The Right to Know

by Michael Byars Lewis

  “Take your hat off,” Sheila said.

  “I only take my hat off for one thing,” Tuggar replied with a grin and a wink.

  “What? That’s dumb. And bad manners.”

  Tuggar scrunched his eyebrows and a smirk formed on the left side of his face. “Ain’t you ever seen Smokey and the Bandit?”

  “No.”

  Tuggar leaned back in his chair. The movie was his father’s favorite, and he had to have seen it a hundred times. But she never had, so there was no use in trying to explain it to her.

  The tall, blond guy with the Secret Service complex stood by the door with his arms folded across his chest. He eyeballed them. Or rather, his stares cut through him. Then Tuggar realized . . . the guy never blinked as he stared at the two of them. Tuggar tried to stare back at him without blinking, but he couldn’t do it. He shifted his focus to the man’s jacket so he wouldn’t laugh. The blonde guy had a gun underneath his jacket. He started to ask what he was packing when the silver-haired guy made his grand entrance.

  “Ah, my dear Sheila,” he said, gliding across the carpet. “I’m so glad you were able to stop by on your way.”

  Sheila stood. Her long legs were showcased in her cowgirl boots all the way up to her blue-jean miniskirt. She had a red and white cotton-checkered shirt tied at the waist. He had to admit; she was an impressive package until you looked at her face. Some might have considered it a blessing, others a curse. Tuggar remained seated for a moment, then figured he’d better be standing, too. The silver-haired guy ignored him. He was invisible. He took her hand and kissed it, like in the movies, and Sheila blushed. The fancy man engaged in small talk with her, trying to impress her with compliments, when he glanced at Tuggar and said, “Take care of this one.”

  What the hell did he mean by that?

  “I’m not sure why your employer is sending you to Enid this evening,” the silver-haired man said, “but I have my suspicions. Regardless, I need you to do me a favor while in town.”

  Sheila beamed. “For five-grand? You bet. What do you need?”

  The man smiled. “First, let me ask you something personal. Are you wearing any underwear?”

  26

  April 28, 1996

  THE STERILE SCENT made Dane Robinson nauseous as he wandered the halls of Saint Mary’s Mercy Hospital in Enid, Oklahoma. It was as if he smelled every antiseptic, sterilant, and alcohol swab in the place. Ever since he woke from his coma and left the hospital in San Antonio, he couldn’t stand being in one.

  Mister Black had recommended he come here and speak to Nancy Williams. She was the nurse who took care of the CIA agent Jason Conrad was rumored to have shot months ago. Mister Black hinted the two were now romantically involved and connecting with her might lead him to the CIA agent. He thought about it on the long ride from Tulsa. If Mister Black was CIA himself, why not connect him with the wounded agent? And why not tell him what information the injured man had?

  He dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it came to him. No doubt Mister Black wanted him to find out the information himself. It would make his story unique and authentic, and it showed he had a paper trail with more than one source.

  Dane found the ICU section of the hospital and approached the nurses’ station. An elderly African American woman sat behind a computer, typing away.

  “Hello,” Dane said as he leaned on the counter. “How are you tonight?”

  “Good evening, sir,” the woman said in a monotone reply. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for Nancy Williams. I believe she’s a nurse here.”

  The woman stopped typing, and her head jerked up. “And who are you? Are you a friend of hers?”

  Her reaction surprised Dane. She must be very protective of this Nancy Williams. From the perspective of his story, it only made this person more appealing. “No. I was told I needed to talk to her.”

  “Just one moment sir,” the woman said, picking up the phone. She spoke softly into the handset, her head turned to the side so he couldn’t hear what she said. “Wait right here, sir. It will be a few minutes.”

  Dane stood at the desk and scanned the interior of the ICU waiting area. It was like any other hospital he hated. Pale, off-white walls, ceilings, and floors. Beeps and squeaks echoed throughout the static hallways. To his right, an elderly, overweight nurse looking at him from the corner. She wore a sweater over her shoulders, her purse held in the crook of her elbow, and a Nora Roberts novel clutched in her hands. The woman stared at him, almost to the point of making him uncomfortable.

