“Give me your number; I’ve got a customer. I’ll call you back.” Brusque, businesslike, calm. These were real professionals, probably the best in Tulsa. They should be; they’d taken care of a number of embarrassing little problems for prominent people. For instance, that evangelist with the awkward and talkative relative. …

Smith gave the man the number of the pay phone and hung up. A few minutes later, it rang.

“About that custom job. Yeah?” It was not the same voice. He had expected that.

“Your people just got a call from a man who wanted an Indian girl shut up,” he said, quietly and calmly. “I sent him to you. We’ve got a deal, but he’s making me nervous. His name’s Rod Calligan.”

“Construction.” Smith’s estimation of the men went up a notch. “He insisted on payment-in-person. You want some insurance on him, or do you want him shut down?”

Smith had thought about that while he made his walk and waited for the phone to ring. Calligan was still useful. “Insurance,” he said. “He’s got a wife and kids. Get rid of his target first, then pick up the family. Maybe get rid of the wife to prove we’re serious. Make sure the Indians get the blame for all of it, so far as the cops are concerned.”

“Easy, but it’ll take some time to fill Calligan’s contract, so it won’t happen right away,” the man replied. “Make your deposit, send us the spec sheet on him. That’ll be fifteen. As soon as we get it, we’ll open the policy for you, and fill your order as soon as we take care of Calligan’s.”

Send them all the details on Calligan with their fee, in cash, that meant, to their mail drop. Untraceable cash. It would take him a little work to collect the money—he had it, but he would want to get it in thousand-dollar lots, from several places, to make sure he didn’t get sequential bills. “That’ll do fine. Expect it in a few days,” he told the man, and hung up.

So much for Rod Calligan and his little problem.

You just had to know who to call.

Toni Calligan held back tears with the last of her strength; she was just about ready to sign herself into the asylum. She was afraid to let the kids out of her sight, after the attack on Ryan. Things kept happening, inexplicable things, but worst of all, so far as her sanity was concerned, they never happened when Rod was home.

Rod Junior had tattled; he’d told Rod how he’d come home to find Toni crying at the kitchen table after Ryan’s near accident. She had been able to keep Rod from finding out about that for maybe five minutes; after a brief session of bullying, he had the story of the near miss out of her.