Эд Горман - Riders on the Storm

I’d have to look into getting some teeth like that. “It’s a good thing you’re not a reporter. You’d get your ass sued out of business for slander.”

“Libel.”

“What the fuck ever. Al Carmichael insisted that we sink money we didn’t have into two projects we should never even have considered. But he was adamant. He even threatened to sell his stock to this group that wanted to buy us and then clean out our cash and dump half our employees and then sell us for a big profit. I guess your lousy sources didn’t tell you anything about that, did they?”

I have the bad habit of wondering how people I meet would do as lawyers. He would work well either way, defense or prosecution. He could lie without his pants catching fire.

“Seems to me if Donovan was really your friend, you’d want to help me find out who really killed him.”

“Right. And Lee Harvey Oswald didn’t really kill President Kennedy.”

“I wasn’t a big fan of Donovan’s,” I said quietly. “But he deserved better friends than you.”

The teeth again. He started to say something, then shook his head.

He said nothing more to me and neither did the sumptuous Annette as I walked out the front door.

Jamie said, “I Don’t know how they’re going to put a parade together on such short notice.”

“O’Shay’s so desperate to get reelected I’m sure he’ll find a way.”

“My mom always votes for him. I think it’s his hair. He reminds her of some old-time actor I’ve never heard of. I don’t like him because of what he said about Negroes one time. I had three Negro girls in my homeroom and there were a lot of people who were terrible to them. It used to make me so mad. So Senator O’Shay goes ahead and says that too many of them would rather live on the dole than work. Our pastor gave a sermon about people who talk that way. You could tell he was pretty mad. He even used Senator O’Shay’s name. But somebody in the church must have written him and told him what the pastor said because he wrote the pastor a letter and said he wanted it read to the whole congregation.”

O’Shay was spending time addressing a church whose pastor he’d pissed off? Not exactly a good use of his time.

“Did he read it?”

“He did, yes, but then he attacked Senator O’Shay again for things that were in the letter.” A happy look. “Most of us were so proud of Pastor Jim.”

I was waiting on a call to Al Carmichael at ChemLab in Pittsburgh. Who better to talk about Steve Donovan and Lon Anders than their former business partner? Good reporters always use disgruntled sources. Not all of them are reliable but the ones who are can give you explosive information and insights.

Meanwhile I called the hospital and asked for the psych ward. The nurse I talked to sounded wary and weary. “All calls about Mr. Cullen go through our public relations office downstairs. If you’d told the receptionist what you were after she would’ve directed you there.”

“All I want to know is if his condition has changed.”

A put-upon sigh. “No, it hasn’t.”

“Thank you.”

By the time I got “Thank” out she’d hung up.

“A man named Al Carmichael is on the phone for you,” Jamie said after the phone rang next.

“Thanks for returning my call, Al.”

“I’m assuming this has something to do with Steve Donovan’s death. I still have friends back in Black River Falls and three of them have called me about it. I think they half expected me to jump up and down and celebrate, but as much as I hated him at the end we’d been good friends for four or five years and so I have good memories of him, too. So if you want some kind of bad quote about him, I’m not going to give it.”

“Would the same apply to Lon Anders?”

A snort. “Exactly what are you looking for, Sam?”

I told him. I also explained that I did not believe that my friend Will Cullen had killed the man. And that I was serving as both his lawyer and his investigator.

“You think that’s smart? It’s pretty hard to be objective in a case like this.”

“I’ve known Will all my life. I trust my instincts.”

“Well, it’s your call, Sam.”

“So how about Lon Anders?”

“A total piece of shit. As soon as Steve hooked up with him things started to change at the place.”

“How so?”

“Somehow Anders was able to convince Steve that he knew something about our business. Anders is a quick study, I’ll give him that, but he’s basically a peddler. He liked to give pep talks to all the workers there. They thought he was an arrogant, stupid blowhard and they were right. After he got Steve’s ear, my staff and I could never get Steve to prototype anything we came up with. And we knew why. It was a turf battle. And what Steve never realized was that Anders would someday push him aside just as he’d pushed me aside. Three of my best staffers quit. They were so frustrated they couldn’t take it anymore. Anders took it on himself to find their replacements. They knew even less about our business than Anders did. But behind my back they reported everything to him. What he was doing was building a case against me for Steve’s sake. I have a family history of depression. And that’s what landed on me. Anders was nice enough to spread the word that I had ‘mental problems’ so people started looking at me as if I’d bring a shotgun to work and kill two or three of them. So finally I just resigned and let Steve buy me out for pennies. But I just wanted out of there and didn’t really care what he paid me.”

My mind fixed on him talking about Anders someday pushing Donovan aside.

“What were profits like when you left?”

“I admit to being petty when it comes to Anders and the clowns he’d hired. But the products they came up with made money. I couldn’t believe it but I saw it on the P&L sheets and there wasn’t much I could say about it.”

“Have you had any contact with Donovan since then?”

“No. I didn’t know what I’d say to him or what he’d say to me. But today... well I think maybe I should have called him once in a while.”

“This has been very helpful, Al.”

“I don’t really see how, but if you say so, I’m glad.”

“Thanks,” I said. And I meant it.

I was excited about it.

One of the experiences I’ve never had as an investigator is being followed. The police do it all the time in unmarked cars and it is one of the staples for most private investigators. But it had never happened to me. And in comic strips, short stories, novels, TV shows, and movies, private investigators do it — and have it done to them — all the time.

So I was sort of enjoying it.

He’d followed me at about a half-block distance from my office. Drab four-year-old Dodge sedan.

I had half a tank of gas so I was able to run him for half an hour, even up into the limestone cliffs above the river. He was good, very good. Easy peasy. Never panicked once. Just stayed behind me and never once came close to losing me.

After a while it got boring. Plus I was hungry. My exhaustion needed to be fed.

I drove to a Mexican restaurant called “Carlos’.” He was smart. Seeing where I was going he pulled into a parking space across the street and waited till I went inside. I was pretty sure he had no idea that I’d finally spotted him.

From my booth I could see him. An older man a little slumped in the driver’s seat. He’d occasionally glance over at me and I’d glance away. Eye tag.

I had a taco and a glass of Pepsi. The Pepsi was warmer than the taco. I’d have to remember not to come in here again.

After relieving myself in the john, I walked through the kitchen and out the back door. Numerous pairs of eyes watched me. One man said, “Hey.” But I didn’t wait to find out if that was a friendly “Hey” or an unfriendly one.