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.