  After several moments of staring at each other, Dane pushed away from the counter to go talk to her. She dashed off as best she could around the corner, not even bothering to save her page in the book.

  Awkward, he thought.

  He turned back to his spot at the counter as two local police officers marched down the hallway. He didn’t think anything of it until they stopped in front of him.

  “Sir, do you have any identification?” the shorter one said.

  “My name is Dane Robinson. And I don’t have to show any identification. I know my rights.”

  The short officer put his hands on his hips, and he clenched his teeth. His partner moved to the left ninety degrees.

  “Mister Robinson, I’m aware of the Constitution and your rights. I’m just trying to ascertain how difficult you’re going to be. How do you know Miss Williams?”

  What the— who the hell is this girl Mister Black sent him to find?

  “I-I don’t know her. I wanted to ask her some questions.” Dane reached for his wallet. “I—”

  “That’s far enough, sir,” the other cop said, his weapon drawn and leveled at Dane.

  His eyes widened, and he didn’t move. “I’m just reaching for my wallet.”

  “Slowly, please,” the short one said. Dane retrieved his wallet and produced his driver’s license and press pass. The short cop took it from Dane’s hand. “He’s a reporter. What’s your business with Miss Williams?”

  “I’m doing a story on the assassination attempt on Senator Jonathan Bowman. I was told she had some information I might find useful.”

  “We’ll let her decide that,” the other cop said, holstering his pistol.

  After a few minutes, an attractive woman in a nurse’s uniform approached the desk with a woman in a pants suit bearing a hospital badge. The short officer turned to the two women.

  “Miss Williams, do you know this man?” the officer said.

  The attractive one shook her head.

  “His name is Dane Robinson. He’s a reporter from WTSR in Tulsa. He says he’s investigating the attack on Senator Bowman last September. Do you want to speak to him, ma’am?”

  The woman’s face drew tight, and her eyes narrowed. “No. No, I don’t.” Her piercing eyes were overshadowed by her firm jaw and clenched teeth. “Stay away from me. If you try to even speak to me, I’ll file a restraining order and sue the hell out of your station.” The woman turned and marched off.

  “Gentlemen,” the woman in the pants suit said, “please escort Mister Robinson from the building. He is not to return.” She pivoted on her heels and followed the nurse down the hall.

  The two cops stared at Dane, their intent requiring little interpretation. It was time to leave.

  “Any questions, Mister Robinson?”

  “No. I guess she made her position quite clear. Can I ask you guys something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why all this protection for one nurse? Who is she, and what does she know?”

  The two cops gave each other a quick look, then turned back to Dane.

  “The exit is this way, sir.” The short one pointed down the hall. “Don’t make us drag you out.”

  Dane turned, and the two cops escorted him to the door, always a step behind, their hands still on their sidearms.

  Holy shit, he thought. I’ve been around the block, but I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anything like this.


  Somebody with some serious pull has this lady under protection. Impressive. She knows something. If someone with this much influence doesn’t want her to talk to anyone, she must have plenty to say.

  When he reached his car, he spotted the older nurse who stared at him inside, across the parking lot. She stood underneath a tree, the sweater still draped over her shoulders, her purse, and book still in the same locations. She was a heavy woman, her scrubs stretching out in rolls in certain areas. Dane’s head tilted to the side, then he glanced back at the hospital entrance. The cops were no longer there. He scanned the parking lot. No one else around either. Did she want to talk to him? Maybe she could help.

  He walked toward her cautiously, not wanting to scare her off. As he approached, she forced a slight smile. Dane returned the smile.

  “Hello, ma’am,” Dane said. “I remember seeing you inside. I couldn’t help but notice that you seem like you want to speak with me.”

