Toxin (26 page)

“Are you planning on doing something now?”

“Yup,” Marsha said, with a nod. She glanced at her watch. “I'm going to head directly out to Higgins and Hancock. This might be my only chance. As I said earlier, the district USDA manager and I have never gotten along. Come Monday, when he hears about our little escapade from Jack Cartwright, I might be out of a job. Of course, that would mean I'd lose my I.D. card.”

“Gosh,” Kim remarked. “If you lose your job, I'm going to feel terrible. It's certainly not what I intended.”

“There's no need for you to feel responsible,” Marsha said. “I knew the risk I was taking. Even in retrospect, I think it was worth it. Like you said, I'm supposed to be protecting the public.”

“If you're going to the slaughterhouse now, then I'm coming along,” Kim said. “I'm not going to let you go alone.”

“Sorry, but it's out of the question,” Marsha said. “I didn't think there'd be a problem at Mercer Meats and there was. It's a different story at Higgins and Hancock.
I know there'd be a problem. Heck, it might be tough for me to get in there even with my USDA card.”

“How can that be?” Kim asked. “As a USDA inspector, can't you visit any meat establishment?”

“Not where I'm not assigned,” Marsha said. “And especially not a slaughterhouse. They have their own full-time contingent of USDA people. You see, slaughterhouses are akin to nuclear installations as far as visitors are concerned. They don't need them, and they don't want them. All they can do is cause trouble.”

“What are the slaughterhouses hiding?” Kim asked.

“Their methods, mostly,” Marsha said. “It's not a pretty sight in the best of circumstances but particularly after the deregulation of the eighties, slaughterhouses have all pushed up the speed of their lines, meaning they process more animals per hour. Some of them run as much as two hundred fifty to three hundred animals an hour. At that speed contamination can't be avoided. It's inevitable. In fact, it is so inevitable that the industry sued the USDA when the agency considered officially calling meat with E. coli contaminated.”

“You can't be serious,” Kim said.

“Trust me,” Marsha said. “It's true.”

“You're saying the industry knows that E. coli is in the meat?” Kim said. “They're contending it can't be helped?”

“Exactly,” Marsha said. “Not in all meat, just some of it.”

“This is outrageous,” Kim said. “This is something the public has to find out about. This can't continue. You've convinced me I've got to see a slaughterhouse in operation.”

“Which is exactly why the slaughterhouses don't like visitors,” Marsha said. “And that's why you'd never get
in. Well, that's not entirely true. Slaughtering has always been a labor-intensive business, and one of their biggest headaches is a constant shortage of help. So I suppose if you got tired of being a cardiac surgeon, you could get a job. Of course, it would help if you were an illegal alien, so they could pay you less than the minimum wage.”

“You're not painting a very flattering picture,” Kim said.

“It's reality,” Marsha said. “It's hard, undesirable work, and the industry has always relied heavily on immigrants. The difference is that today the workers come from Latin America, particularly Mexico, rather than Eastern Europe, where they came from in the past.”

“This is all sounding worse and worse,” Kim said. “I can't imagine that I've never given it any thought. I mean, I eat meat, so in some ways I'm responsible.”

“It's the downside of capitalism,” Marsha said. “I don't mean to sound like a radical socialist, but this is a particularly flaming example of profit over ethics: greed with a complete disregard for consequence. It's all part of what prompted me to join the USDA, because the USDA could change things.”

“If change was considered desirable by those in power,” Kim added.

“True,” Marsha agreed.

“Putting this all in perspective,” Kim said, “we're talking about an industry that exploits its workforce and feels no compunction about killing hundreds of kids a year.” Kim shook his head in disbelief. “You know, the total lack of ethics that this represents makes me worry even more about you.”

“How do you mean?” Marsha asked.

“I'm talking about your going off right now to visit Higgins and Hancock essentially under false pretenses,”
Kim said. “By using your USDA I.D., you'll be suggesting you're there on official business.”

“Obviously,” Marsha said. “That's the only way I could get in.”

“Well, as security-minded as they are,” Kim said, “won't you be taking a risk? And I'm not talking about your job security.”

“I see what you mean,” Marsha said. “Thank you for being concerned, but I'm not worried about my well-being. The worst that could happen is that they'd complain to my boss, like Jack Cartwright has threatened to do.”

“Are you sure?” Kim asked. “If there were any danger, I wouldn't want you to go. To tell you the truth, after the episode in Mercer Meats, I feel uncomfortable about you doing any more on my behalf. Maybe you should just let me do what I can. If you go out there tonight, I'll be nervous the entire time.”

