In our first excerpt from "Towed In A Hole," our hero, Raymond Cid, explains what he does and how he does it:

             I am in what you might call the salvage business, or would be if I did it enough to call it anything like a steady business at all. But I’m picky, as I said, and I compensate for the financial shortfall that working only intermittently might create by being really, really expensive, too. That’s the first and most important one of those filtering standards I mentioned: the prospect has to be able to afford my rate.

            Which is half. Half of whatever I recover. As in 50%. Which is better than the zero, zilch, nada, nichevo that’s more likely to be the result if the situation you’re in has brought you to the door of my rather obscure little shop.

            Hopeless salvage recovery cases are my specialty, you see, and the next one of those filtering factors I mentioned is that most people never manage to admit to themselves that their case is, indeed, hopeless—even when it most certainly otherwise is.

            To see me, you have to be well past the natural denial that goes with that territory, and well and truly finished with all of the more conventional avenues to solving it.  I don’t step in unless the lawyers and the cops and the bureaucrats can’t or won’t and not until all the reasonable, rational methods of recovery that society pretends will cover every eventuality but sometimes don’t have all been tried, exhausted, and found wanting.

            But even when they’ve run out of all other options, not many people are really, well, “ready” is the word for it, I guess. Even fewer have reached the point where they’re ready to admit to themselves, let alone my chosen intermediaries, that they’ve reached the end of traditional methods and means nor that they’re willing to do what it takes to find a more unorthodox solution.

            Then it gets even trickier, I have ethics. Standards. And, old-fashioned or not, morals. I don’t help people get back stuff they stole from somebody else first, I don’t randomly break legs or heads for revenge, I don’t play dirty tricks to tickle a sadistic streak, nor do I hire on as an instrument of pure spite.

            It’s got to be an honest beef. I know, I know, old-fashioned and then some, but I’m funny that way. I like being one of the last of the good guys because I really, really do have a conscience and I like sound sleep.

            Even though they all know the deal before they meet me, I’ve had more than a few tell me my rate is outrageous. Some do it with an indignant snort, some only with a reluctant sigh, but every one of those who express more than brief token reserve is instantly assigned to my “This had better be good” list of doubtful clients even when they decide, as invariably they do, that their situation is so hopeless or Byzantine that, outrageous price or not, they’re willing to pay it and give this white knight for hire a try.

            I prefer satisfied customers, you see. It’s cleaner that way in the end. And starting out with a chip on your shoulder is not a good way to ever become satisfied, not really, and I value my time and peace of mind too much to take the risk.

            But if you’ve lost something or had something taken away and nobody else can help and you don’t know where to turn and you’re willing to settle for half of it if I can get it back for you since none of it is liable to come back if I can’t, then we meet and you talk and I listen and I ask a lot of questions and, if I like your answers and I’m available and I really do think you’re due some justice, well…I go to work.

            The expenses are on me, and there are no guarantees of anything other than my devotion to duty and my not inconsiderable talent, experience, perseverance, dedication, savvy, and guile.

            And honesty. You really will get your half, and you’ve got to know that, too. Because in a line like mine, there are no written contracts and no enforceable covenants and nothing, ultimately, but trust.

            But then, if you can’t trust the good guy, who can you trust?

Next, in his guise as tourist "Ray Decatur," Cid meets his adversaries and begins to uncover clues to the strange disappearance of RV lawyer Mike Simms:

I got off the elevator and found the frosted glass door, immaculately dust-free this time and with the company logo on it, just across from me as I stepped into the hall. That same super-sleuth training that got me this far says you do not knock when you’re playing the rube, so I didn’t and stepped on in.

A pretty-but-not-spectacular young woman sat at a desk in the nicely-appointed reception area and typed into a computer while a printer pumped out what looked to be address labels. Beside her on the desk were a big stack of 11”x 14” white envelopes with the same R.C.C. logo and the return address I presumed matched this office.

