“This is the Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia, isn't it?"
“This is the Communications Company, Mr. Hawthorne. You apparently have the wrong firm. Sorry.” Royce apologized and rang off.
He redialed directory assistance. Went through his request from the top.
“Sorry, sir. We don't show a Community Communications Company in Alexandria."
“Do you show a Community Communications Company in Washington, D.C., or is that a different area code?” Knowing.
“That would be two-oh-two, sir.” He thanked her. Dialed. Ran it by another operator.
“We show a Community Communicators in Bethesda. And there is a Communications Company in Alexandria and Arlington, Virginia. But we do not show a Community Communications Company. Would you like to try one of these other numbers?"
He told her yes, he'd try them all. He wrote down the three numbers, including the one he'd just dialed. The Bethesda, Maryland, number proved to be for a school that taught teachers who specialized in learning-impaired students. The Arlington number was a separate listing for the first place he'd called. They were in the broadcasting business. Had no land holdings. Yes. Mr. Kelber was chairman of the board. No, he'd never heard of a Community Communications Company of Alexandria.
Royce Hawthorne's adult life, much of it, had been lived on phones, or through events and transactions that had transpired or gone down with the aid of that instrument. He knew people who were very much “into phones.” It was one of those persons he called next, leaving a terse message on a recording, and hanging up.
If there was a more nagging brand of angst than doper paranoia, it had to be “phoneman” disease, a uniquely lethal strain that apparently spawned in the invisible energy bogs that surrounded high-voltage transformers, microwave transmitters, and Lord knows what else, and that headed—like iron to a magnet—for the nastiest dope burns it could find. Telephones and junk—what a combination!
Royce felt it prod him like a hard jab to the kidneys, and he suddenly visualized Happy and a couple of cartel wire-tappers: alligator clips, recorders, headset all in place, tapping into Jefe Hawthorne as he set them up for double-digit bits in the slamarooney. They would not be amused. Happy would not be happy.
Royce's hand was slick with sweat as he reached for the pay phone again, stopped in midair by a frightening apparition, a sight that froze him in the warm noonday sun of Willow River Road. He saw someone or something coming out of the woods.
Shades of Beaudelle Hicks's kid appearing from out of nowhere, but my God—this was the most frightening-looking man Royce had ever laid eyes on, just gigantic, a hulking behemoth moving through the trees, carrying what looked like a couple of large wooden cases under one arm, and a thing like a heavy punching bag slung over one shoulder. It came through the trees, and Royce saw the behemoth look at him just as he saw the huge man moving out of the woods.
This fearsome giant, bigger than anything imaginable, looked at Royce with the most venomous stare he'd ever seen, and it chilled him to the bone.
There was just a beat when it looked like the man was stopping in his tracks, trying to make up his mind whether to come over and kick Royce's ass for the fun of it, but he turned and kept going, moving across the road and disappearing into the brush again.
Who the fuck was he? Royce had never seen him before, and for a few seconds he got mixed into the dope equation—he sure as hell could have passed for a stone killer—but then he regained control and realized how he was letting his imagination screw him around. He took a very deep breath, hopped back in his ride, and headed out Cotton Avenue to talk with Cullen Alberson, if he could find him, visions of “Bigfoot” still stomping around in his head.
Royce Hawthorne had spent the better part of two days calling and visiting and calling again. He'd come nearly full circle, and only managed to actually interview—if that's the word—two persons who'd sold ground to the mysterious Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia. Weldon and Cullen, the first two guys he'd tried to reach, had both been open and accessible. But as luck would have it, he'd spun his wheels the rest of the next day trying to make contact with the other eight property owners.
He was now around to the tenth seller, Bill Wise, who owned, among many other holdings, Bill Wise Industrial Park, a precariously prosperous gamble that had once held great promise for Waterton. Wise, who'd made a fortune in used office furniture down in Nashville, had moved to Waterton thinking it was virgin investment territory. He'd set up a used office furniture outlet in Maysburg, which had done well, and purchased large pieces of ground in both Maysburg and Waterton, calling them—optimistically—industrial parks, and landscaping them for the flood of industry that would someday push out from Paducah, and Memphis, and St. Louis, looking for low-rent settings for plants, factories, offices, and other building sites. When the industrial parks had withered on the vine, Wise had filled them himself: with office furniture showrooms, warehouses, and sprawling flea markets that always seemed on the verge of going under.
Bucky Hite, another drinking/smoking/snorting buddy of Royce's, was one of a dozen men working in the corner of Wise's northeast property, on the piece being developed by Community Communications Company.
There were several cats and backhoes at work, and some heavy equipment Royce wasn't familiar with, and he was parked at the edge of the field waiting for Bucky, who was busy being harangued by a man who appeared to be the foreman on the job. He looked at his notes that summarized what he'd learned on Mary's behalf during the last couple of frustrating days:
1. CULLEN ALBERSON—He had been presented a “killer offer,” his words, fifty thou, so much money he hadn't even talked it over with the missus—he just signed the deal then and there. He'd had no further contact after the deal was consummated with Sam Perkins, and no dealings with any Mr. Sinclair or the buyer.
2. WELDON LAWLEY—Sam had done the initial leg-work, and Lawley had looked at the contract. Said okay. The company sent him a bank draft. (It had taken a visit by Mary to pry the info out of First Bank of Waterton's office manager Lester Peebles.) The draft came via a New York bank, Chase Manhattan. Another hour of LD calls had netted the information that the draft had been purchased by Merchant's Bank in Washington, D.C. They had no information, or were not able or willing to find out, about the initiation of the large cash draft.
3. GILL POINDEXTER—Sam had finalized the deal, and they had again deposited money. This time First Bank was unable to help. The family was apparently out of town, and neither Royce nor Mary had been able to get hold of Gill or Betty Poindexter.
4. RUSSELL HERKEBAUER—He and his sons were on a hunting trip out West. Would be gone for a couple of weeks. Mrs. Herkebauer did not know the details of the deal, or she wasn't talking without her husband's okay.
5. DOYLE GENNERET—Gone on a business trip. His foreman, Dean Seabaugh, was busy with the animal auction and didn't have time to talk. Royce had tried to get him to open up, telling him a man had disappeared and that if Seabaugh didn't talk to him, he'd eventually have to talk to the cops. This had really frightened Seabaugh, who had said, “Big fucking deal,” and slammed the door on him.
6. LUTHER LLOYD—Gone. Mrs. Lloyd said he was “running around somewhere” and didn't know when he'd be back. “Probably late.” Royce left word. When nobody called back that evening, he dialed the Lloyds’ and nobody answered.
7. RUSTY ELLIS—Gone. Nobody had seen him around the farm in a while. Royce had driven out to the farmhouse and found some papers in the driveway. He peeked into the mailbox and saw a collection of junk mail.