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propose the details. The grant could go to fund your clients’ organization, or for seed money for a new non-profit.”
    My clients’ organization:
Willie the crazy hermit and a few cantankerous retirees. And it’ll take a hefty “grant” to get a national environmental organization interested in helping to start something up down here.
“How much money are we talking about?” Geoff expected low six figures—maybe half the estimated cost to clean up the site.
    “Ten million dollars. That’s what Texronco’s willing to put up.”
    Geoff almost dropped the phone. He tried not to let his voice betray his shock. “Anything else?”
    Rick White laughed. “Isn’t that enough? Look Geoff, I’ll be honest with you. I strongly advised my client against making this offer. There is no way they’re exposed to anywhere near that amount of liability, even worst case scenario. You know that. But, it’s fair to say they’re concerned about their corporate image these days.”
    “Sure they are. And I suppose Texronco will want a disclaimer against any future lawsuits?”
    “Of course. Hey, I know you have to play it cool, but this is a good offer.”
    “It’s certainly something I can take back to my clients.”
    They rang off. Geoff pulled the can of beer dripping from the plastic bucket and exulted at the sound of the crack and hiss.
Ten million dollars.
Even hard-headed, paranoid Willie Kincaid would rejoice at that. One of the Washington enviro outfits—Sierra Club, NRDC—would take notice, come on board, set up shop right here in this sad little moss-draped fishing camp. And litigation: they would fund it. More lawsuits to clean up the lake, to block industry from treating the fragile bayous as chemical sumps—with Geoff retained as local counsel. The D.C. lawyers would do the heavy lifting while Geoff would make a few court appearances and collect the fees.
And finally, Janie, we’ll have time to
…
    To what? The realization that he’d been mentally conversing with his dead wife clicked in Geoff’s brain, breaking his reverie. He sat down at the cheap little motel room desk and closed his eyes, hard, willing the darkness away.
This is good. You’re doing good
…
    Geoff opened his dry eyes and drank the last of the beer. He reached for his phone to call Willie Kincaid.
    •
     
    Geoff stared at his client, agape. The crooked little man stood before the group of his dozen fellows in the harsh-lit, steel pre-fab community hall and threatened to destroy the next few months of Geoff’s life.
    “I’m not saying it’s not a good offer,” Willie said. “It might be. And I’m not saying Geoff hasn’t done a great job. We owe him big time. We wouldn’t have come near this far if not for him.”
    Applause from plaintiff-organization members at that. It almost embarrassed Geoff, but the fact was, he
had
gone above and beyond for these people. He had worked for no upfront pay and brought them a result better than they could have dreamed of. And now Willie—standing there in his brown polyester Sansabelt slacks and a snap-fronted shirt—wanted to force him to go on, for nothing?
    Willie continued: “I’m just saying, maybe we should let it play out for a while. If they’re offering so much, maybe there’s more to this. We’ve all seen strange things out on the water, not just around the refinery, but all the way up by China Island.”
    “It’s true,” said a woman in the audience—mid-sixties, permed graying hair, drugstore reading glasses hanging from a chain around her neck. Enid something, Geoff remembered. “Those men in spacesuits and a load of equipment came by in a big ol’ bass boat not fifty feet off my pier when I went out with my coffee just this morning. And it’s always like that—people comin’ and goin’ at the crack of dawn and the dead of night, sometimes in spacesuits, sometimes just in hospital scrubs. They sure as hell don’t look like they’re fishing for bass, I know that