The carpet was plusher, the wall tones richer, and the general atmosphere just plain classier than the insurance office had been, and whatever went on in the many more square feet that made up the rest of the suite was obscured from view by solid partition walls, one corner of which held the rack mounted eye of a closed circuit camera. Whatever else R.C.C. was, it was prosperous and careful and not afraid to show either one.

The receptionist looked up as I stepped in, smiling in that way that all drudge-work people do when anything breaks their monotonous routine.

“Welcome to Radiant Coach Company, sir. May I help you?” She said it with such genuine hospitality that beaming back Decatur’s smile was easy.

“Well thank you, miss! I’ll tellya. I happened to see one of your lovely trailers at a park I was at out West a few weeks ago, and I was mighty impressed!” The smile I got back kept me going in the same vein, so I continued to play the tourist. “Since I was visiting here anyhow to see the RV sights, I thought I’d look you good folks up and see the place they were made. Obviously this isn’t your manufacturing plant, but I wonder—where do I go for the tour?”

The girl frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. We really don’t do factory tours like the larger manufacturers do. Besides, we’re between models right now and in the middle of the re-tooling process. The plant down on Industrial Avenue is shut down except for the technicians setting up for the next production run.”

“Darn!” I said with a genial peevedness. “I was thinking one of your beautiful Radiants would be a perfect wedding gift for my niece in Dubuque!”

“Well, I can give you our brochures on the new models, Sir. That’s what I’m mailing out now.” She pointed to the stack of large envelopes and the chattering printer.

“Sure, that’d be mighty kind of you, miss.” I said, accepting the offered envelope. “I’ll take a good look. But is there a showroom or something I can visit to…”

A tall, strongly-built man with the kind of too-perfect grin that says “I’ve Read All Of Dale Carnegie’s Books--Twice” stepped out of the door that led to the inner offices.

He was in the kind of shape that only regular gym visits could create, he was tanned, likewise, in a way that the often fickle sun of the Midwest could only do with some help from a UV bed, and he had the kind of salt-and-pepper crew-cut hair that said “establishment” in a small Midwestern town but that might have been read as “slick” or “tries too hard” if he’d been at a convention at The Europa or some other Vegas hotel.

I didn’t know why exactly, and I certainly didn’t let it show, but I took an instant dislike to him, and was instantly wary of the too-easy smile and the strong, tanned, well-manicured hand that reached towards me in the expensively-tailored pin-striped charcoal grey suit sleeve sleeve.

“Can I help you, Friend?” he smiled with teeth that had cost a small fortune in dentistry—nobody was born with choppers like that.

“Howdy Mister….?” I stumbled on purpose, reaching out to take his hand and getting a grip and a shake that, while friendly on the surface, sent a message of power and control that was clearly intentional.

“Roe. Brendan Roe, and I’m President of Radiant Coach Company, Mister…?”

“Decatur,” I said, hoping I hadn’t missed a beat. “Ray Decatur, Mister Roe. And I’m, well, I guess you might say I’m a fan. Pleased to meet you!

The tall, strong, somehow menacing man gave a short laugh. “A fan? Well, we have many things in this company, Mr. Decatur, but as of this moment we have yet to have a fan club.”

“Well, all I mean is, I’ve seen your trailers, and they seemed pretty nice. I wanted to see about a tour but this young lady says I picked the wrong time of year.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I’m sorry, but maybe we can welcome you next time you’re here.” He turned to the receptionist, “You are giving Mr. Decatur our info pack, aren’t you Marla?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Roe,” she smiled, but there was a note of tension there that said Roe ran a very, very tight ship. She reached out to me with one of the envelopes and I took it with a little nod.

“I appreciate it, and this young lady’s been very helpful, Mr. Roe.” I smiled at the girl who looked grateful for the compliment to the big boss. “As I was telling her, I’ve got a niece in Dubuque who’s getting married and I was thinking of buying her one of your trailers as a wedding gift. I’m sure all this stuff about your new ones will be helpful but y’know….I was thinking…”

The door behind him opened again, and a bigger but nowhere near so polished guy who looked like the local football star bully with the long-ago broken nose to prove it came out and gave me a look like a mongrel hound eyeing a T-bone. The slash of a mouth below that nose slid open to grunt “’sup Bren?” at Roe as he gave his shoulders and pecs a flex beneath the polyester for my benefit.

