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The C-level Boys
Friday, August 26th
8:50pm
Houston, Texas
Houston, Texas! Whooo-hooo! The self-proclaimed Oil & Gas Business Capital of the World! Perhaps yes; perhaps no; but, judging by the pilgrimage of thousands of petro-biz executives to its annual Gas Supply Conference—the city was surely a Mecca of the industry.
The GSC had rolled into town on Monday. This was the kick-off for a week of non-stop business action studded with the sparkling cocktail parties and the backroom deal-making that determined the nation’s ability to heat and power itself.
At its confluence, executives from across the globe mixed, mingled, negotiated deals, and, at times, even behaved sanely. Each day sparkled with stunning announcements of company start-ups and strategic partnerships; each evening brought the taunting stories of who got hammered the night before and why his wife must never find out.
Friday—the last day of the conference—the C-level boys flew into town. Private jets from around the world; limos by the caravan; American Express cards by the wallet-full—the gas patch vibrated with power. Hidden meetings convened, and pens inked the biggest deals of the year. Then, finally—Friday night; the top executives loosened their ties and let the real business parties roll.
Whooo-hooo!
And, what a place for the party to roll! Houston was the Mecca of a second type of industry: strip clubs. Numbering more than mothers and priests wished to count, each had a private legion of young women who undressed in tantalizing ways. It was the business of teasing and pleasing—tops down, heels on, cash on the table, and no mercy shown!
On one side of the table dance: the gas patch executives—each sporting a teenager’s zeal to misbehave. On the other side: the young strippers—expert in the art of relieving men of their wealth. Money and power versus beauty and pleasure; the girls would win, and they knew it.
It was Friday night, and their C-level boys would soon arrive at their strip clubs. The CEO’s and CFO’s; the Chief Marketing Officers and Chief Technology Officers—the men who bought and sold the natural gas an entire nation depended upon: they commanded their employees respect, owned the company stock, and they had the corporate expense accounts!
Kane Hamilton and Bud Gossett were C-level boys and elite among the elite. Kane was the CEO of the New York Gas Pipeline. On one end, his network of pipes connected to the transcontinental pipe operated by TranState. On the other end, his system linked to hundreds of upstate customers. Kane controlled the flow of energy to massive industrial companies, city cooperatives, and the vast storage facilities that regulated the gas supply for a quarter of New York State.
Now a thirty-year veteran of the industry, Kane made his success the hard way. For years, he worked late, saved his money, and then bought a small gas network. The NYGP went big in the early 1990s when the Federal Energy Regulatory Committee issued their 636 order: a mandate that deregulated the gas transmission market. Overnight, hard-balling capitalism descended into the patch as independents bought and sold gas in competition with the major pipelines. Many companies tried; some survived; a few prospered; and inside one, Kane Hamilton’s steel will and his need for complete domination powered up full bore. The New York Gas Pipeline company’s fortunes skyrocketed. Years upon years of profit ensued, and now Hamilton could walk away from his business with hundreds of millions in gas patch money.
Big and barrel chested; harsh-spoken; and sometimes downright mean—Kane’s management style was as simple as it was effective: fire the incompetents before it becomes necessary to shoot them.
This was Hamilton’s last visit to the Conference, and he made the trip for a different reason than the usual schmooze, booze, and cruise action. He would fire an incompetent. Or, shoot him. With either outcome, his company would soon have an opening for a new President.
Hamilton wanted a young go-getter; someone with his energy and zeal for the industry; someone he could trust to take over the reins of his company—and that someone, he believed, was a deer-fuck named Bud Gossett: the Chief Marketing Officer of the New Jersey Gas Supply Company.
NJGS served eastern New Jersey, and western, and northern, and southern—well, all of New Jersey, to get right down to it. Bud Gossett was twenty-five years the junior of Kane Hamilton, but even at age thirty-six, his industry savvy had made its mark. His deals were clean, his clients were happy, and his competitors were left beaten and whining. Gossett’s business strategy: if there’s a brick wall ahead—speed up.
