Dead Line

by JJ Gould

  Hall clucked his tongue, sipped his Scotch, and thought about his secret weapon, Lester LaFave.

  Chapter 41 - Lester LaFave

  Lester LaFave loved Sioux Falls. He stretched out alongside the luscious naked body of Deidre Hall, congratulating himself on his good fortune. Hall had given him a name and a picture and an address. The picture had piqued his interest, the address even more so.

  A big believer in the direct approach, LaFave tried a Robert Mitchum line out at the front door, walking past the maid.

  “Mrs. Hall? The name’s LaFave. Can I come in?”

  The tall ice queen with nails like fangs and a formfitting designer housedress stared at him disdainfully. “No. Get out.”

  “Not so fast, doll.”

  “Did you call me doll?”

  LaFave backpedaled. “Listen, this is a matter of a person’s life.” He looked meaningfully at the too-near maid.

  So that got him in the door, into the living room. Then it got him a top-shelf Beefeaters over ice, and that got him her whole story, the iced facade crumbling, the tears leaking down and ruining her mascara, the choking sobs. And that led to an awkward hug, a feverish kiss, a ripped shirt and dress, and finally, a whispered confession. “This is the first time I’ve ever felt safe.”

  LaFave traced a finger up and down the back of the sleeping wife of Dr. Benjamin Hall IV, calculating the value of what he could see around him, estimating the value of what he couldn’t see, and deciding that an alliance with the widow of a doctor was far more lucrative than a one-time fee for getting rid of an unwanted spouse.

  Chapter 42 - John Returns From Hunt

  John sat on a stack of drywall outside the project house, drinking a cup of coffee out of a thermos, baby John perched on his lap. Going to be a hot one today, no doubt. The heavy, dirty work was done. The inside of the house was stripped of lathe and plaster, tons and tons of it, all hauled out in plastic barrels or dumped out of convenient windows. The windows themselves were gone, leaving empty, staring eyes out of the bones of the house. The new windows were on order. The millwork inside the house had been carefully removed, labeled, and stacked in the garage. Claire was his undisputed boss and a woman who had earned his loyalty. Brisk, no-nonsense, she was a person who told him what the general task was, the objective for the day, and then together, they set about doing it. She was better at the fine work and knew some things about construction he did not. He was better at high work and heavy work. She would show him what she was doing, teaching him without condescending, and he would help with heavier things, also without being demeaning. They were a good team, centered on a task to do and a baby to watch.

  And John loved that baby. He could not explain it. There was a power to that solid little boy and a depth to those bottomless eyes that soothed the hidden wounded places inside John, places that counselors or elders had tried to reach but had failed. Both he and Claire knew about this power but did not discuss it. How to talk about what there were no words for?

  Instead, they brought the baby along, working to keep him away from dusty, dangerous places during the construction, keeping him nearby. The baby John would observe with his serious, almost comical expression, making no noise, no sound, but with a deep comprehension. It was weird.

  A car door slammed, and both Johns looked over. It was Doris, the woman from the radio station. She brought lunch by the work site most days.

  The gossip from the station was that she was there to see him, that they had a thing going. A few braver souls had approached the big Lakota and tried to lure him in. “She’s got somethin’ for ya, huh?” Their attempts fell flat under John's expressionless stare. In truth, John was drawn to the tall blonde, but not merely for her physical appearance.

  “Hey, John. Hey, John.” She addressed them each separately. She had a sack of food. “Meatloaf sandwiches. Leftovers from supper.”

  She set the bag on the drywall and perched next to him. John had found out that she was a good cook and that she liked to watch a hungry man eat. But more than that, she liked to hold the baby.

  “Hey, little man.” She held the boy up. “Ohh, you’re a little chunk, aren’t you?”

  The baby did not smile. He seldom did, but he did have a way of looking pleased. He gave her that pleased look and, with a chubby little hand, touched her cheek gently, looking deep into her eyes. Instantly, tears sprang up and ran down her cheeks. It had happened many times before. No one was surprised.

  “Weird, huh?” John shook his head. He knew how she felt.

