by Robin Cook
Music and gay laughter floated out from the living room; the Sorensons and the Websters were not the first to arrive. In contrast to the outside mariachis, the inside music was more restrained and emanated from a string quartet.
After the coats had been taken, Gladys and Hazel strolled arm in arm into the thick of the party. Bobby Bo held back Everett and Daryl.
“Sterling Henderson’s the only one not here yet,” Bobby Bo said. “As soon as he is, we’ll have a short meeting in my library. Everyone else has been alerted.”
“Jack Cartwright’s a bit delayed as well,” Everett said. “I’d like him to sit in on it.”
“Fine by me,” Bobby Bo said. “Guess who else is here?”
Everett looked at Daryl. Neither one wanted to guess.
“Carl Stahl,” Bobby Bo said triumphantly.
A shadow of fear fell over Everett and Daryl.
“That makes me feel uncomfortable,” Everett said.
“I’d have to say the same,” Daryl said.
“Come on, you guys,” Bobby Bo teased. “All he can do is fire you.” He laughed.
“I don’t think getting fired is something I want to joke about,” Daryl said.
“Nor I,” Everett said. “But thinking about it is all the more reason we have to nip this current problem in the bud.”
FOURTEEN
Saturday night, January 24th
The windshield wipers tapped out a monotonous rhythm as Marsha rounded the final bend and got her first view of Higgins and Hancock. It was a sprawling, low-slung plant, with a vast, fenced-in stockyard in the rear. It looked ominous in the cold rain.
Marsha turned into the large, deserted parking lot. What cars that were there were widely scattered. When the three–to–eleven cleaning crew had arrived, the lot had been jammed with the day workers’ vehicles.
Having visited the plant once during her orientation to the district, Marsha knew enough to drive around to the side. She recognized the unmarked door that was the employee entrance. Above it was a single caged light fixture which dimly lit the area.
Marsha parked, set the emergency brake, and turned off the engine; but she didn’t get out. For a moment she sat and tried to bolster her confidence. After the conversation with Kim, she felt nervous about what she was about to do.
Prior to Kim’s mentioning physical danger, Marsha had not considered it. Now she wasn’t so sure. She’d heard plenty of stories of the industry’s use of strong-arm tactics in its dealings with its immigrant employees and with union sympathizers. Consequently, she couldn’t help but wonder how they might respond to the kind of threat her unauthorized activities would surely pose.
“You’re being overly melodramatic,” Marsha said out loud.
With sudden resolve, Marsha unhooked her cellular phone from its car cradle. She checked its battery.
“Well, here goes,” she said as she alighted from the car.
It was raining harder than she expected, so she ran for the employee entrance. When she got there, she tried to yank open the door but found it locked. Next to the door was a button with a small plaque that said: AFTER HOURS. She pushed it.
After a half a minute and no response, Marsha rang the bell again and even rapped on the solid door with her fist. Just when she was thinking of returning to her car and calling the plant with her cell phone, the door swung open. A man in a brown-and-black security uniform looked out at her with a confused look on his face. Visitors were obviously a rarity.
Marsha flashed her USDA card and tried to push into the building. The man held his position, forcing her to remain in the rain.
“Let me see that,” the guard said.
Marsha handed the man the card. He inspected it carefully, even reviewing the back.
“I’m a USDA inspector,” Marsha said. She feigned irritation. “Do you really think it’s appropriate to make me stand out here in the rain?”
“What are you doing here?” the man asked.
“What we inspectors always do,” Marsha said. “I’m making sure federal rules are being followed.”
The man finally backed up enough to allow Marsha to enter. She wiped moisture off her forehead and then shook it free from her hand.
“There’s only cleaning going on now,” the guard commented.
“I understand,” Marsha said. “Could I please have my I.D.?”
The guard handed back the card. “Where are you going?”
“I’ll be in the USDA office,” Marsha said over her shoulder. She was already on her way. She walked with determination and didn’t look back, even though the guard’s reaction had surprised her and added to her unease.
