The law should read “No telephones shall remain operational within five hundred miles of any establishment where tequila or any derivative thereof is served for public consumption...” Or words to that effect. Or maybe it wasn’t telephones at all, perhaps it was a full platoon of errand boys. Errand boys with large metal gongs and flying mallets. Errand boys who got paid by the stroke. Or maybe I should not drink mescal on weeknights. Probably the later. Several small items hit the floor before I had the receiver in my hand.
“Good morning,” I said. I lied. It was not a good morning. The pipe band in the hall had just started a funeral march for the whole of mankind, give or take a few souls.
The voice in my ear laughed at me. “Yea, and any morning where your ass and your boots wind up under the same bed is a good morning. Carson, are you drunk or hung over?” You have to understand this is just Cambell’s normal manner. He never really meant to be a sadist, it just sort of grew on him. Officer Candidate School and three tours on the sand only refined him.
“Mr. Cambell. If you want me drunk you get to buy.” Nobody ever really gets past Cambell.
“Conscious. Not quite up to full speed, but conscious. I have a job for you, if you’re still in the business.”
“You mean a job with tax forms and check stubs or some bullshit where I’ll get shot at,” I asked, getting my feet under me.
“Maybe both. Good potential either way. You want to talk about it?”
I squinted into the sunshine pouring through open blinds and pushed down the fog. “Sure. I’ll meet you for lunch” It was a guess, but the shadows were still on the floor by the east window, not on the west wall. Lunch.
“Brandon’s then, in an hour.” And he hung up.
I made it in less than an hour. For all his other faults if Cambell says he’ll be somewhere in an hour you can set a watch by his arrival. And anyhow, Brandon’s is only a few blocks from the walk up I call home. I go there regularly, sometimes to eat, sometimes to sit and think. Never to drink. Anyhow, I’d had time to down a cup of java and burn a square before Cambell darkened the door.
Even in civvies the man still reeked of the military: sandy hair cropped short, steel blue eyes that are never still, clothes with creases. Cambell enters any room with the casual arrogance of someone who owns the world. He's an easy man to like, and an even easier man to hate. On the sand he’d been Colonel Cambell McGee. Now he was simply Cambell, mustered out right along with the rest of us doing for some oversize corporation what he’d done for uncle, specifically kissing or kicking the appropriate ass. He brought himself across the room and sat down. Jennifer vectored out from the bar with water and a menu, all but stepping on his heels as she intercepted him at the table. Cambell managed to take the menu and strip her all in the same glance. Jennifer’s a spunky kid. She pulled her shoulders back and struck a pose, her face a study in casual interest.
Cambell smiled. “Coffee, ham stack with swiss on rye,” he said, handing back the menu unopened.
The square had burned to nothing while Cambell had held the floor, so I dumped it. “Double club and soup of the day,” I said, and then squelched a nasty thought as Jennifer walked away with her butt rolling like a pacific swell. Like I’d said, she’s a spunky kid. I’d really hoped she’d be immune.
Cambell didn’t let any suspense build. As soon as the coffee cups were filled he tapped a smoke out of my pack and settled down to business. “This one is a look go see,” he began, “with a civilized face and a sandworm attitude. The cover is worth forty seven bucks an hour legit, up to five hundred a day expenses, justified of course. An even hundred thousand on completion, ten up front for a good try.”
I lit another, and scratched. “A good try at what?” I asked, ignoring the figure floating in the smoke behind his head. Big numbers make me nervous. Safe work does not pay money with that many zeros.
“Finding out who did my very rich clients favorite nephew. Did him with no consideration for a twenty-five year old wife still toting junior packed in water.”
Cambell talks about death the way most folks talk about the ball game: some win, some lose, everybody plays. Normally. The glint, the tension on the butt, the hiss of raw anger, this was not normally. “Was it a rude ending?” I asked.
“Very rude. The job is who. Why would be nice. Scalps pay extra but don’t get caught.”
“What did the kid do? For a living, I mean.”
“Consultant. Professional tree hugger. Good at it, too, I checked. The old man had every right to be proud of the boy. The kind of grades you can’t buy. Three years with Amesco, and then a new wife and a shingle with his own name on it. First major contract.”
“And someone did him in.”
“In a very rude manner.”
“Where?”
“Little nowhere burg in southern Kansas, thirty minutes off I-35.”
Kansas. What did I know about Kansas? Dorothy came from Kansas. So did her dog. Heartland, farm country. Flat, hot, wheat and beef. Tornados. Open terrain, lots of hunters, concealed carry, very conservative. Being overrun by developers faster than the locals could load a Winchester. Every little industry with a nasty side trying to move in and hide from the big states who knew their tricks. Followed there by hoodlums who already knew the tricks. Very generous hoods, when it suits them. Generous enough they usually don’t even do their own dirty work. Just add greed, stir, and presto: a murder Cambell would call rude to go with a side of apple pie. What the hell, why not in Kansas. “I’ll need a truck,” I said.
Cambell smiled. “What kind of truck?”
“Not to old, not to shiny. One what used to be a bootlegger’s favorite girl. Can do?”
“I think something can be worked out. And in the meantime you’re going to do some serious cramming. Dust off what you remember from OCS, you’ll be needing it.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering just who and how rich this uncle really was.
“A five day seminar a hundred miles south in Oklahoma. A few engineering concepts, a little environmental law. Basic tree hugger stuff. Enough for a bright person like yourself to pick up a bit of the lingo, get a feel for the players.”
I was about to protest, but Jennifer showed up with a tray. Etiquette demanded business be put on hold while she served lunch. Nor did I resent her hanging around to offer Cambell nine variations on the worlds oldest theme, it gave me time to think. Tactical diversion, it’s called. When she cleared for the bar we took up where we’d left off, working between bites.
“So where do the police stand on this case?”
Cambell snorted. “Not. On any fucking excuse they can think of for doing nothing. Which is why my organization and several others are involved.”
I didn’t ask who, if Cambell had wanted me to know he’d have said so up front. So instead I shifted sideways. “How many of the players are supposed to be at this seminar?”
“At least two, maybe more. You’ll meet your partner boning up on tree hugging right along with you.”
“Partner?”
“Yes, your partner,” Cambell said, cocking an eye at me before finishing “Or your control, however you prefer.”
It’s a rare control with a one man command, I thought while getting the better of an oversize bite. Several organizations, many players, no scorecards. Which was probably more than I was supposed to know. I nodded a short thanks, and asked “Who’s the others?”
Cambell only shrugged for an answer, and slid a long heavy leather wallet across the table to me. I glanced on the way to my jacket: an airline ticket envelope, a thick wad of new currency, twenties or better, at least a thousand. Enough to live on for several days. “You booked a flight before I agreed?”
“I knew someone was going to Oklahoma tonight,” Cambell said.
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