“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.
Shanahan scanned the people at the bar. He didn’t see whom he was looking for. He walked down the bank of booths with no success. Giving up, he approached the busy bar. He literally had to squeeze between people. Then there was the problem of getting the bartender’s attention.
Waving a ten-dollar bill finally succeeded where shouts did not. Shanahan handed the bill to the man.
“I’m looking for Carlos Mateo,” Shanahan yelled.
The money disappeared as if it were a magic trick.
The bartender didn’t speak. He merely pointed to the back of the room and mimed the motion of shooting pool.
Shanahan weaved his way across the small dance floor. The backroom was not quite as crowded as the front. He found the man he was searching for at the second table.