'I don't think I'm the one who needs help, but I could be wrong. Mr. Sanderson called me; I'm returning his call.'
'Oh, I see. In that case, please hold the line a moment.'
I did, passing that moment and some others listening to watery Muzak through the phone. I heard footsteps again from upstairs, the sound of doors opening and closing.
'Mr. Smith?' the modulated voice returned. 'Mr. Sanderson will be right with you.'
A few more bars of Muzak, and then a man's voice, deep but not booming, calm but with an edge somewhere behind it. 'Mark Sanderson.'
That left me to introduce myself, which was silly, since we both knew he knew who I was. But it was his court, his rules. 'Bill Smith, Mr. Sanderson. I understand you've been trying to get in touch with me.'
'Smith. Yes. I expected you to call before this; I left that message some time ago. I want you to come by here right away.'
This was a man who didn't waste words. In fact he didn't use quite enough of them for my taste.
'Mr. Sanderson, we don't know each other.'
'We will. I intend to engage your services.'
No one said I had to make it easy for him. 'As what?'
That threw him off his stride. There was silence; then, in the voice you’d use to explain to a gardener the difference between roses and ragweed, he said, 'I understand you're a detective. I have a job for you.'
'I don't come up here to work, Mr. Sanderson. I can give you the name of a good investigator out of Albany, if you'd like.'
'No,' he said, struggling to hide his impatience, and losing. 'It's you I want. You in particular. How soon can you get here?'
From the newspaper photograph I remembered him as a broad-shouldered man with a receding hairline that emphasized the roundness of his face. I imagined that round face frowning now behind a heavy oak desk in a corner office with a picture-window view.
I asked, 'Can you give me more of an idea what we're talking about talking about?'
'Not over the phone. We're wasting time, Smith. Where are you? At the bar where I left the message?'
'No. And how did you know to reach me there?'
'I was told you had no phone, but that the bar would take a message. I was also told there was a good chance you'd be there, whatever time I called,' he added nastily. 'I'll expect you in half an hour.'
'I have to be over by Bramanville in half an hour.' I looked at my watch, thought some unsatisfying thoughts. 'I'll get over to you as soon after that as I can.'
'Look, Smith—'
'No, you look, Sanderson. You want me. In particular. I don't want your job, but you're not listening when I say no, and I'm just curious enough to come over and hear you out before I say it again. If that's not good enough, call someone else.'
Through what sounded like clenched teeth he said, 'All right. I don't suppose it will make that much difference, in the end.' He hung up without saying good-bye.
Chapter 9
Schoharie was a detour off the route between Bramanville and Cobleskill, but I thought it was a detour worth making. I'd dropped the Rugers with MacGregor, picked up my Colt, exchanged some small talk about civilians interfering in police work. I'd tried out the golden blond girl on him.
'Sounds like half the kids at Consolidated East. You got a picture?'
I shook my head. 'She doesn't ring a bell, part of Jimmy Antonelli's crowd?'
'Not with me.'
An idea came to me. 'You think your girls might know her?'
'I doubt it. My girls go to school in Albany. Adirondack Prep.'
'I didn't know that.'
'Yeah.' MacGregor sighed. 'This is a dead-end place, Smith. Kids got no future here. The boys join the service and the girls get pregnant.' He picked up a pencil, bounced it on the desk. 'How long you been coming up here?'
'Eighteen years.'
He nodded. 'Those days, you could make a good living around here. Farming; or the young guys from town, they worked at the quarry. Now the quarry's down to one pit. And that one's almost played out now, did you know that?'
I hadn't. I shook my head.
'Yeah. Next year, maybe year after. Then that'll be gone, too. My father-in-law had a dairy farm. My brother-in- law, too. My father-in-law's place you could see from that window.' He pointed across his office but he didn't look where he was pointing. 'They're both working for other guys now. Broke their butts all their lives, what've they got? What've their kids got?' He looked up from the desk. 'Where my girls go to school, all the kids go on to college. It's expected. My girls can speak French, play the piano, paint. Their friends are congressmen's daughters.' Tilting his chair back, he stretched, smiled tiredly. 'Aaah, what do you care? You got no kids. You don't have to worry about this crap. You're a lucky guy.'