  Doris’s eyes were closed as she rocked the baby against her. The baby’s eyes were closed, too, his little hand patting her softly to the rhythm of the rocking. It was soothing to watch. John Returns From Hunt found himself smiling gently.

  “Some day, he will heal you all up, and there will be no more tears.” John was not much of a talker, but he felt a kinship he could not explain with this wounded white woman.

  “Yeah,” Doris murmured, patting the baby, who patted her.

  Claire appeared, coated with dust, looking on at the scene. She and Doris had an unspoken truce, maybe even a friendship, bonded by the baby. They were part of the same group, which defied a name. Not a team. Maybe a family.

  “Hey.” She sat next to John, fished a sandwich out of the sack, and took a bite. “Hmm. Meatloaf.” Claire liked a homemade meal too. “Whaddaya hear from Stan?”

  Doris, eyes still closed, murmured back, “He’s doin’ what he was hired to do. Stir up stuff. We’re getting a lot more phone calls. Got a letter from an attorney today, threatening something.”

  “What for?”

  “Dunno. Some story that ran. Stan’ll figure it out. Charlie’s got enough lawyers to stop anything. No need to worry.”

  At that moment, Little John’s eyes flew open and looked at Big John, his face somber. Big John felt a sudden tremor of fear.

  Chapter 43 - Matt Bradley

  Matt Bradley had family in Sioux Falls since way back. He had dozens of cousins, and hardly any of them had moved away. Friendly uncles and doting aunts, most of them blue-collar, were all connected to the pulse of the town they’d grown up in and loved.

  He started with Uncle Larry, manager for a beer distributor. “Hey, Uncle Larry, where do the nurses and hospital types hang out?”

  His uncle set down the sixteen-gallon keg and grinned. He hefted the sixteen gallons with ease—the joke he always made was that it was light beer. “Nurses, huh? Well, there’s a bunch that hang out at the Crow Bar. They got a ladies’ night on Thursdays and Fridays that packs them in. If the Pomp Room has a decent band, a lot of chickies go there. Course, it’s so loud it’s hard to make any time, if you know what I mean.”

  “What about to blow off steam—a quieter place closer to the hospital?”

  “Nah. You never blow off steam next to where you work. Too many witnesses. I’d prolly try the Coachlite… out by the mall. Drinks are cheap, and they make a wicked Long Island iced tea. I think Millie’s kid Tyler works there.”

  “Thanks, Uncle.” Tyler would be Matt’s cousin on his mom’s side, a big kid who used to play for O’Gorman High School before he blew out a knee.

  “Hey, Matt,” his uncle called. Matt looked back to see his uncle winking at him. “On account of your ma would never let me hear the end of it… make sure she’s Catholic.”

  Chapter 44 - Janet Brecht

  Sean Clark, Ann Johnson, and Janet Brecht were huddled in the back booth of the Coachlite bar, hammering Long Island iced teas. Janet should have been in the bag, but the term scared sober was working fine for her at the moment.

  “This shit is seriously scary. Where the f…” She looked around the empty bar and lowered her voice. “Where the fuck is Devon LaCroix?”

  Sean Clark shrugged. He was scared, too, she could tell, but was trying not to be. “He’s gone, left. Probably got a better offer somewhere else. The guy could sell ice to Eskimos.” He did not sound convinced.

  “I call
bullshit.” Ann was so scared she was wearing big Jackie O sunglasses, ridiculous in the dimly lit bar. “Devon was making bank working here. Yeah, he could’ve gone to Chicago, Denver, maybe Minneapolis, but there are way more reps there—more competition, tighter margins.”

  Janet glanced at Ann. She was pretty sure much of what Ann knew about Devon LaCroix came from post-coital cigarettes at the Holiday Inn, but she was in no mood to tease. None of them were. “You heard what that shyster Meyer said. You think it’s a coincidence that Devon is gone right after that shit show with Hall Five?”

  There was a moody pause while all three drank deeply. Sean spoke first. “You heard about that new radio station, the Voice of Truth?”

