“Who said?”
“The agency. They called me at the last minute. I was available to fill in.” He ended on a take-it-or-leave-it shrug. “Ready? I’ll thread this up under your tie.” He was holding a lavalier mike and its battery pack.
Busby gave him a critical once-over, then looked up toward the control booth. “Does he know what he’s doing? He looks higher than a kite.”
“The agency said he was qualified. And this Saturday session came up so suddenly, we had to take who we could get.”
“Look, dude,” the mustached guy said, “I get paid just for showing up. If you don’t like me, call the agency and they’ll send somebody else, but it is Saturday, so…” Another I-don’t-give-a-fuck shrug.
Busby ground his molars, first for being addressed as “dude,” and second, because he hadn’t wanted to appear rattled over anything on this day of all days.
So, rather than make a big deal over this scruffy sound man, who no doubt was a user of the products he peddled, hesaid, “Get the mike on, please, and let’s get started. I’ve got a schedule to keep, you know.”
“You look taller on TV,” the man said as he stepped around him. He lifted his suit jacket in order to attach the battery pack to his belt, but then he jerked both Busby’s hands behind his back. “Hey! What are you doing?”
A metal bracelet snapped shut around his right wrist, then his left, and he realized with dismay that he’d been handcuffed. “What isthis?”
From behind him, the man said, “Your schedule just got trashed, Oz.”
Upon hearing his moniker, every blood vessel in his body swelled and began thrumming. Was this a rival? Had the Caballeros sent an assassin? How had they learned his identity? El Paso? No, no, he didn’t know his identity.
If his flustered reaction was obvious, he hoped it appeared to be from indignation rather than fear. “You’ve made a big mistake. Do you have any idea who I am?”
“Allen Busby, the King of Cash. Everybody knows you.”
“Right. So you had better explain immediately just what the hell you think you’re doing.” He looked toward the control booth and yelled, “Who is this guy? Who hired him? If this is a prank, it isn’t funny.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” the guy said. “Felonies are no laughing matter.”
“Felonies?”
“Yeah, you know. Murder, conspiracy to commit murder, drug trafficking, probably insurance fraud, too, but it’s been a long day, and I’m tired. Suffice to say that you’re in a world of hurt. In fact…” The scraggly mustache brushed against his ear as the man added in a whisper, “Life as you know it is over.”
Busby’s heart began to pound. His mouth went dry. “Drug trafficking? Murder? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeeessss, you do,” he said in a soft sing-song. “Randy Nelson, Paul Adler, Mandy Adams, Roland Malone. All dead because you ordered it. And those are just the ones I know about.”
“You’re insane. Get these things off me,” Busby said through gnashing teeth. Struggling with the cuffs only made them bite into his flesh. He balled his hands into fists and punched the man behind him in the stomach, but, though he gave a softwhoof, the blow didn’t have much effect.
“Why isn’t somebody doing something?” he shouted into the studio. “Call my bodyguard.”
When none of the crew came to his rescue, he began to wrestle in earnest. The man stepped around to face him. Busby dipped his shoulder and continued shoving it into the man’s chest until he produced a pistol, aimed it at him, and said in a low, calm, voice, “Don’t move.”
Busby froze. “He’s got a gun!” His shrill, panicked voice echoed through the studio, and still no one rushed to help him. “I’m not armed. There are witnesses. Release me now, and whatever your beef is, we’ll work it out like gentlemen.”
“My beef? You gave the order for Roland Malone to kill my wife. Her name was Angela.”
Angela. With dawning realization and mounting fear, he watched the man peel off the mustache and drop it to the floor. He then popped out contact lenses that had made his eyes look bloodshot, leaving him with an unwavering, glacial stare rife with enmity.
“I’m Mitch Haskell. And you’re under arrest.”
“You’re Mitch Haskell?”
“I am. And you’re dead meat. However, you do have the right to remain silent.” All through the spiel, Busby was shouting questions and demands to the studio crew. When Mitch finished, he asked politely, “Do you understand your rights as I’ve recited them to you?”
“Of course I understand them. I’m a lawyer, remember. You’re going to be sorry for this. Very sorry. I’m going to sue your ass to high heaven. I haven’t done anything, certainly not murder. Drug trafficking? Like I have time for that.”
Mitch laughed. “See, I knew you weren’t really listening to the Miranda. You just said something that could be used against you in a court of law. You lied to police officers and federal agents.”
