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 ID."
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: cattlemen, 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 mean, 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.