Chapter 6
Chapter Six
After dinner, the men left the ladies and withdrew to the retiring room. Cigar smoke, scotch, whiskey, and the smell of money. A servant lifted the Waterford crystal decanter and topped Zachary’s glass off. Top of the line. Kentucky bourbon. Aged in charred oak barrels.
Across from Zach, Dyer sat, the man clearly staking out his claim of importance in the room. The oil tycoon’s walrus mustache and his full head of graying hair caught what light there was around him. Few men planted themselves so indelibly in Zach’s memory.
Edward Spencer entered the room. Zachary felt something electric, an effect that said Spencer was king.
A throne room full of kings. Zachary smiled. It was, as Barnum would say, time for the show. He took a few steps to the middle of the room. “Gentlemen,” and once more, a bit louder, “Gentlemen, if you please.”
The room quieted, the only sound the tinkle of ice in glasses as sips of smooth whiskey soothed throats made dry in anticipation. Six pairs of eyes, all dark with avarice, looked toward him.
“I shall get straight to the point. As men with foresight, I believe you will concur that the engine I have designed, the engine of the future–”
Dyer harrumphed. “You are what my old tutor would have called a long pisser, Mr. Rourke. Prepared to aim your stream whether you’ve got anything to back it up. Big idea.”
Why the oil baron’s belligerence? Was it because Zachary had conspired with Elizabeth about Thrasybulus against the sugar baron–and one of his ilk. Zachary lifted one hand palm up. “I’m sorry to hear you say that.”
“Nobody has a monopoly on ideas. The engine you described is the Otto four-stroke combustion engine,” said Dyer whose pale thin lips radiated the word “virtue” more sweetly than greed or glory.
“Not so. I have developed a compressed charge, compression ignition engine. More robust in construction, it can be used to power locomotives, tractors, power mills, factories, and all sorts of heavy machinery. Comparatively, the Otto cycle compression ratio is approximately seven to one where my engine is high at twenty-two to one. Therefore, the efficiency for the Otto engine is a lot less than my engine.”
Dyer smiled, then sat back, looking not at Zach but at the cigar shoes end he was trimming with a gold cutter. “I don’t make deals for the sake of making a deal. Chances are, it will fall apart later with costs and headaches for everyone involved.”
Zachary eyeballed Dyer. “I should also mention that my engine requires a heavier oil that may be purchased from your refineries.” That might shut the man up.
Edward Spencer swirled the amber whiskey in his glass, his fierce prejudiced eyes insinuating the fanatical underpinnings of his will. “Everyone has a notion, but it’s taking those first few steps toward turning that notion into a reality that’s always the toughest.”
“I do have a working model to demonstrate, Mr. Spencer. I can arrange a time for those who’d like to take a view of what my invention can do,” Zachary had prepared himself for lack of enthusiasm. All part of a negotiation whether you were selling a sow or a potential million-dollar business.
“What is the time frame from start to finish to get your idea going?” asked the paper cut-out sugar baron. He tried to recover his loss at the stupid pool. He just dropped farther and raised his glass for the servant to refill. The seventh time, Zachary counted.
“Six months,” said Zachary.
Dyer lit his cigar and studied Zachary over a puff of circling smoke. “Why don’t you borrow from your family?”
“Shawn Fitzgerald, my sisters-in-law, Grace, and Rachel Rourke, have been most generous, but with the economic downturn can only offer so much. I need diverse investors.”
“What collateral do you have if you fail?” asked Spencer. The ice in his whiskey glass cracked against the side as he raised it for a servant to refill.
Zachary’s pulse jittered somewhere around the one hundred and sixty mark. Who presented more danger, these men, or the Comanche?
“What else?” prodded Dyer. “That’s hardly enough to substantiate the amount you require.”
Damn. Zach stood tall, curled his fingers into fists.
How he hated to give up his invention as collateral.
His patent was his most valued possession, and he’d hate to lose it to these jackals especially since he lost his prior invention to that swindling bitch in Missouri.
If one investor pulled out, then he’d be ripe pickings.
The rest of investors would seize his invention in a flash.
To get the rest of the money, he had to take a risk. “I’ll include a percentage of rights to my patent as collateral.”
The men murmured with the concession, but none of them were eager to offer anything.
“You are going to be a great businessman, a rich one if you get your idea off the ground,” said Edward Spencer.
“I’ll put up a loan. But in return I want ten percent of your company, and I’m only guaranteeing half of what you have asked for.
” He waved his glass. “Any other of you gentlemen want to invest?”
Dyer’s head was wreathed in cigar smoke. Zach could barely make out his nod.
“I’ll do the other half for the cowboy, but I want one hundred percent of your patent if you fail. But only because Elizabeth has pressed me to do so. I’d not do it otherwise. You owe her a debt of gratitude, Mr. Rourke.”
“In addition,” Dyer said, “I’ll take ten percent of the company for the other half of the loan.”
Zach gritted his teeth. Pirates. He was giving too much away. “No.”
The men scoffed. Spencer arrested his crystal glass halfway to his mouth. The look on Spencer’s face was priceless as if Zach had declared he’d sculpted figures of Michelangelo’s David out of fresh dung. The paper cut-out sugar baron excused himself and stumbled from the room.
Dyer blew out a stream of smoke. “We are very generous with our offer. You won’t get those liberal offerings anyplace else.”
“I’ll give up five percent each to Mr. Spencer and Mr. Dyer. Those are my terms.”
“Ever trade in horses, Mr. Rourke?” Dyer reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card and pushed it across the table. “Talk to my banker. When you and he figure something out for the final amount, let me know. I’ll back you.”
The hairs rose on Zachary’s neck. He pocketed the card.
Zach tossed back the whiskey and leaned against the wall next to the door while the men droned on.
He didn’t belong to the big-boy club. Didn’t think he’d ever feel comfortable belonging to a group of ruthless sharks, bragging about their exploits.
Like a pissing contest of sins. He grew bored listening to the hum of their conversations.
“A good thing Congress nullified the Indian treaties and made the savages wards of the nation,” said Spencer.
“Wards, hell. Criminals more like. Damned Sioux and Cheyenne are slaughtering whites. Need to send in the U.S. Army,” said Aston, a steel magnate.
You’d be mad if someone built a railroad through your dining room.
“Send General George Custer, he’s a fighting man. Get them corralled on reservations. Once there, it will be easy to pluck the gold discovered on their lands,” said Dyer.
Zach gritted his teeth. How’d he like to see any one of these men go up against the Lakota Sioux Chief Sitting Bull.
Instead, he entertained putting his fist through their faces. How long it would it take him to do it? Three seconds? Five seconds? Might be a detriment to securing financing.