“I'm flattered by your concern,” Marsha said. “But I think I should just go and see what I can. I'm not going to get hurt or in any more trouble than I already am. I might not even get in. And as I said, you wouldn't be able to do anything on your own because you certainly wouldn't be able to get in.”

“Maybe I could get a job,” Kim said. “Like you suggested.”

“Hey, I was only kidding,” Marsha said. “I was just trying to make a point.”

“I'm willing to do what I have to do,” Kim said.

“Listen,” Marsha said, “what if I take my cellular phone with me and call you every fifteen or twenty minutes? Then you won't have to worry, and I can keep you posted about what I'm finding. How's that?”

“It's something, I guess,” Kim said without a lot of enthusiasm. But the more he thought of the idea, the better it began to sound. The concept of his getting a job in a slaughterhouse was far from appealing. But most important was Marsha's adamant assurances about the lack of risk.

“I'll tell you what,” Marsha added. “This visit won't take me that long, and after I'm done, I'll come back and have that drink you offered. That is, if the invitation is still open.”

“Of course,” Kim said. He nodded as he went over the plan one last time. Then he gave Marsha's forearm a quick squeeze before getting out of the car. Instead of closing the door, he leaned back in. “You better take my phone number,” he said.

“Good thinking,” Marsha said. She fumbled for a pen and a piece of paper.

Kim gave her the number. “I'm going to be waiting right by the phone, so you'd better call.”

“No need to worry,” Marsha said.

“Good luck,” Kim said.

“I'll be talking with you soon,” Marsha said.

Kim slammed the car door. He watched as she backed up, turned, and accelerated down the street. He watched until the red taillights and their reflection in the rain-slicked street were swallowed by the night.

Kim turned and looked up at his dark, deserted house. Not a single light relieved its somber silhouette. He shuddered. Suddenly left by himself, the reality of Becky's loss descended. The crushing melancholy he'd felt earlier flooded back. Kim shook his head in despair at how tenuous his world had been. His family and his career had seemed so substantial, and yet within a relative blink of the eye, it had all disintegrated.

• • •

B
obby Bo Mason's house was lit up like a Las Vegas casino. To provide the proper gala atmosphere for his inaugural dinner celebration, he'd retained a theatrical lighting specialist to do the job. And to make the scene even more festive, he'd hired a mariachi band to play under a tent on the front lawn. A little rain certainly wasn't going to dampen his affair.

Bobby Bo was one of the largest cattle barons in the country. In keeping with his image of himself as well as his position in the industry, he'd built a house whose flamboyant style was a monument to Roman Empire kitsch. Columned porticos stretched off in bewildering directions. Plaster-cast, life-sized, imitation Roman and Greek statues dotted the grounds. Some were even painted in realistic skin tones.

Liveried valet parkers lined up at the head of the circular drive to await the arrival of the guests. Six-foot-high torches bordering the drive sputtered in the light rain.

Everett Sorenson's Mercedes beat Daryl Webster's Lexus but only by less than a minute. It was as if they'd planned it. As they exited their cars they embraced as did their wives.

The cars were whisked away by the valets, while other staff protected the guests with large golf umbrellas. The foursome started up the grand staircase leading to the double front doors.

“I trust you called your security,” Everett said sotto voce.

“The moment after I spoke with you,” Daryl said.

“Good,” Everett said. “We can't be too careful, especially now that the beef business is back to being relatively healthy.”

They reached the front door and rang. While they waited, Gladys reached over and straightened Everett's clip-on tie.

The double doors were whisked open. The light from within was enough to make the newly arrived guests squint as it reflected off the white marble foyer. In front of them stood Bobby Bo framed by the massive granite jambs and lintel.

Bobby Bo was heavyset, similar to Everett and Daryl, and, like his colleagues, he believed in his product enough to eat staggeringly large steaks. He had a lantern jaw and a barrel chest. He was impressively attired in a custom-tailored tuxedo, a hand-tied bowtie edged with gold thread, and diamond studs and cuff links. His fashion idol had been the “Dapper Don” prior to his conviction and incarceration.

“Welcome, folks,” Bobby Bo beamed. His smile revealed several gold molars. “Coats to the little lady and please help yourself to champagne.”

Music and gay laughter floated out from the living room; the Sorensons and the Websters were not the first to arrive. In contrast to the outside mariachis, the inside music was more restrained and emanated from a string quartet.

After the coats had been taken, Gladys and Hazel strolled arm in arm into the thick of the party. Bobby Bo held back Everett and Daryl.