  “Hell no.” Ann was shaking her head vigorously. “No damn way.” She unconsciously flipped the collar on her coat. With the sunglasses, she now looked like freaking Mata Hari.

  Chad pressed forward. “Listen, I don’t want to be a whistleblower either. We don’t have to say a name—we can be anonymous. I just think it’s a little dangerous to be three nobodies when there used to be four.”

  Ann’s hand was shaking. “Shit, Chad! You think they did something to Devon.”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I just think the Hall family would pay a lot of money to a lot of people to keep this whole thing quiet. Including a cocky sales rep.”

  Janet was toying with her drink and thinking about her Visa bill and mortgage, measuring her fear against her debt. Sean was right. This story could mean a lot.

  Chapter 45 - Matt Bradley

  Matt was built for the grind of investigative work. Relentless and plodding, he was convinced that he had an idea about a story coming out of the Hall-Hauptman Hospital and was equally convinced that none of his ways to crack the story were any good. But he kept at it, adding all the little bits of ideas to his daily work, like when he’d added a customer to his paper route when he was a kid. Just one more thing to follow up on, one more place to check, one more person to keep an eye on.

  Tyler was his cousin and, like all the Bradleys, was built on the large side. He had a slight limp but handled all the work of the bar with leisurely ease. The Coachlite was not high on anyone’s list of popular hangouts, but it had its clientele, a quiet group of heavy drinkers who sat in the cave-dark bar like depressed insomniacs.

  “Hey, Ty.” Matt plopped onto the bar stool nearest the door, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark.

  “Hey.” Tyler drew a draft and slid it down the bar. It looked like a juice glass in Matt’s hand.

  “You got anything?”

  Tyler shrugged like he didn’t get it. “Got any what?”

  Matt sighed with patience. “I don’t exactly know. Uncle Larry said a lot of nurses, doctors hang out here.”

  Tyler barked a short laugh. “Doctors? Hell no. Nurses…” He nodded to a trio down the way, huddled in a corner. “There’s a few that come in.”

  Matt drained the glass in a quick swallow. “So here’s the deal. I think there may be… something shady going on at the hospital, and like I said before, I don’t even know what it is.” Tyler rolled his eyes as Matt went on. “So if I worked at the hospital, and if I was involved with something shady, I’d probably talk about it with my buddies somewhere private.” He motioned with his hand. “Like this place.”

  Tyler looked blank.

  Matt stood up and tossed a bill on the counter. “Look, if you see anything that looks weird involving nurses and such”—he nodded to the three sitting around a small forest of empty Long Island iced tea glasses—“like, say, those three down there, doing or saying something or acting… I dunno, weird, lemme know.”

  Tyler shrugged. “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  Tyler took the bill and made change. Matt fished out the bills and left the coins.

  “You really think anything is gonna happen here?”

  Matt sighed and got ready to head out to his next stop. “Nope.”

  Chapter 46 - Don Keshane

  It was tough sledding, no doubt about it. Don worked his old list of radio clients, and the banks said no. All of them. Many had loans with Hall-Hauptman Hospital and did not want to endanger that in any way. Same with construction firms. Same with big retail and grocery. It seemed no matter who he talked to, they were either friends with or wanted to be friendlier with the biggest employer in town and did not want to create trouble with the biggest media partner in town.

  Don tapped the steering wheel of the Caddy, thinking. If I can’t find their friends, who are their enemies?

  He found some sympathy with Dr. Winston Williams, a smooth and manicured chiropractor who touted various oils and therapies that were “well beyond the understanding of those Neanderthals at Hall.” Don sold him an annual package of morning news, setting the rate fifteen percent higher and then cutting a deal that made the doc happy and still got Don his thirty percent.

  Up and down the street he went, wheeling and dealing. In many ways, it was tougher than other jobs he’d had—all he had to sell was a crummy AM signal that barely left town. But on the other hand, it was easier too. Donnie no longer had to know about all the other stations, formats, rate cards, and programming. All he had was a piece of cardboard with the rates on it and his persuasive patter, selling all who would listen on the importance of a free press and David and Goliath and the Voice of Truth.

