8. CELIA and LETITIA BARNES—Out-of-town owners. He had not been able to reach either of them by telephone. Their sharecroppers knew nothing about the land deal.
9. AUGUST GROJEAN—Just about took his head off when he called. “I ain't saying nothing about nothing without my lawyer.” He'd just been through extensive legal battles over his ground, and he refused to listen to reason. He had given Royce his Memphis lawyer's number for a telephone contact, and so far he'd been unable to reach the lawyer by phone.
10. BILL WISE—Last on the list. He had just missed Wise, somebody said at the flea market, and was waiting for a word with Bucky, whose voice carried across the field.
“They do that to everybody. They do it every damn time. I don't see how the crooked sum'bitch stays in business."
“I called him,” the foreman shouted from his truck. “I told him, ‘You short me two yards every time you pour out here, goddammit, and I ain't taking that shit off you people again. If you short me again, I'll buy from fuckin’ Flat River if I have to, but I won't use you again.’ I told him."
“What did he say to that?"
“'Oh, I never shorted you no two yards,’ he says. Well, I know better.” Another comment was drowned out by the equipment noises.
“He's nothing but a fuckin’ crook."
“I'm going."
“All right."
The truck pulled out across the bumpy field, and soon Bucky Hite made his way to where Royce was waiting.
“Sorry about that. The boss had a bug up his butt."
“Sounded that way."
“Fuckin’ Jerome Thomas crooked us outta some more concrete. Nothing new there.” He frowned.
“So I've heard."
“Got anything?” Hite asked.
“Say what?"
“You holding?"
“I got a joint."
“No. I mean blow."
“Not right with me,” Royce said.
“Oh well, no biggie."
“I wanted to ask you about this deal. What's cooking with all this?"
“Some big company, man. Outta D.C., I hear. Going to make a big park like Six Flags. That's confidential. Going to mean a shitload of new jobs.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know—some of us got to have them things."
“Fuck you.” They laughed. “Six Flags? Out here? Bullshit."
“No—really. That's what I heard. Foreman says in a few days they going to pour footings, and man, it's going to be big. You trying to get a gig?"
“Not so's you'd notice. I'm just asking for a friend.” He decided he'd tell Bucky. If anybody in Waterton hadn't heard about the disappearance, this would take care of it. “Sam Perkins? I don't know if you heard yet, but he's missing. I'm a friend of the family. Just, you know, asking around."
“Yeah. I heard. Cops asked everybody already. They got hold of some dude that he was doing business with, and he told the cops he didn't know anything. So I heard.” This guy driving a backhoe knew more than the man's wife, Royce thought.
“What dude? Somebody Sam was dealing with?"
“Yeah."
“Was it a guy named Sinclair?"
“Beats the shit out of me.” He shrugged. “Ask the cops, man."
“Me and the cops aren't on the best of terms."
“Yeah, I hear that,” Bucky said.
“Where'd you hear that anyway?"
“Foreman. No ... shit, I don't remember. Maybe it was some guy at Judy's. Hell, I can't remember."
“Try."
“We were eatin’ at Judy's. Seems like—oh, I know who it was. Kelly McCauley's husband."
“Who's Kelly McCauley's husband?” He was getting very tired of this. He wanted to go back to the cabin and do some tootski and get his shit together.
“Jeezus. Kelly's the chick with the big guacamoles that works in Kerns's office. She overheard him talking about this guy who'd been doing business with the real estate dude, okay? He told ‘em he didn't know anything. They had two or three missing people, and they all had some mutual connection with the project.” He pointed at the construction work behind him. “It turned out to be nothing. Just coinci—"
“Hold it, Bucky. What people? I never heard anything about any two or three missing people. Who were they?"
“Beats my ass.” He shrugged again. “You wanna know—go ask Kelly McCauley. Don't she live over near you?"
“I don't know her."
“Kelly McCauley,” he repeated, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “Lives over there by Waterworks Hill next to Diane's."
“Oh. Wait a minute.” Royce's mind finally slipped back into gear. “She lives in that trailer next to Diane's Hairquarters."
“That's the lady."
“I know who she is. Yeah—I'd seen them around, I just didn't know the last name. Where does he work, do you know?"
“Uh-uh."
“Okay. Thanks, man. Hey—if you hear anything about Sam Perkins, or hear anything else about these missing people ... do me a favor? Call me. If I'm not there, just leave word, ‘kay?” He got out a pen and wrote Mary's phone number on a scrap of paper.
“Okay. No problem."
“What the hell would somebody wanna put a Six Flags way the crap out here for?"
“Not a real Six Flags, man. Some kind of ... um ... you know, like Expo deal, where they do scientific shit and people take tours through it. Hey—how the fuck do I know? Just don't knock it, I'm draggin’ double time and a half!"
“Lotta new hands around?” Royce glanced around.
“Some."
“What's that big fucker do? You know who I mean—about the size of two refrigerators?” Royce held his hands apart as wide as he could. But Bucky just looked at it, obviously having no idea who he was referring to.
“What big fucker?"
“You'll recognize him if you see him, dude.” Royce laughed. “He blots out the sun.” He thanked the man and they said good-bye. Hite went back to work, and Royce started driving back to town. He was surprised the big boy wasn't one of the new construction guys.
As soon as Royce was out of sight, Bucky Hite crumpled up the phone number and threw it into the dirt.
Fuck it.
Waterworks Road was a short piece of well-traveled blacktop that ran from Cotton Avenue, at the base of Waterworks Hill, to the boonies beyond Waterton's remote water treatment plant and reservoir.
The low-rent housing started about fifty yards off the road on some corner pastureland where an old single-wide was visible behind a thicket of weeds. Royce thought about knocking. Asking his questions real friendly.
Next to the broken mailbox a piece of rubber tire lay coiled like a dead blacksnake. He'd seen Kelly McCauley before. A slightly heavy young woman with a child's hands, big, bouncy breasts, and a provocative if rather porcine look around the eyes and nose. She lived there—in the trailer—and the look of the place stopped him.
Maybe he thought her old man would hassle him, coming up to the crib to rap with little Mama. Everybody was always sniffing around Kelly. Checking out those big, soft handfuls of love. Hanging around the city administration building, where the jail was, trying to get a look down those low-cut things she wore to work sometimes. Maybe Kelly had a little problem, too.
Or maybe he could imagine her slamming that door in his face when he started asking questions about what she overheard her boss, Chief Kerns, say about this and that. That's striking pretty close to the lunch bucket. If Kelly had half a brain, she'd clam up. Next thing—Marty Kerns would be bringing him down to the jail for a little talk and a late night swim in the fish tank.
Whatever brought him to his senses in time stopped him dead and turned him around, sent him back to his ride, and headed him on down Waterworks past Diane's Hairquarters and around the corner.
One of his fave pay phones was located in front of a ma-'n'-pa grocery. He stopped. Got out. Dropped change and dialed the McCauley residence. Three rings.