  The elderly woman blushed and fluttered her eyes. Her head dropped toward the ground, then bounced up again, the smile full now.

  “Yes,” she said. Dane nodded. Finally, he was getting somewhere. “Okay.” His arms stretched out from his sides. “Here I am.”

  She paused, and her eyes fluttered again. “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  Dane’s arms fell back to his sides, and the smile disappeared for a moment but returned just as quick. “Oh. What can I do for you?”

  The woman visibly shook. “I-I’ve seen you on TV.”

  Shit. Just another fan. This always happens when you travel to these podunk towns outside of Tulsa. “Yes, ma’am. And we appreciate you watching WTSR. We’re here to serve all of Oklahoma.” Okay, he’d done his PR for the company. It was time to get back to work for the other company. He turned to walk back to his car.

  “Did they let you talk to Nancy Williams?”

  He stopped and looked back at her.

  “They won’t let her talk to anyone. Not that she wants to.”

  Dane walked back toward her slowly. She had his interest now.

  Closing the distance between them, he extended his hand. “Dane Robinson. I’m a reporter for WTSR, the Taaaser in Tulsa.”

  The woman blushed and giggled. “I love how you do that. The Taser thing. You’re the best. I’m Martha Schneider.” She shook his hand. “I know why you want to talk to Nancy.”

  27

  April 28, 1996

  TUGGAR AND SHEILA parked in the grass across the street from Chicaros. Despite being a Sunday, a handful of cars sat around the building. A modest crowd, so Jason Conrad might still come by. There weren’t many hangouts in Enid, let alone hangouts for pilots.

  Big Joe gave them free rein to take care of this. He had given them a credit card, stolen no doubt. But they were not to return until they killed this sumbitch, Conrad. Tuggar knew the events that transpired over the last year. Big Joe had some damned kid from the base over here get his ass in a crack with his betting. Big Joe toyed with him, and the kid got himself in a bigger hole.

  When Big Joe had Bob Allen and Monroe hassle the kid for not paying on time, some pal of the kid kicked both their asses. That didn’t sit well with Big Joe. He sent a crew, including Tuggar, to teach the guy a lesson. They beat the hell out of him on the base and high- tailed it back to Stillwater. A few days later, Bob Allen and Monroe were murdered outside Stillwater, and Big Joe’s business spiraled downward as word leaked out about the cops investigating their murders.

  Big Joe didn’t sanction hits often. In fact, this was the first one Tuggar ever heard of for sure. There were rumors, of course. That is what solidified the aura of Big Joe’s business. He was the local godfather. The stories, over the years, had morphed into legend. Big Joe was a man known, and in some circles feared, all over the state of Oklahoma. He had enough money in the right places to keep the cops off his back. But after Bob Allen and Monroe died, all that disappeared. It was now fear of the cops, and that drove away most of his business. These days, Big Joe was back where he started. “Back to the Basics,” he called it. Tuggar didn’t mind. He was now the number one guy in the organization, and this hit would ingrain him in the legend.

  They climbed out of the Ford Bronco and glanced at the other vehicles. They didn’t see Conrad’s jeep anywhere. While they stood next to the Bronco, several cars pulled up and a group of Air-Force- looking guys, piled out and went inside. Tuggar took off his hat and tossed it on his seat.

  “I thought you only take your hat off for one thing?”

  Tuggar shook his head, his face stern. “I been here before. The owner doesn’t like you to wear hats.”

  Sheila followed him inside. The darkness of the place swallowed them, and it took a few moments for their eyes to adjust. The first thing Tuggar noticed? Everyone inside stopped talking and looked at them. Sheila flashed a fake smile and found a table in the corner. The eyes of most of the men inside tracked Sheila’s figure as she sauntered between the tables. Yes, Big Joe sent her here for a reason.

  No sooner than they sat at the corner table, an elderly gent walked over and handed them two menus.

  “What can I get you to drink?” he said, his eyes drifting toward Sheila’s exposed cleavage.

