Known Dead_ A Novel - Donald Harstad [67]
Press liaison was our next item. How to do it professionally. So far, either A1 or I had just given them a brief rundown on events, without any real information. What was needed wasn’t my direct approach, it was somebody who could manufacture satisfactory sound bites, present them to the press, and escape without telling them too much. Not me, that was certain. As we discussed it, a little lightbulb came on in my head.
‘‘A1,’’ I said, ‘‘would you do it?’’
‘‘No.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘It’s not my show, it’s yours.’’
‘‘Hell, A1,’’ I said, ‘‘you’re just so much better-lookin’.’’
There was a slight pause, and then we all started to laugh. Even A1.
‘‘All right, all right,’’ he said. ‘‘You got me on that one. How about we do the press together?’’
About fifteen minutes later, I found myself alone, outside the tent feeling the hot sun very well through my thinning hair, and wanting a cigarette so bad I was ready to kill for it. Then I noticed that the wives of our reserve officers had brought sandwiches. Thick slices of ham, thick slices of cheese, on really big hamburger buns. With thick smears of butter and mustard. Well, what the hell. Oh, have I mentioned I’m also restricted to thirty grams of fat per day, by my cardiologist? Well, I am. As I approached the folding table heaped with food, I decided to take two sandwiches, potato chips, and a can of Pepsi. I smiled at Gloria Nydegger, wife of a reserve officer.
‘‘This’ll be our little secret, Gloria.’’
She smiled back. She knew about my diet. I’d complained about it to everybody I knew. ‘‘Okay. Two?’’
‘‘Shit, Gloria, make it three.’’
‘‘Sounds good. Extra mustard?’’
Oh, why couldn’t state work that way?
I just started the first sandwich when George of the Bureau came over.
‘‘Just had a strange sort of call, Carl.’’
‘‘Mmmmpf?’’ Hard to sound sharp with a mouthful of sandwich.
‘‘A SAC is on his way up. Be here real quick.’’
I swallowed. ‘‘So?’’
‘‘So this is a heavy hitter among heavy hitters, Carl. Fellow named Volont.’’
‘‘Oh, yeah,’’ I said. ‘‘Met him at the meeting in Oelwein.’’
‘‘Well, I’ve never met the man myself,’’ said George. ‘‘Just heard of him.’’
‘‘Yep,’’ I said. ‘‘Well, he seems to have a handle on the dope trade, although I think he believes I’m not too sharp.’’ I grinned, remembering my raincoat.
George gave me a funny look. Just then, his cell phone rang. He answered it, got sort of a quizzical look, and handed it to me.
‘‘It’s for you . . .’’
‘‘Me?’’ I’d only talked on a cell phone a few times in my life, and sure wasn’t expecting to receive a call.
‘‘Hello?’’ I was expecting an FBI supervisor.
‘‘Carl?’’ asked a muffled voice, slowly and thickly.
‘‘Yes, this is Carl.’’
‘‘Houmph dses goone?’’
‘‘What?’’
‘‘House thinks goanen?’’ Very slow, very deliberate, and just about impossible to understand.
‘‘Who is this?’’
‘‘Mumph Lamar, fumf dumm shiddd.’’
‘‘Lamar? Lamar, is that you?’’
‘‘Yefffs.’’
‘‘Jesus Christ!’’
‘‘Mum, mum, mum,’’ he laughed.
‘‘It’s Lamar,’’ I said to George. Back into the phone, I said, ‘‘Why the hell aren’t you resting?’’
It wasn’t a long conversation, but just basic Lamar, and his wanting to know how things were. His wife came on the line a few seconds later.
‘‘Hello, Carl.’’
‘‘Hi, June.’’
‘‘I couldn’t stop him, and the office said they could get hold of you up there with this number.’’
‘‘How is he, June?’’
‘‘Well,’’ she said, disgusted and a little proud at the same time. ‘‘You know my old man here. Had to know just as soon as the anesthetic wore off.’’
He was calling from his room, had just come from a surgery on his leg, the second one, and was doing just fine. Except he wasn’t really conscious yet.
‘‘June, hey, could you ask him something for me?’’
‘‘Well, I