Bobby Bo Mason pulled the library’s paneled mahogany door closed. The sound of merriment from the rest of the house was cut off abruptly. He turned to face his tuxedoed colleagues who were sprinkled around the library’s interior. Represented were most of the city’s businesses associated with beef and beef products: cattle-men, slaughterhouse directors, meat-processor presidents, and meat-distributor heads. Some of these men were sitting on dark-green velvet chairs; others were standing with their champagne glasses held close to their chests.
The library was one of Bobby Bo’s favorite rooms. Under normal circumstances, every guest was made to come into it to admire its proportions. It was clad entirely in old-growth Brazilian mahogany. The carpet was an inch-thick antique Tabriz. Oddly, this “library” contained no books.
“Let’s make this short so we can get back to more important things like eating and drinking,” Bobby Bo said. His comment elicited some laughter. Bobby Bo enjoyed being the center of attention and was looking forward to his year as the president of the American Beef Alliance.
“The issue here is Miss Marsha Baldwin,” Bobby Bo continued when he had everyone’s attention.
“Excuse me,” a voice said. “I’d like to say something.”
Bobby Bo watched as Sterling Henderson got to his feet. He was a big man, with coarse features and a shock of startlingly silver hair.
“I’d like to apologize right from the top,” Sterling said in a sad voice. “I’ve tried from day one to rein this woman in, but nothing’s worked.”
“We all understand your hands have been tied,” Bobby Bo said. “I can assure you this little impromptu meeting is not to cast blame but rather to solve a problem. We were perfectly happy letting you deal with it until just today. What’s made the Miss Baldwin issue a crisis is her sudden association with this crank doctor who got the media’s attention with his ruckus about E. coli.”
“It’s an association that promises trouble,” Everett said. “An hour ago we caught her and the doctor inside our patty room going through our logs.”
“She brought the doctor into your plant?” Sterling questioned with horrified surprise.
“I’m afraid so,” Everett said. “It gives you an idea of what we’re up against. It’s a critical situation. We’re going to be facing another E. coli fiasco unless something is done.”
“This E. coli nonsense is such a pain in the ass,” Bobby Bo sputtered. “You know what really irks me about it? The goddamn poultry industry puts out a product that’s almost a hundred percent swimming in either salmonella or campylobacter and nobody says boo. We, on the other hand, have a tiny problem with E. coli in what . . . two to three percent of our product and everybody’s up in arms. What’s fair about that, will someone tell me? What is it? Do they have a better lobby?”
The hushed jingle of a cellular phone resounded in the silence following Bobby Bo’s passionate philippic. Half the occupants in the room reached into their tuxes. Only Daryl’s unit was vibrating in sync with the sound. He withdrew to the far corner to take the call.
“I don’t know how the poultry business gets away with what they do,” Everett said. “But that shouldn’t divert our attention at the moment. All I know is that the Hudson Meat management didn’t survive their E. coli brouhaha. We have to do something and do it fast. That’s my vote. I me
an, what the hell did we form the Prevention Committee for anyway?”
Daryl flipped his phone closed and slipped it back into his inner jacket pocket. He rejoined the group. His face was more flushed than usual.
“Bad news?” Bobby Bo inquired.
“Sure as hell is,” Daryl said. “That was my security out at Higgins and Hancock. Marsha Baldwin is there right now going through USDA records. She came in flashing her USDA card, saying she was there to make sure federal rules were being followed.”
“She’s not authorized even to be in there,” Sterling asserted indignantly, “much less look at any records.”
“There you go,” Everett said. “Now I don’t even think it’s a topic for debate. I think our hand is forced.”
“I’d tend to agree,” Bobby Bo said. He gazed out at the others. “How does everyone else feel?”
There was a universal murmur of assent.
“Fine,” Bobby Bo said. “Consider it done.”