  “Two Buds,” Tuggar said. “Draft.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Nothing better in this part of the world. After the guy brought their beers and took their order, Sheila moved from her chair and sat next to Tuggar.

  “Don’t get your hopes up, sweetie,” she said. “I want to see what’s going on in here, too.”

  Tuggar smiled. “My hopes is already up, darlin’. It’s just a-waitin’ for you to follow through.”

  Sheila giggled and winked at Tuggar, then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. She scooted closer to him and squeezed the upper portion of his left thigh. He scanned the tiny bar, studying the faces, and tried to concentrate on their job as her hand lingered there.

  They sipped their beers in silence until their food arrived, then ate voraciously. They were both starving. Sheila impressed Tuggar with how she could eat so much food and still maintain the figure she had.

  “Do you eat like that all the time?”

  She took a sip of beer to wash down her mouthful of food. “Nope. Only when necessary.”

  “How you stay in such good shape eatin’ like that?”

  “Lots of sex.”

  Tuggar’s eyes bulged.

  “You’ll see,” she said and took another bite of her ribs.

  Tuggar gulped and smiled. He took another sip of beer and nestled back in his seat, his eyes routinely wandering back to her body. The hum of conversation inside the bar stopped as the door opened. Everyone again looked at the entrance during the awkward silence, just like when they came in. Then it resumed, once the door shut. One man entered. Tuggar struggled to focus on the man, but the face didn’t register until someone yelled, “Conrad!”

  He had his man.

  Tuggar dropped his rib and wiped his mouth. Sheila did the same. That was their target. He wore shorts and a long-sleeve button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Conrad sat at a table on the opposite side of the restaurant with a group of his Air Force friends.

  “What do you want to do, Tuggar?”

  He thought for a moment. “We’ll sit here for a minute, pay our bill, then head outside. We’ll hit him at the jeep.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothin’ right now. We’ll talk more outside.”

  The two took a few more bites and downed their beers. Tuggar waved at the elderly guy who took their order and gave him a credit card. When he finished paying, they slid out from their table and left discretely as possible.

  Once outside, they spotted Conrad’s jeep on the side of the building. Tuggar was heading across the street to their car when he noticed Sheila going straight to Conrad’s vehicle. What the hell was she doing? She stopped by the driver’s side, hiked up her blue-jean miniskirt,
and slipped off her panties. From here, it looked like a thong. She tucked it under the front seat of Conrad’s jeep and scurried back to join him.

  “What was that about?” he said.

  “That was me earning five-thousand dollars from Mister MacIntosh.”

  “What? Are you shittin’ me? Can I leave my drawers in his jeep for five grand?”

  “I don’t know about five grand, but I’ll help you take them off,” she said, moving to unbuckle his belt.

  “Quit,” he said, fixing his belt. “There’s time for that later. We got to stay focused and come up with a plan.”

  DANE FOUND CHICAROS EASILY. Both Draken Black and Martha Schneider had sent him here because it was the pilots’ hangout. He was fortunate to run into her. She gave him a treasure trove of information about Jason Conrad. She confirmed he had been involved with a girl named Kathy Delgato. She had been a waitress at Chicaros back then. She disappeared after the assassination attempt, and no one had seen or heard from her since. Martha also said Nancy Williams was romantically linked with her former patient, the CIA agent who’d been shot and survived. His name was Aaron Caldwell. That explained the curtain of security around her at the hospital, this Caldwell was protecting her. Dane wondered what she knew.

  Dane stood at the front door of Chicaros, pulled his shoulders back, took a deep breath, and grabbed the door handle. He came here years ago when he was doing a puff piece on the celebrities in town doing some pheasant hunting. It hadn’t changed much. There seemed to be a lot of business here for a Sunday night. The parking lot was full, and the bar barely had elbow room. That was good. He could slip in unnoticed.

  He was wrong. The moment he set foot inside, the loud room went silent.