Bud’s marketing degree was from Rutgers, and, while there, he played football. Four years—first-string middle linebacker; the type of player who would find a way to put his helmet into someone—anyone—every down he was on the field. Off the field, a bright and engaging personality made him likable to his peers. Rugged good looks made him desirable to the women. Yet, his career dominated his life, and no one special answered his calls home. The business challenges of the gas patch are what heated the man’s heart.
In concept, natural gas marketing was a simple business. The C-level boys purchased gas pumped from wells in the Gulf of Mexico then piped it to the northeast through TranState’s 2000-mile-long pipeline. The gas was then resold to retail customers at a higher price.
The tricky part was to buy the right amount, at the right time, then sell it at the best price, at the best time. The trading day always ended, and, when it did, the only question was the color of the numbers: the black of financial profit or the red of business loss. Gossett posted numbers so black they were awarded a bold font in his company’s annual report.
There were the hard years of the Great Recession: red numbers ran deep, and the gas flowed slowly. But business was thriving once again! It was time to celebrate and what better place to conduct the celebration than at the most prestigious of all GSC events. TranState’s Friday evening dinner: a $75,000 gala hosted by the most powerful pipeline company in the world. Ninety of TranState’s best clients, their C-level boys, would be served the finest of food and drink by an army of waiters, a legion of bartenders, and an following-camp of cute, young hostesses.
From this lofty perch of corporate hospitality, TranState would debut the dinner event’s crowning spectacle: an ice carving! This year’s artistic effort promised to be the most extravagant ever: a replica of the TranState gas pipeline!
Some might have wondered about the aesthetic beauty of a pipeline carved from a thirty-foot-long block of ice, but the debate would last only until the flow valve was opened. Then, Champagne would pour freely from both ends of the ice pipeline, and, as the night progressed, comments of appreciation would flow in equal measure.
Damn fine ice carving Ryder! Don’t those TranState folks know how to deliver the bubbly! Whooo-hooo!
Dana Ryder, TranState’s VP of Operations, was responsible for hosting the affair. Hers, was the task of delivering the party extraordinaire’. As a warm-up to the culinary festivities, she had reserved the Galleria Maxxim’s hotel bar for the exclusive use of TranState’s top customers. By 8:30pm, Dana stood on watch in the only quiet section of the room: the one farthest from the cute hostesses—her honeys in the hive—and, my, how her boy-bees loved to dance around them!
Ryder’s marketing manager joined her. An overstuffed briefcase, two clipboards, and a harried look accompanied the junior-level executive. The young woman—three years out of college and five more before she would be of much use at all—surveyed those who stood in line at the bar.
“So—your first TranState Executive Dinner. Tell me what you see.”
The marketing manager cast a quick side-glance at the bar where drinks were pounded and shots were downed at a rate that would shame the lesser mortals of mass-consumption.
“It’s amazing how a few scotches can transform the power elite of the gas business into adolescent boys.”
“Yep.” Dana issued an across-room smile to a Delaware customer as he tried to drink Champagne directly from the ice-carved pipeline. He slipped and plunged head-first into the stream of bubbly. “The only difference between men and boys is the size of their—”
“Toys?”
Ryder shook her head and laughed as her Delaware customer decided a second, voluntary head-dunking might speed up the absorption of alcohol into his bloodstream. “No, honey, the size of their stupid mistakes.”
The TranState marketing manager giggled. A second frown from her boss snapped the young’n back into an all-business demeanor. Dana pointed toward Kane Hamilton as he entered the bar with his usual flourish of smiles and nods.
“There he is—that’s Kane: the CEO of the New York line. He wants Bud Gossett at his table. You got the seating chart right—didn’t you?”
A clipboard was scanned, and a nervous rustle of papers delayed the answer.
“Well—?”
“Uh, yes—Bud Gossett, sitting at table six. Front and center, next to Mr. Hamilton. Why is that so important?”
Dana shot a disapproving glance at her protégé.
“Because, Kane said it was important. Now, go find Bud. He’s in here somewhere. ‘Can’t miss him—tall, good looking, dark hair, and in great shape. He’s wearing a blue polo. When you find him, introduce yourself as my event manager, offer to buy him a drink, and then escort him to meet Kane.”
The younger woman smiled. Good looking, huh? Top gas patch executive—he has a lot of money.