“Sterling Henderson's the only one not here yet,” Bobby Bo said. “As soon as he is, we'll have a short meeting in my library. Everyone else has been alerted.”

“Jack Cartwright's a bit delayed as well,” Everett said. “I'd like him to sit in on it.”

“Fine by me,” Bobby Bo said. “Guess who else is here?”

Everett looked at Daryl. Neither one wanted to guess.

“Carl Stahl,” Bobby Bo said triumphantly.

A shadow of fear fell over Everett and Daryl.

“That makes me feel uncomfortable,” Everett said.

“I'd have to say the same,” Daryl said.

“Come on, you guys,” Bobby Bo teased. “All he can do is fire you.” He laughed.

“I don't think getting fired is something I want to joke about,” Daryl said.

“Nor I,” Everett said. “But thinking about it is all the more reason we have to nip this current problem in the bud.”

Saturday night, January 24
th

T
he windshield wipers tapped out a monotonous rhythm as Marsha rounded the final bend and got her first view of Higgins and Hancock. It was a sprawling, low-slung plant, with a vast, fenced-in stockyard in the rear. It looked ominous in the cold rain.

Marsha turned into the large, deserted parking lot. What cars that were there were widely scattered. When the three–to–eleven cleaning crew had arrived, the lot had been jammed with the day workers' vehicles.

Having visited the plant once during her orientation to the district, Marsha knew enough to drive around to the side. She recognized the unmarked door that was the employee entrance. Above it was a single caged light fixture which dimly lit the area.

Marsha parked, set the emergency brake, and turned off the engine; but she didn't get out. For a moment she sat and tried to bolster her confidence. After the
conversation with Kim, she felt nervous about what she was about to do.

Prior to Kim's mentioning physical danger, Marsha had not considered it. Now she wasn't so sure. She'd heard plenty of stories of the industry's use of strong-arm tactics in its dealings with its immigrant employees and with union sympathizers. Consequently, she couldn't help but wonder how they might respond to the kind of threat her unauthorized activities would surely pose.

“You're being overly melodramatic,” Marsha said out loud.

With sudden resolve, Marsha unhooked her cellular phone from its car cradle. She checked its battery.

“Well, here goes,” she said as she alighted from the car.

It was raining harder than she expected, so she ran for the employee entrance. When she got there, she tried to yank open the door but found it locked. Next to the door was a button with a small plaque that said:
AFTER HOURS
. She pushed it.

After a half a minute and no response, Marsha rang the bell again and even rapped on the solid door with her fist. Just when she was thinking of returning to her car and calling the plant with her cell phone, the door swung open. A man in a brown-and-black security uniform looked out at her with a confused look on his face. Visitors were obviously a rarity.

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 I.D.?”

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.

 

B
obby 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: cattle-men, 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!”

• • •

F
rom 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.

Shanahan had spent a good deal of time and effort recruiting for the proposed Prevention Committee. After following up multiple leads and after a lot of interviewing, he'd settled on Carlos. Carlos had escaped from prison in Mexico and had been on the run. Six months previously, he'd managed to cross into the United States on his first attempt. He'd come to Higgins and Hancock in desperate need of a job.

What had impressed Shanahan about the man was his cavalier attitude toward death. Although Carlos was reticent concerning the details, Shanahan learned that the reason he'd been imprisoned in Mexico was because he had knifed to death an acquaintance. In his job at Higgins and Hancock, Carlos was involved in the deaths of more than two thousand animals per day. Emotionally he seemed to view the activity of killing on par with cleaning his truck.

Shanahan stepped into the cone of light illuminating the second pool table. Carlos was in the process of lining up a shot and didn't respond to Shanahan's greeting. Shanahan had to wait.

“Mierda!”
Carlos exclaimed when his ball refused to drop. He slapped the table's rail and straightened up. Only then did he look at Shanahan.

Carlos was a dark-haired, dark-complected wiry man with multiple flamboyant tattoos on both arms. His face
was dominated by bushy eyebrows, a pencil-line mustache, and hollow cheeks. His eyes were like black marbles. Over his torso he was wearing a black leather vest that showed off his lean musculature as well as his tattoos. He was not wearing a shirt.

“I've got a job for you,” Shanahan said. “A job like we talked about. You interested? It's got to be now.”

“You pay me, I'm interested,” Carlos said. He had a strong Spanish accent.

“Come with me,” Shanahan directed. He pointed through the archway toward the front door.

Carlos handed off his cue stick, gave a couple of crumpled bills to his complaining opponent, then followed Shanahan.