Inside the office, Evan made a show of dusting off the one guest chair they had before offering it to Robin. She declined his offer to sit and stood against the wall as Girt settled in behind her desk and lit up a cigarette before she began to answer the questions Evan to her.
Evan’s style was easy; he spoke to Girt as if he was speaking to an old friend, peppering her with very subtle questions about profit and loss, account histories, and expansion into the fresh fish packing materials. Girt got out some of the same account books she had shown Robin, and Evan pored over them.
After an hour and a half of covering ground Robin had already reported to him, Evan put aside the books, locked his hands behind his head, and propped one Italian loafer on the edge of Girt’s desk. “So. . . American Motorfreight is interested in buying you out, too?”
“That’s right.”
“No-good outfit,” he said cheerfully. “Heard some stuff about them through the years. They go into operations like this and pretty much gut it. Replace everyone with cheap labor from Mexico. An outfit like that, the only thing they are interested in is the bottom line.”
“Oh yeah?” Girt asked, her eyes widening slightly.
Oh yeah? Robin thought. That was news—she had never heard anything like that about American Motorfreight, and in fact, had heard they were a pretty good company, employee owned and operated.
“Yeah,” Evan said, frowning as if he disapproved of that. “But you know, you could probably work out some deal with them where they wouldn’t let these people go for at least a year, something like that. Of course, they’ll try and get them to quit. You know how that goes.”
Wide-eyed, Girt nodded.
“Well. I think we’ve got what we need. Do you have any questions, Robin?” he asked.
“No. Girt and I have discussed most of this in person and on e-mail.”
“Great! Well then, why don’t we think about getting back to Houston?” He came to his feet, extended his hand to Girt. “Appreciate the time. We’ll be in touch.”
“Oh! Well, okay . . . thank you,” she said, and hurried to open the door for them.
Evan put his hand on the small of Robin’s back and ushered her through. They walked with Girt to the front door of the building; Girt peered outside to where David and the woman were sitting beneath the cottonwood.
“Who’s that?” Robin asked.
“My cousin, down from Shreveport for the week. She said she’d sit with him for a time so I could get some work done.”
“So you’re wanting to provide for your son, is that it?” Evan asked.
“That’s it,” Girt said, shoving her hands in her back pockets. “It’s gonna cost me around three thousand dollars a month for live-in care.”
Evan shook Girt’s hand again. “We’ll be in touch. Robin?” And he was already striding for the Cadillac.
Robin took Girt’s hand, squeezed it affectionately. “If we make the offer, I promise, we’ll keep the crew. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Thanks, Robin,” she said, the gratitude shining in her eyes. “I’ll e-mail you!” she called as Robin followed Evan to the car.
Robin waved out the window as they pulled out of the gravel parking lot; Girt had walked over to where David was sitting, and she waved, too, then lifted David’s arm in a mock wave.
“We can get this outfit for a fraction of its market value,” Evan remarked as they pulled out onto the main highway.
“We can?”
Evan snorted. “She’d sell it for just about nothing to do something with her kid.”
“Yes,” Robin said, feeling suddenly and inexplicably queasy, “she probably would.”
“The last thing she should have done was tell us what her bottom line was,” Evan said, chuckling.
Robin didn’t like that snide chuckle and never had. “Regardless of her bottom line, we would make her a fair offer, right?”
“Of course!” he said breezily, and reached for the radio, complaining that all one could get in Burdette was country western music.
Robin had thought that was part of the charm of the little town.
Back in Houston, she declined Evan’s offer for a drink, but he drove to a swank little bistro anyway, insisting she could spare the half hour it would take him to knock back a gin and tonic. While he sipped at the drink, he talked absently about the work he was doing on his mansion in Turtle Creek of Dallas, then said, “You’d be better off in Dallas, you know. Your roots are there, Rebecca’s there. Houston is an oil town, but Dallas is better suited to high commerce like you’re trying to get into.”
“Houston seems to work fine.”
“I’ve been talking to your dad about moving the southwest regional corporate offices from Phoenix to Dallas. There would probably be a spot for a new VP in charge of acquisitions. We need to do this nationwide, I think, and with more than just packing.”