The King of Maicao

by Steve Jennex

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It was raining in Newark when Jim O'Connell's plane landed, and the dark sky that greeted him matched his mood. The shareholders meeting had gone poorly, that was for certain, and his economy flight back home had been a nightmare of delays, cramped seats and cranky passengers. There was no in-flight meal, and it had left his stomach rumbling. He looked at his watch as the jet taxied its way through the puddles on the runway. 2:17 p.m. Damn, he thought, not late enough to sneak home. He'd have to make an appearance at the office.

For a moment, he wondered how his father-in-law had fared on the operating table. It was only a hernia, he knew, but his wife Gina and her mother had been worried sick about the old man's operation. Jim had flown to Pittsburgh just hours before Bill went under the knife, and last night's telephone call from the hotel had gone unanswered at home. Hell, O'Connell thought, it was just a hernia. What could go wrong with an operation like that? But the unanswered phone the night before had to be considered bad news.

The news in Pittsburgh had been bad enough on its own. O'Connell's company, Stillman Inc., was taking a beating over its ore mining business stateside. Three more environmental impact studies on the Wyoming project were causing crippling delays. The union at the New Mexico site was still without a contract, and the rumblings of labor strife were rampant. On top of all that, the takeover of BronCor was proving to be a complicated mess. Shareholders were downright hostile. It was enough to give a guy an ulcer, he decided.

O'Connell left the aircraft looking like every other middle-aged, paunchy businessman with his coat over his arm. But while most of the other corporate passengers thought of home and hearth, his head was busy working through the ramifications of the Pittsburgh meeting. The company coffers were nearly empty, and before shareholders opened their wallets any deeper, O'Connell had a suspicion they would want to see a few corporate heads on the chopping block. He simply had to get the BronCor acquisitions profitable, and fast. Standing at the luggage carousel, waiting for his tried and true, black Samsonite to trundle out along the moving belt, he tugged the cellular phone from his coat pocket.

"Good afternoon, Stillman," the receptionist's voice purred over O'Connell's handset.

"Hello, this is Jim O'Connell," he said, struggling to remember her name. She had long legs, he knew, and looked terrific in a short skirt, but damned if he could remember what everyone called her.

"Oh, Mr. O'Connell," she said. "Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?"

"Is Dave Hanscomb in?" he asked. As he watched, his luggage emerged along the carousel.

"I think he is," the receptionist said. "Just a minute."

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