Dana cut her off in mid-thought. “Remember the platinum rule for female executives. Never flirt with clients. We hire girls to do that for us—among other things.” Dana’s assistant blushed. “Now—get Bud next to Kane. Quietly. The hidden favors count the most.”
Dana watched as her marketing manager herded Bud toward the bar. Hamilton turned, noticed his presidential quarry, and hoisted his third shot of scotch to make a toast.
“Gossett! You gas-marketing deer-fuck!” he bellowed. “Get your ass over here son, we gotta’ deal to do.”
The two exchanged a handshake. “Kane, sorry for being a little late. I have two field reps in town for the show, and they needed to whine about how tough business in the New Jersey patch is these days.”
Hamilton leveled a glance. “So what did ya’ tell them?”
“Nothing. I let them whine.”
“Well, that’s not very motivational. I expected a different answer, Gossett.”
“They aren’t the ones I need to motivate. I hired their replacements two weeks ago and will fire them next if they whine.”
The salt-haired CEO chuckled and slapped a broad, fit shoulder. “That’s my boy—now we really have to talk.”
“Talk about what?” Dana asked as she joined the two men.
Hamilton’s eyes sparkled. “Well, Bud, maybe we oughta’ tell Ryder about the bet we made last year. God knows I can’t brag about it to my wife.”
Dana laughed. “This is going to be trouble. What have you two boys gotten into now?”
“Gossett’s got a bet to pay off.”
The TranState Operations VP sipped her Martini to hide a wry smile. A bet between the boys—one of the great devices men use to afford themselves a chance to misbehave. “So, let’s hear it. What did you two wildcats bet on?”
“Rutgers,” Bud answered miserably. “I played football there.”
Dana nodded. I know more about you than you can imagine, Buddy-boy. “You were the middle linebacker—first string, all four seasons. All-conference, the last two.”
Her personal knowledge was returned with delight. “Damn, Ryder, you’re good. No wonder we buy all our gas from you.” Then, he turned toward the main banquet room and pointed. “Hey—let’s get seated for dinner.”
Dana provided no escape; she wanted to see this one play out. “Nice try, Bud. Dinner can wait. I own it. Now—what’s the bet?”
Hamilton laughed. “You gonna’ let this lady beat you up? Just go ahead and tell her. She’s a big girl.”
The younger gas executive cleared his throat with embarrassment. “Okay… Hamilton’s crew and my crew ended up at the same strip club last year. After a few rounds, we started talking football, and I bet Kane twenty that Rutgers would make it to the college football playoffs.”
“Rutgers? Top four in college football? Not even close, Buddy-boy.”
Gossett’s lips pursed as he frowned. “Yeah, thanks for the update. Anyway, the bet was for twenty, and I guess it’s time to pay.”
Dana returned a taunt. “You two big shots bet twenty dollars? A whole twenty? Wow, how can your shareholders stand the pain?”
“Whoa there missy!” Kane’s scotch glass shook with the ice-rattle of ego. “Who said anything about twenty dollars? Deer-fuck here owes me twenty table dances. That’s $400. Plus, I might add, several rounds of motivational liquor for the stripper lucky enough to sit in my lap.”
Ryder’s eyes rolled. “I should have figured. There’s no vice like executive vice. Our dinner ends at 10:30, so you boys will have plenty of time to chase the G-strings. Do I need to recommend a club so you don’t take anything home that will set fire to your wife’s temper or my gas?”
Both men responded in unplanned unison: “The Pump Room.”
Ryder sighed. “Of course. Home of the proverbial CFMP.”
Bud questioned her by look.
“CFMP? C’mon Bud. ‘Come Fuck Me Pumps’. Those are standard issue for the girls of erotic pleasure and monetary ploy; the ploy being—take your cash in exchange for their pleasures.”
The three gas executives shared a laugh, and Dana signaled for another round of drinks.
“When you two are ready, I’ll have one of our limousines take you there—and get you back. Just be careful, guys. We don’t want to lose any of you to the barbarians of vice.”
Kane’s voice responded with burly confidence.
“We are the barbarians of vice.”
Whooo-freakin’-hooo!—was he ever wrong.
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