"What you gonna do, De?" one of them asked.
"Make the best of my remaining days," he told them sincerely. "I want out of the company. My buy-out price is a quarter-million."
The other two swallowed and looked at one another with expressions even sicker than those that had greeted the news of Slickens' impending demise.
"You know we can't carry that kind of debt, De. We're in hock as it is."
"Those Hidalgo wells will pay off in time," Slickens assured them in his aw-shucks voice. "You can haul the debt fine. I'll tell you what sign a two-year note, and if it gets sticky here and there, I'll let you slide on a few payments."
The men signed eagerly. But when problems with a dry hole made it necessary to ask for an extension, DeGoone Slickens didn't return their calls. Instead, he issued a demand letter calling for the whole note, adding at the bottom how his condition had worsened and his three years were now only two.
His partners defaulted and DeGoone Slickens ended up owning the entire company. Out of the profits, he paid his doctor a six-figure hush-money payment. For DeGoone Slickens had never had cancer of the liver. His true medical condition was his lack of a heart.
DeGoone Slickens made so much money in oil during the 1970's that he started buying up other companies. Whether they were for sale or not. The maneuver was called risk arbitrage, and DeGoone Slickens was its apostle.
By the time the Texas oil boom went bust, he was known across the nation as a corporate raider, operating out of Manhattan, where his country-boy twang made other CEO's dismiss him for some kind of cowboy idiot. Which was exactly what DeGoone Slickens wanted. He had built his career on being underestimated by business adversaries.
More than one of these CEO's ended up on the street with DeGoone Slickens sitting in their saddles.
Nobody liked DeGoone Slickens, which was why he had two bodyguards sitting outside his office at all times. They were former Dallas Cowboys whom Slickens had hired because, in addition to being a two-man Berlin Wall, they were nice status symbols. And when he was stuck sitting with them in traffic, they regaled him with football yarns.
DeGoone Slickens considered them an excellent investment.
Until one of them came charging into his office unannounced. He slammed the door behind him, putting his broad back to it, huffing and puffing for all the world like he'd just been sacked at the ten-yard line.
"What's the matter?" DeGoone said, seeing the look of horror on the former linebacker's flat face.
"Bear!" he cried, struggling to catch his breath.
"What?"
"There's a bear out there. It got Tomaski."
"What're you handing me?"
"Really, Mr. Slickens. It's a bear. Big as life."
"You have a gun," Slickens pointed out in a no-nonsense voice. "Go out there and shoot the varmint."
"Can't. It took my gun from me."
"A bear?"
"A talking bear."
"Are you drunk?"
"I know it sounds crazy, but it was asking for you."
"Me?" said Slickens, startle-faced. "What would a talking bear want with me? I'm a coon hunter."
"I don't know, but I wouldn't recommend letting him in. He pulverized Tomaski."
Then there was a loud knocking on the door.
"Open up," a rumbling voice warned, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow this door down."
"What should I do, boss?" the ex-linebacker asked.
"Get ready," Slickens said, taking a Winchester off the wall. He jacked a shell into the breech and pointed it at his linebacker bodyguard.
"Open it," Slickens said. "And jump out of the way."
The linebacker unlocked the door and flung himself to one side.
The bear came through the door, claws raised high.
DeGoone Slickens fired.
The bear kept coming, its matted fur untouched.
Slickens whacked another shell into the chamber and fired again.
The bear bounced to one side, unhit.
"Dung it!" Slickens roared. "I can't draw a bead on him. You, Barker. You played football. Tackle him."
"Not me!" the ex-linebacker said, diving out the open door. "I quit."
"Looks like it's just you and me," the bear said casually.
DeGoone blinked. His jaw dropped. He looked at the bear carefully.
"Wait a minute," he said. "You're not a real bear. You're just a guy in a mangy suit."
"Obviously you're smarter than the average bodyguard. They thought I was a real bear."
"They're ex-football players."
"Too much steroids, I guess. Now, let's get down to business. And put that thing down. I can get pretty rough when my fur is rubbed the wrong way."
DeGoone hesitated. He brought his Winchester up to eye level again and squinted down the barrel. He did it quickly, but with the practiced care of a backwoods hunter.
In the time it took him to shut one eye, one of the pseudo-bear's paws swiped out and relieved him of his rifle.
DeGoone Slickens stood behind his desk holding empty air. His trigger finger tightened on nothing. That's when he realized he had been disarmed. It had happened that fast.