtown Los Angeles, California

Mid-June, 1975

Later that Morning

Entering the Dyno Plaza , Jake and Shel merged with the river of people headed for the two dark towers. The flow split into two, each headed for one of the huge buildings.

Inside the north tower, shafts of light filtered through the dusty air. Jake and Shel showed their IDs to the tubby, aged guard at the entrance desk, then entered the line for the elevators.

We’re in your world now, Shel... Jake bleated, ...with the flo-o-o-ock.

Shel chuckled and shot him the finger. Flock you, Jake. He sheepishly glanced around at the other suits. None reacted to his pun nor the digital obscenity.

You enjoy getting suited up. Jake sighed. To me, ties are just an expensive symbol of an obedient follower. A leash. A limp corporate dick.

Shel patted Jake’s shoulder. You’ll get used to it, Jake. My stint in the Army was perfect training for this job. Was it that different in the Navy?

Very. Out on a ship, we exercised a lot of autonomy. If there was an incident, we had no one to ask ‘Mother, may I?’ Plus, it’s much easier to ask forgiveness than to get permission. Jake tugged Shel’s arm. Here, I’ll show you the Navy way. He left the line and strode toward two elevators set off by velvet ropes. A sign declared Corporate Officers Only.

Hey! A shrill voice pierced the echoing murmurs and sound of shuffling feet. Perry, a senior auditor, whined, Where do you two think you’re going? There issss a line. He pointed to the string of bored faces waiting their turn.

Hi, Perry. All set for another day of financial funsies? Jake enjoyed teasing the henpecked, prissy prig.

Perry straightened his ascot and hissed. Yes, but I’ve got news for you, smart guy. You're going to be transferred to another audit.

Jake arched an eyebrow, put a hand to his cheek, and pursed his lips in a caricature of Perry’s expression. Oh, dear. Where to?

You're being moved to Manual Payments at the Wilshire Building. Perry ensured others made the important decisions so nothing would ever be his fault. The tactic must have worked. Perry was a supervisor.

What a pansy, Jake thought. He imagined what kind of woman — person — could be Perry’s spouse.

What are you grinning at? Perry simpered, as if he saw Jake's mental picture.

Thinking of the next challenge in the World of Auditing. He jabbed Shel in the ribs. We’ll see you upstairs.

Perry’s scowl followed them until they stood before the solitary, brass-decorated elevators.

Furtively Shel looked around. What now?

Jake pulled a four-pronged brass key from his pocket. It’s a souvenir from my high-school summer job maintaining elevators. It comes in handy more than you’d think. I even unlocked a jet plane with it.

He inserted one end of the key into a wall switch marked Fire Access. An instant after turning the key to Call, the floor indicator counted down 52, 51, 50... .

In a few moments, the elevator doors glided open.

With a flourish, Jake invited Shel into the plush cab. Floor, please.

You know. Twelve.

Using his key to open the control panel, Jake closed the doors. The car whisked them up to the twelfth floor. The elevator jerked to a stop, then re-leveled a few times as the doors opened.

Typical Westinghouse crap, Jake muttered. He held the door open button and announced, Twelfth floor, Bowels of Auditing, Endless Meetings, and Unexplained Schedule Changes. Humiliating Tirades are on special today.

Shel shook his head. Is everything a game to you?

Of course! A game or a joke. After all my parents went through in Germany and all I’ve seen in the military overseas, this corporate crap is trivial. Fun keeps life interesting. Jake gave Shel a friendly punch on the arm. Cheer up. See you at the meeting. I’ll be good, I promise. I’m not going to blow this second chance. Jake saluted, did a left-face, and headed for the Credit Union.

Jake’s flight instructor used to call Navy wings Golden Leg Spreaders. Time to find out if jazzy civilian neckties could serve the same purpose.

At the Credit Union counter ahead, blond, petite Phoebe scribbled on a form. Her cherubic face brightened when she saw Jake. Let’s see what tie you’re wearing today. Hmm... Jimi Hendrix at the Fillmore. Cute and hip.

Just a minute. He pantomimed elbowing his way to the counter. Let me fight my way through all these customers.

We don’t get busy ‘til lunch, jokester.

I’m glad. I want to hear more about your family and their... tribe?

