‘We clear?’ said Gallen now, after they’d scanned the street for five minutes.
‘Sure, boss,’ said McCann.
Gallen spoke with Winter over the mic.
‘I can see nine men, cowboyed-up, sitting around a boardroom table,’ said Winter, who was waiting outside the meeting with Ford. ‘The food’s just arrived. Bunch of dudes dressed like chefs. Might escort them in.’
Gallen signed off. ‘Up for a sub and coffee?’ He looked around the Escalade.
‘Roast beef, mustard and pickles,’ said McCann.
‘Gimme thirty minutes,’ said Gallen, checking his SIG for load and safety before replacing it in the pouch holster over his belt buckle.
Retracing the route by two blocks, Gallen made a pass in front of the building with the crown on top, then passed back and moved into the foyer. He found the name ‘Dale Chevrolet Corporate’ listed on the eighth floor, and pushed the button for the elevator.
A woman with a cup of coffee and a brown paper sandwich bag rushed for the closing door and Gallen shoved his foot in the gap, made it open.
‘Thanks,’ she said, pushing a card into a slot and pushing ‘8’.
Gallen forced a smile. ‘My floor.’
‘They give you a pass?’ said the woman, a secretary type.
Gallen shrugged. ‘No. Bren Dale told me to come up to the eighth floor about midday, talk about the fleet lease buy-backs.’
‘Okay,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll fix you up.’
Gallen followed her to the reception desk on the eighth floor, an expensively decorated space with art on the walls and cut flowers in vases.
‘Mandy, this gentleman has an appointment with Bren. Could you help him, please?’
Gallen smiled his thanks as she left, then turned back to the reception woman. ‘David Bashifsky from Charter Stanley Fencing. I’ve been talking about bringing the fleet over from Ford to Chev. Bren told me to come up about midday.’
‘Charter Stanley Fencing,’ said the woman to herself, scrolling through a screen. ‘Nothing here, sir. It was David?’
‘Bashifsky, ma’am,’ said Gallen. ‘Mr Dale said if I have a fleet of more than fifty, I gotta be talking to corporate, gotta come downtown and we’ll do the best deal.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bashifsky,’ she said. ‘Mr Dale is not in the building. Can I schedule another time, or have him call you?’
‘No thanks,’ said Gallen, getting a good look at the layout of the floor. ‘I’ll call him, see what’s going on.’
Turning slowly, Gallen heard a fire door slam shut and saw two office workers walk from an alcove into a corridor that didn’t route through the reception area.
Waiting for the elevator, he watched men in expensive suits confabbing in another hallway with mahogany doors and frosted-glass panelling: the executive suites.
He was the only one in the elevator, and pushing for ‘7’ he waited until the door opened again, when he made immediately for his right, towards the fire stairs. There was no receptionist — probably accounts or inventory management — but there was a stash of courier drops sitting on the carpet against the hessian-covered walls. Picking up a DHL bag, Gallen kept moving and found the fire door right where he expected it. Pausing in the stairwell, he listened for voices, hearing a few approach and then move past outside the door, his pulse hammering while he controlled his breathing.
Hitting speed dial on the Oasis-provided BlackBerry, Gallen patched to McCann, still sitting in the Escalade outside the Cattlemen’s HQ. ‘You said mustard. What kind?’
‘French’s,’ said McCann, surprised that someone would ask. ‘You know — hotdog mustard.’
Voices approached the eighth-floor fire door and Gallen moved up the stairs, arriving at the door as two young professionals burst through it, laughing about a Broncos player.
‘Thanks,’ said Gallen, smiling and showing the DHL bag as he slipped through the opened door.
The professionals barely saw him and left him standing in the alcove to the side of the reception area. It was one of the rules of Gallen’s world: dress in chinos and a polo shirt, and eyes will gloss over you. Carry a bag belonging to DHL, FedEx or UPS and doors will literally be opened.
Moving down the hallway he passed small offices and administration people, saw Dale Chevrolet mission statements on the wall, and walked through a kitchenette that seemed to link the admin section to the execs. Smiling at a secretary in the kitchen, Gallen kept going till he arrived at a corner section. One door had the name plate Ernest Dale — CEO, alongside another plate identifying the CFO.
Along the plush walkway, Gallen scanned the name plates and passed a meeting room before seeing what he was looking for: Brendan Dale’s office.
After looking up and down the walkway, Gallen turned the door knob and peered inside. Empty.
‘I help you?’ came a deep voice from what felt like his left shoulder. Jumping slightly, Gallen turned, ready to get out of Dodge. He knew that at the end of this corridor was another fire exit.
Coming face to face with a large African-American man, Gallen paused. He’d seen that face and heard that voice many times before, telling him to get down to a Dale showroom and do a deal with the King of Chev.
‘I know you?’ said Ern Dale, not moving out of the way.
‘Don’t think so,’ said Gallen. ‘I was looking for Bren—’
Before Gallen could finish, Ern Dale had taken the DHL satchel in his bear-like paw and was looking at the addressee.
‘For Missy D’Angelo,’ he said, levelling a stare. ‘Downstairs, stock management.’
Taking the satchel back, Gallen tried to avert his eyes and leave but the big man blocked his way.
‘Gallen,’ said Ern, clicking his fingers. ‘Captain Gallen. You’re in a photo of Bren’s, from that shit in Iraq.’
‘Afghanistan—’ started Gallen, but it was too late.
Ern Dale’s face creased with a big salesman’s smile, doing what he did for the TV screen on most nights and all Sunday afternoon during the football. ‘Well, well. Got vets delivering the mail. Wanna talk about it?’
They sat in Ern Dale’s enormous office, Gallen wondering how he’d talked himself into hunting Bren Dale. What was he after? An explanation?
‘You wanted Bren, huh?’ said Ern, leaning back in a CEO chair, hands clasped over a wide but not fat belly. Gallen had him as six-four, closing on three hundred pounds.
‘Wanted to talk,’ said Gallen.
‘Coulda called, Gerry,’ said Ern, relaxed but with presence.
‘He was starting a gig with me this week. He cancelled, I wanted to talk.’
‘What’s the gig?’
‘Corporate bodyguard,’ said Gallen. ‘He’s here, working with you, right?’
‘Nope.’
Gallen didn’t buy it. ‘That’s his office.’
‘You see him, Gerry?’
Gallen thought about it, going over exactly what Bren had said on the phone. ‘Thought you’d talked him into a career in cars, didn’t want him hanging round with his old Marines buddies. I wanted him to say that to my face, not make excuses.’
‘I hate war and I don’t want him in no army,’ said Ern. ‘But if I knowed it was you, I’da been fine. You taught Brenny good.’
‘I did?’ said Gallen.
‘You told ‘im that what happened yesterday happened. Now it’s time to make tomorrow happen.’
‘I said that?’
‘What Bren said. Quotes it like the Bible, and I got no fight with that. When the war is over, man needs a creed.’
‘Is he okay?’ said Gallen.
‘Been a bit touchy,’ said Ern. ‘And now he hardly here. Can’t have it like that. Can’t be the boss’s son just doing what he wants, right?’