from the TV to me.
“What can we do for you
pal?”
He was of medium build and
looked to be in his early 30’s. There were two other men who were
larger and avoided my eyes when I looked their
direction.
“I’m Buddy Griffin,
private investigator,” I said. “I’m just out making some sales
calls today. I’ve been doing some work investigating the theft of
oilfield equipment off of drilling locations, and I thought y’all
might need some help too. Are y’all in the oilfield? I didn’t see a
sign outside.”
“We don’t need any help
like that,” he said, turning his attention back to the
television.
I glanced at the legal pad
I carried.
“Are y’all WTEG, Inc.? I
thought that sounded like a drilling company or
something.”
He turned and looked at me
again, clearly irritated that I was continuing my sales spiel. But,
my mention of WTEG had gotten his attention.
“No, we’re not a drilling
company. Like I told you, we don’t need your help. Thank you for
stopping by, though.”
“Well, here, let me leave
you a card.”
I unsnapped the flap on my
shirt pocket and pulled out one of my new business cards and passed
it across to him.
“I do all sorts of
investigations and security work, so if you ever need any of that
type help, don’t you hesitate to give me a call. I’m based in
Elmore, but I work this whole area.”
He read the card before
answering.
“Well, if we need any help
flushing out any criminal element, we’ll be sure to give you a call
Officer Griffin.”
The other two men
sniggered at this, the first noise they had made since I had
interrupted their sitcom laugh-fest.
“Just Buddy,” I said. “Not
Officer, just Buddy.”
He gave an exaggerated nod
and flipped my card onto the desktop as he glanced at his cohorts
and rolled his eyes.
“Okay, Just Buddy. Thank
you again for coming in. We’ll be in touch if we need
you.”
Walking to the pickup I
mentally critiqued my performance. I had probably put a little too
much twang in my voice, but I was going for the ‘good old boy from
the oil patch’ image, and I think the whole package of the hat,
western shirt and twang worked together pretty well. The main
reason for my visit had been to drop the WTEG name and then leave
my name behind, just to see if it brought any response.
I was hoping the smartass
behind the desk would tell whoever was in charge of the operation
that someone from Elmore had been nosing around. Sometimes in a
murder investigation, dropping little seeds here and there, like my
mentioning of the Russell Chilton murder to Benny Shanks at the
Pumpjack Club a few days earlier, could bring about new leads. I
knew that sooner or later, when interested parties began to hear my
name enough times, they would have a strong motivation to reach out
to me, either to give me information that would help or to try to
get me to back off. Either way, I would know more than what I knew
today.
The other address for
WTEG, the one from the deposit slip, led to a run-down cinderblock
building on the outskirts of Odessa on the highway leading south
out of town. Graffiti artists and gangster wannabes had tagged the
building’s peeling red paint, including the eight-foot tall letters
spelling out the name Boot Scooter’s. A large sign on pillars
situated near the highway in front of the building bore the same
name, with a smaller white changeable sign panel beneath it. The
letters on the white panel had at one time been arranged to read
“CLOSED”, but the wind had blown two of them away, leaving only “LO
ED” and the “D” looked like it could fall momentarily.
There were no signs of
life around, but a gas station several hundred yards to the south
was open, so I rolled past Boot Scooter’s and pulled up to one of
the station’s empty pumps. After filling the tank, I stepped into
the tiny building next to the pumps and dropped my credit card into
the metal pass-thru beneath the bulletproof glass that separated
“What can we do for you
pal?”
He was of medium build and
looked to be in his early 30’s. There were two other men who were
larger and avoided my eyes when I looked their
direction.
“I’m Buddy Griffin,
private investigator,” I said. “I’m just out making some sales
calls today. I’ve been doing some work investigating the theft of
oilfield equipment off of drilling locations, and I thought y’all
might need some help too. Are y’all in the oilfield? I didn’t see a
sign outside.”
“We don’t need any help
like that,” he said, turning his attention back to the
television.
I glanced at the legal pad
I carried.
“Are y’all WTEG, Inc.? I
thought that sounded like a drilling company or
something.”
He turned and looked at me
again, clearly irritated that I was continuing my sales spiel. But,
my mention of WTEG had gotten his attention.
“No, we’re not a drilling
company. Like I told you, we don’t need your help. Thank you for
stopping by, though.”
“Well, here, let me leave
you a card.”
I unsnapped the flap on my
shirt pocket and pulled out one of my new business cards and passed
it across to him.
“I do all sorts of
investigations and security work, so if you ever need any of that
type help, don’t you hesitate to give me a call. I’m based in
Elmore, but I work this whole area.”
He read the card before
answering.
“Well, if we need any help
flushing out any criminal element, we’ll be sure to give you a call
Officer Griffin.”
The other two men
sniggered at this, the first noise they had made since I had
interrupted their sitcom laugh-fest.
“Just Buddy,” I said. “Not
Officer, just Buddy.”
He gave an exaggerated nod
and flipped my card onto the desktop as he glanced at his cohorts
and rolled his eyes.
“Okay, Just Buddy. Thank
you again for coming in. We’ll be in touch if we need
you.”
Walking to the pickup I
mentally critiqued my performance. I had probably put a little too
much twang in my voice, but I was going for the ‘good old boy from
the oil patch’ image, and I think the whole package of the hat,
western shirt and twang worked together pretty well. The main
reason for my visit had been to drop the WTEG name and then leave
my name behind, just to see if it brought any response.
I was hoping the smartass
behind the desk would tell whoever was in charge of the operation
that someone from Elmore had been nosing around. Sometimes in a
murder investigation, dropping little seeds here and there, like my
mentioning of the Russell Chilton murder to Benny Shanks at the
Pumpjack Club a few days earlier, could bring about new leads. I
knew that sooner or later, when interested parties began to hear my
name enough times, they would have a strong motivation to reach out
to me, either to give me information that would help or to try to
get me to back off. Either way, I would know more than what I knew
today.
The other address for
WTEG, the one from the deposit slip, led to a run-down cinderblock
building on the outskirts of Odessa on the highway leading south
out of town. Graffiti artists and gangster wannabes had tagged the
building’s peeling red paint, including the eight-foot tall letters
spelling out the name Boot Scooter’s. A large sign on pillars
situated near the highway in front of the building bore the same
name, with a smaller white changeable sign panel beneath it. The
letters on the white panel had at one time been arranged to read
“CLOSED”, but the wind had blown two of them away, leaving only “LO
ED” and the “D” looked like it could fall momentarily.
There were no signs of
life around, but a gas station several hundred yards to the south
was open, so I rolled past Boot Scooter’s and pulled up to one of
the station’s empty pumps. After filling the tank, I stepped into
the tiny building next to the pumps and dropped my credit card into
the metal pass-thru beneath the bulletproof glass that separated
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