  Arnie and June Booth were the last call of the day and the biggest. The legal duo specialized in representing the little guy and had done pretty well at it. They were the biggest name in the eastern half of South Dakota. A person would have to go to Denver or maybe Omaha to find a bigger name. Booth and Booth specialized in malpractice and OSHA violations. Arnie was the legal mind, handling the case law and research, impeccably dressed with cufflinks and two-tone wingtips. He was somewhat of a dandy. June was the face of the company, a high-wattage force of nature. Her unflappable wit, dry delivery, and roguish sense of fun made her a hit with juries while never crossing too far over a line with the judges. She was like a teacher’s pet who knew when to stop pushing.

  June Booth happened to be in when Don was dropping off a proposal for Arnie.

  “Oho! The Voice of Truth! So you’re the little thorn in the side of Hall Media, huh?”

  “Saving Sioux Falls from media mediocrity!” Don was wearing a charcoal suit and silk tie, not quite to Arnie’s sartorial splendor, but he had a fresh carnation in the lapel, and he could see that June approved.

  Arnie tossed the rate card on the desk. “I can’t get it where I live, and I can’t hardly get it here in the office.”

  Don was ready for that one, nodding in agreement. “Folks all over town are hopping their cars to catch the news, buying ham radios to pick up the AM signal better. That means they are listening.”

  Arnie was not done complaining. “I missed the interview with the guy from Warner Manufacturing—”

  June cut in. “Chester ‘Chet’ Warner… I caught it on the drive in. You could hear the guilt dripping off every statement.”

  “Why don’t you send me the transcript?” Arnie said. Don turned and looked at him, and Arnie continued. “Why don’t you email me the article about Warner?”

  Don thought fast, making things up as he went. “That’s part of our soon-to-be-launched service. We’ll be sending out the transcript of each story we do each day to our subscribers.”

  June looked interested. “How much is that?”

  Don thought fast again and came up with a number double what he thought it would take.

  “Sign me up.” Arnie shrugged as if it was a no-brainer.

  Damn it! Too low. Then Donnie said casually, “You interested in the combo rate, commercial on the station and in the email?”

  June and Arnie shrugged again. “How much?”

  Don took a breath and tripled the rate card, adding, “That’s our introductory price for a six-month trial.”

  Arnie and June shrugged again. “Might as well try it.”


  Don Keshane drove off in his drop-top red Caddy with a check, kicking himself as a fool. He pounded the steering wheel and muttered, “Too low again.”

  Chapter 47 - Stan

  Stan Martin stared across the desk at the newly reinvented Don Keshane and wondered if he had created a monster. Donnie was dressed in a navy-blue double-breasted blazer, cream-colored slacks, a knotted navy tie with cream polka dots, and cordovan Italian leather loafers with tassels. He adjusted the off-white carnation in his lapel and leaned leisurely back in his chair with a self-assured smile. All that was missing was the yacht.

  Settling in, Stan put on his game face. Time for round two.

  A week earlier, Donnie had come in with a huge check for a nonexistent newsletter sent out via email. He tried to slip it into the stack on Doris’s desk. This was met with immediate blowback up and down the hallway that Donnie tried to bluff away. “How hard can it be to send an email a few times a day of the stories you’ve already written?”

  Stan now had to manage it. He called over Jim Fletcher, the ag newsman. “You’re the fastest typist we have and have good editing skills. How long would it take to transcribe a newscast and send it out in an email?”

  Jim thought for a minute. “Maybe half an hour.”

  Stan nodded. “And adding and correcting email addresses… say maybe up to fifty a day?”

  Jim tilted his head. “About the same, I suppose.”

  Stan looked at both of them. “Donnie here has sold something we don’t have and I’ve never heard of before but might turn out to be a pretty good thing for the station. Every hour in morning drive, you convert our newscasts to an email, make sure the spelling and grammar is right, drop me a copy, and you might as well send it to Doris too. She will pay you for each newscast you send out and take it out of Don’s check.” He quoted a fee that made Jim smile and Don pout.