Those who were sitting stood up. Everybody moved toward the door that Bobby Bo threw open. Laughter and music and the smell of garlic wafted into the room.
Except for Bobby Bo, the men filed out of the room and went in search of their consorts. Bobby Bo went to his phone and placed a quick internal call. Hardly had he replaced the receiver, when Shanahan O’Brian leaned into the room.
Shanahan was dressed in a dark suit and muted tie. He was sporting the kind of earphone a Secret Service agent might wear. He was a tall Black Irish fellow, a refugee of the turmoil in Northern Ireland. Bobby Bo had hired him on the spot, and for the past five years, Shanahan had been heading up Bobby Bo’s security staff. He and Bobby Bo got along famously.
“Did you call?” Shanahan asked.
“Come in and close the door,” Bobby Bo said.
Shanahan did as he was told.
“The Prevention Committee has its first assignment,” Bobby Bo said.
“Excellent,” Shanahan said with his soft Gaelic accent.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you about it,” Bobby Bo said.
Five minutes later, the two men walked out of the library. In the foyer they parted company. Bobby Bo went to the threshold of the sunken living room and looked out over the crowd of revelers. “How come it’s so quiet in here!” Bobby Bo shouted. “What is this, a funeral? Come on, let’s party!”
• • •
From the foyer, Shanahan descended into the underground garage. He got into his black Cherokee and drove out into the night. He took the ring road around the city, pushing his car as much as he thought he could get away with. He exited the freeway and drove due west. Twenty minutes later he pulled into a rutted, gravel parking lot of a popular nightspot called El Toro. On top of the building was a life-sized red neon outline of a bull. Shanahan parked at the periphery, leaving a wide space between his vehicle and the other mostly broken-down pickup trucks. He didn’t want anybody opening their doors and denting his new car.
Even before he got near the entrance to the bar, he could hear the thundering bass of the Hispanic music; inside it was just shy of overpowering. The popular watering hole was crowded and smoke-filled. The patrons were mostly men, although there were a few brightly dressed, raven-haired women. There was a long bar on one side and a series of booths on the other. In the middle were tables and chairs and a small dance floor. An old-fashioned, brightly illuminated jukebox was against the wall. In the back was an archway through which a series of pool tables could be seen.
Shanahan scanned the people at the bar. He didn’t see whom he was looking for. He walked down the bank of booths with no success. Giving up, he approached the busy bar. He literally had to squeeze between people. Then there was the problem of getting the bartender’s attention.
Waving a ten-dollar bill finally succeeded where shouts did not. Shanahan handed the bill to the man.
“I’m looking for Carlos Mateo,” Shanahan yelled.
The money disappeared as if it were a magic trick. The bartender didn’t speak. He merely pointed to the back of the room and mimed the motion of shooting pool.
Shanahan weaved his way across the small dance floor. The backroom was not quite as crowded as the front. He found the man he was searching for at the second table.
Shanahan had spent a good deal of time and effort recruiting for the proposed Prevention Committee. After following up multiple leads and after a lot of interviewing, he’d settled on Carlos. Carlos had escaped from prison in Mexico and had been on the run. Six months previously, he’d managed to cross into the United States on his first attempt. He’d come to Higgins and Hancock in desperate need of a job.
What had impressed Shanahan about the man was his cavalier attitude toward death. Although Carlos was reticent concerning the details, Shanahan learned that the reason he’d been imprisoned in Mexico was because he had knifed to death an acquaintance. In his job at Higgins and Hancock, Carlos was involved in the deaths of more than two thousand animals per day. Emotionally he seemed to view the activity of killing on par with cleaning his truck.
Shanahan stepped into the cone of light illuminating the second pool table. Carlos was in the process of lining up a shot and didn’t respond to Shanahan’s greeting. Shanahan had to wait.
“Mierda!” Carlos exclaimed when his ball refused to drop. He slapped the table’s rail and straightened up. Only then did he look at Shanahan.
