Denise snorted. "Coming from you!"
He shrugged. "I didn't say I was good at it, I just told you not to underestimate them. In this case, sure, Lorraine doesn't have any direct clout worth talking about. But—"
He held up his thumb. "Her twin sister Lauren owns and runs the town's best restaurant, along with her husband Calvin." He raised his forefinger alongside the thumb. "If there's a power-that-be in Grantville that doesn't hang out there, I don't know who it is." The middle finger came up to join them. "For sure and certain, Joe Stull—remember him? he's the secretary of Transportation—eats lunch there practically every day."
Buster brought up the ring finger, somehow managing not to haul the little finger along with it. He was a very well-coordinated man, despite the graying beard and the muscle. "Moving right along, since Lauren and Calvin Tyler's daughter Rachel has all the sense when it comes to men that Lorraine doesn't, she married that Scot cavalryman Edward Graham, who—he ain't no dummy, either—immediately left the Swedish colors and wrangled himself a partnership in the restaurant with his new in-laws. And—"
Finally, the little finger came up. "That damn Scotsman could charm a rattlesnake, which Joe Stull ain't—and Graham makes it a point to be the waiter any time a bigshot shows up."
Denise was looking a little cross-eyed by now. For that matter, Noelle thought she might be herself.
The fingers started closing back down, one at a time, gracefully despite their heft. "So Lorraine talked to Lauren and she talked to Graham and Graham put in a word with Joe Stull, and I guess Joe must have been having one of his rare off days because he agreed to hire the clown. And that's how it happened."
Throughout, he hadn't varied in the slightest the metronome regularity of his chair-rocking. Now, he looked back to Noelle. "So, like I said, forget Simmons." He gestured with his thumb to the tattoo on his shoulder. "If Mickey had a tattoo, it'd read Born to be a Small-Time Loser. No, the people you want to start looking at are the Barclays."
Noelle frowned. "Pete Barclay? The guy who works for Dave Marcantonio?"
"Yup. Him and his wife Marina. She works there too, y'know." He finally ceased the chair-rocking and stood up. Then, picked up a big black flashlight perched on a shelf, one of those long, heavy Maglites favored by cops because they could double as a club in a pinch. Buster was holding it the way cops did, too, with the lamp cupped in his hand and the shaft perched on his shoulder, ready to swing forward if need be. So far as Noelle knew, Buster Beasley hadn't been in a brawl in years. But he'd been notorious for brawling in his younger years—if not for starting fights, certainly for ending them—and he clearly still had the ingrained habits.
The big ex-biker headed for the door, not bothering to put on a coat to fend off the autumn chill outside. "Come on. Let me show you something."
A minute later, they were staring into one of Buster's storage sheds. It was one of the big ones down by the end.
"There is nothing in it," said Eddie, puzzled.
"Not today, sure enough. But if you'd looked into it three mornings ago, you would have found it packed full. The Barclays showed up right when I opened, along with Allen and Neil O'Connor—I think most of the stuff belonged to them, actually, even though the Barclays are the ones who paid the rent—and cleaned it all out. They had three wagons for the purposes. Well-built wagons, driven by some down-timers I don't know. The guy who seemed to be in charge was a real dandy, dressed to the hilt. Fancy plumed hat, the whole works."
Noelle hissed. "The O'Connors? But . . ."
There seemed to be a thin smile on Buster's face. Between the beard and the darkness, though, it was hard to tell.
"But they have a successful business here? I wouldn't be too sure of that, the way they go through money like it was water. I can tell you this much, for sure. Since the Barclays rented this shed six months ago, they've been steadily filling it up with mechanical equipment—smallish stuff, of course, no big machines—tools, blueprints, diagrams, you name it. I'm pretty sure some of it was swiped from Marcantonio's machine shop, although I couldn't swear to it."
"Oh, wow," said Denise. "Dad, the fuckers are defecting."
"That's my guess. Got no idea where to, though."
Noelle's lips were tight. "You know, Buster, you could have maybe said something about this earlier."
He swiveled to face her. Whatever smile might have been on his face was gone now. "Said something to who? The so-called 'authorities'? Meaning no offense, Ms. Murphy—"