The Basques. Sure... She looked over her shoulder. But I’m supposed to be sorting these deposit slips.

Could you sort and talk at the same time?

Phoebe’s eyes flashed as she laughed. I’ll try. She leaned closer. Our family is part of a group. You’d call them ‘Gypsies,’ but we’re not Romanians, thieves, or mystics.

Cool. Jake took a step backward. Basques are violent though, right?

You’re thinking of the Spanish separatists. In the U.S. we’re different. We live freely under the radar, wherever we go. My family lives in a vacant mansion between Highland Park and Pasadena. We’ll be there ‘til the cities finish fighting over it.

Isn’t a free life hard to find? Seems someone’s always trying to nose into our business.

Freedom is found within. In fact our special mission is to find and free little kids who—

The credit union’s manager huffed up, apparently saw his scowl was wasted on Jake, and focused it on Phoebe instead. Hey. I told you I wanted those things sorted right away.

Phoebe’s face flushed as some financial forms fluttered onto the floor.

Scooping up the papers, Jake pointed at a sign on the counter and interjected, Sir, the lady was just explaining your new high-yield certificates... doing a good job of it, too, until you interrupted.

Well— It was the manager’s turn to flush.

Never mind. I’ll return another time with my investment questions, when paperwork isn’t a higher priority than customer service. Jake winked at Phoebe and left.

Already late for the morning Rah-Rah meeting, Jake took the time to check his cubicle for mail. He dropped his Royalite briefcase onto the desk. A fat company mail envelope sat alone in his IN tray. Before he could open it, the phone rang.

Jake speaking.

Hi, it’s Phoebe. Thanks for saving my butt back there.

A cute butt like that is worth saving. Hey, how’d you know my number?

We know a lot about our customers here at the Dyno C.U. So... was that a sample of your verbal sparring, what you call ‘Tongue-Fu?’

A mild form. As a kid, I learned it’s the best way to deal with bullies. The tongue is mightier than the fist. I’ll teach you a little sometime if you give me your phone number.

Sure. Ready?

He grabbed his black Space Pen and pad. He jotted her number at the top.

Thanks. I’ve got a meeting now. I’ll talk to you later. I’ll tell you about my next assignment.

OK, and I’ll tell you about our mission. Bye.

Jake slipped into the meeting room. The other auditors paused from scarfing limp, crust-less finger sandwiches, mushy strawberries, and melon slices. Another table displayed darkening cheese cuts and carafes of flat soda, watery tea, and room-temperature coffee.

Rejects from the boardroom, eh? Jake looked around the room, ...and food too.

Harold, the lead auditor, glared at Jake. You’re late. I guess they didn’t teach you manners in the Army.

Jake blurted, Navy, realizing the trap too late.

Harold’s smug smile oozed condescension. Whatever. The Army taught us etiquette. Another reason the Navy sucks.

The others chuckled dutifully. Jake shook his head and bit on a slice of brittle cheese.

Harold addressed the group. I’ve nothing more to report. Anyone else? He looked around at blank faces, cheeks stuffed with half-chewed white bread and smelly imitation-crab sandwich sticks.

Now... The Cheer! Harold beckoned the others.

They gathered around, put a fist toward the center, then chanted. Audit... HO!

Pantomiming the cheer, Jake marveled that they all kept a straight face. He rolled his eyes. How does anyone stand this corporate BS? How am I going to fit in?

The group headed for the door, some spitting sandwich goo into the waste basket, others eagerly wrapping stale hors d’oeuvres to eat at their cubicles. None of them looked like they needed the extra calories.

Just a minute, Jake. I have a question for you.

Sir? Harold’s former Army rank of Captain was the only thing about him Jake respected.

Have you heard from your pal Phil? He hasn’t called in from Alaska in almost a week.

Remembering Phil’s plea in his last call from Alaska, he lied. No, sir, not since last week. Is anything wrong?

He’s supposed to report daily. Let me know if he calls you, right away. Harold picked up three soggy finger sandwiches and waved his free hand. Dismissed.

Jake exaggerated an about-face, clicked his heels, and strode off.

Shel was seated at his cubicle desk. He looked up from the company envelope on the desk and avoided Jake’s eyes.

Did you get through to Phil? Shel asked.

Haven’t had a chance yet. I’ll call him now.

"Tess