Carlos was a dark-haired, dark-complected wiry man with multiple flamboyant tattoos on both arms. His face was dominated by bushy eyebrows, a pencil-line mustache, and hollow cheeks. His eyes were like black marbles. Over his torso he was wearing a black leather vest that showed off his lean musculature as well as his tattoos. He was not wearing a shirt.
“I’ve got a job for you,” Shanahan said. “A job like we talked about. You interested? It’s got to be now.”
“You pay me, I’m interested,” Carlos said. He had a strong Spanish accent.
“Come with me,” Shanahan directed. He pointed through the archway toward the front door.
Carlos handed off his cue stick, gave a couple of crumpled bills to his complaining opponent, then followed Shanahan.
The two men didn’t try to talk until they were outside.
“I don’t know how you can stand that noise in there for more than five minutes,” Shanahan remarked.
“How come, man?” Carlos asked. “It’s good music.”
With the rain falling steadily, Shanahan brought Carlos to his Cherokee and the two men climbed inside.
“Let’s make this fast,” Shanahan said. “The name is Marsha Baldwin. She’s an attractive, tall blonde who’s about twenty-five.”
Carlos’s face twisted into a grin of pleasure, making his mustache look like two dashes under his narrow nose.
“The reason you got to move fast,” Shanahan explained, “is because at this very moment she’s where you work.”
“She’s at Higgins and Hancock?” Carlos asked.
“That’s right,” Shanahan said. “She’s in the admin section looking into records she’s not supposed to. You won’t be able to miss her. If you have trouble finding her, ask the guard. He’s supposed to keep his eye on her.”
“How much you pay?” Carlos asked.
“More than we talked about, providing you do it now,” Shanahan said. “I want you to go this minute.”
“How much?” Carlos asked.
“A hundred now and two hundred later if she disappears without a trace,” Shanahan said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He held it up so Carlos could see it. It was bathed in red light from the neon bull.
“What about my job?” Carlos asked.
“Like I promised,” Shanahan said. “I’ll get you off the kill floor by the end of the month. Where do you want to go, the boning room or the carcass room?”
“The boning room,” Carlos said.
“So we have a deal?” Shanahan.
“Sure,” Carlos said. He took th
e bill, folded it, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. He started to get out of the car. It was as if he’d been asked to rake leaves or shovel snow.
“Don’t screw it up,” Shanahan said.
“It’s going to be easy with her in Higgins and Hancock,” Carlos said.
“That’s what we figured,” Shanahan said.
Lifting her arms over her head, Marsha stretched. She’d been bending over the open file-cabinet drawer long enough to make her back stiff. She used her hip to close the drawer, and it made a definitive click as it slid home. Picking up her cellular phone, she headed for the USDA office door. While she walked, she punched in Kim’s phone number.
As the call went through, she opened the door and looked up and down the silent hall. She was pleased not to see anyone. While she’d been going through the files, she’d heard the guard pass by and even hesitate outside the door on several occasions. He’d not bothered her, but his loitering had raised her anxiety level. She knew that if he approached her, she’d feel trapped in the seemingly deserted building. She’d not seen a single one of the cleaning people who were supposed to be there.
“This better be you,” Kim said without saying hello.
“That’s a strange way to answer the phone,” Marsha said with a nervous laugh. She closed the USDA office door and started up the deserted hall.
“It’s about time you called,” Kim said.
“I haven’t had any luck so far,” Marsha said, ignoring Kim’s complaint.
“What’s taken you so long to call?” Kim demanded.
“Hey, cool it,” Marsha said. “I’ve been busy. You have no idea how much paperwork the USDA requires. There’s daily sanitation reports, disposition records, livestock slaughter reports, process deficiency records, kill-order reports, and purchase invoices. I’ve had to go through all of it for January ninth.”
“What did you find?” Kim asked.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Marsha said. She came to a door with a frosted-glass panel. Stenciled on the glass was the word: RECORDS. She tried the door. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it behind her.
