Page 70 - Just Deserts

TotalCare

profession. Maybe that boy just isn’t cut out for the pharmaceutical
business.

* * * * *
Special agent Dex Schinkenmesser slipped the headset over his
crewcut cranium and slowly adjusted the volume knob on the
compact audio panel mounted on the inside wall of the van. Parked
near the clubhouse of the El Sereno country club, its muted color
and faded markings—“Krotke Landscape and Plant Maintenance”—
guaranteed its invisibility to the wealthy members who left their
expensive sedans in the care of valets just a few yards distant.
“Okay, I’m getting something now. The cart must be rolling down
to the tee on the first hole. I’ll switch on the tape now. Can you see
anything through the periscope?”
“Yeah. It’s just the two of them. They don’t look like major
league drug dealers to me, just a couple of old cronies.” Brock
O’Leary, the FBI liaison to the DEA, squinted through the eyepiece.
“But our informant fingered their license plates; no question it’s
them. Just where is the mike placed?”
Dex shifted in his camp chair. “Well, if our man in the clubhouse
did his job right, it’s on the roof of the cart. Non-directional, so it’ll
pick up a lot of ambient noise, but we can filter that out later.
Anything they say within fifty feet, we’ll get it—unless a plane flies
overhead. So they don’t fit your image of Mister Big: what do you
think the guys at the top of the pyramid do, wear pinstripe suits and
carry violin cases?”
“Very funny. You still look like a dumb flatfoot—no wonder the
department keeps you out of sight. Why don’t you go down to my
brother-in-law’s clothing shop? He can fit anyone, from a mouse to
an elephant.”
“Oh yeah? Then how come you can never get your shirt to tuck
into your trousers? Is that how I should—wait a minute: the cart
stopped. I can hear the clubs rattling around.” Dex picked up a pen
and started making notes on a legal pad.
“Right.” Brock kept his eyes glued to the periscope. “They’re
about to tee off.”

69