Roe gave him a quick head shake sign that said “Stand down” that I wasn’t supposed to notice, then turned back to me with that practiced smile of his. “This is Biff Block, Mr. Decatur, our Vice President of Labor Relations. Biff? Mr. Ray Decatur, a very-near-future purchaser of another Radiant Coach!”

The aptly-named Block tried his version of the grin, only managing to show off some not-too-well-orthodontized bridgework and nowhere nearly as effective a glow of mock-geniality as his boss. “Pleased ta meetcha, Mister D.” he said, relaxing his alert level back down to orange from its prior red status, then ignored me to concentrate on his boss. “Uh, Bren. We’ve got that conference call in ten, y’know.”

Roe snapped his fingers in an act of sudden remembrance that was only missing an animated, oversized light bulb blinking on above his head to be the perfect cartoon cliché, especially with the exaggerated look at his big silvery Rolex on that thick, tanned wrist that came next. “Wow, it’s time already, isn’t it? I’ll be right with you, Biff! Thanks.”

The big dreadnaught gave another hard glance towards me, then nodded to his keeper and gave me a short wave. “Be seein’ ya, Mister D.” he said with that same look that seemed to be made of equal parts of laughing at me and laughing with me, except of course that I wasn’t laughing. He instantly lost interest in me utterly, and turned and popped back through the door into the bowels of R.C.C.’s corporate HQ.

Roe kept the smile on, but it was an impatient smile and he was already stepping forward to gently but firmly send me by body language the message that the door was where I should head next.

“I’m afraid my duties never end, especially during model-change-over time.” Roe apologized. “Seems like everything regarding Biff’s realm of labor relations piles up and waits for now to happen. I’d love to chat with you further, but, well, you know how it is. Uh, you had a last question, Mr. Decatur?”

“Well…” I put on a kind of just-between-us-guys conspiratorial smile, “Like I said, I’ll bet the new and improved Radiants are, well, more radiant than ever! But frankly, my niece and that young man she’s marrying wouldn’t know next year’s from this year’s from last year’s, and I wonder…haven’t you got any ‘close-out’ inventory around that we might come to a good arrangement on? I don’t want to sound cheap or anything, but well, we’re not that close, and…well, I’m sure you understand.”

“Oh, I do, Mr. Decatur, I do indeed!” Roe smiled that over-done smile and lowered his voice to mirror my just-us-businessmen attitude, “We all want to be a big shot with our family, but that doesn’t mean we want to pay big-shot prices, right? Heck, that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Giving great value for a reasonable price is the principle this company was built on! But…”

“But?” I looked up with my best puppy dog hopeful expression.

“But…I’m afraid when we change models it’s because we’ve done such a good job of selling the old ones.” It was a good story, delivered with such ease and fluidity that I felt he’d practiced it, both in front of a mirror and on other random inquirers like me. But that didn’t make me believe it as he continued.

“We sell direct you see” Roe said. “No dealers. No middle-men. And that means that at this time of year, well, no inventory. Even the demonstrators and prototypes have been wholesaled off to Mexico. So, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait a bit, go through the brochures, and then I encourage you to order through our website. That’s another way we keep the costs down and, by the way, it gives us the ability to offer free delivery throughout the lower 48 and Alaska and Canada.”

“Which includes Dubuque,” I chuckled. “Well, that’s handy Mr. Roe. Heck, you’re so well-organized I’ll bet I can even have you throw in a gift card!” I kept on smiling even as his big hand landed on my shoulder and softly urged me towards that door.

“I’m afraid our website isn’t quite that sophisticated yet Mr. Decatur, but y’know…that’s a great idea!” He was like a long-lost war buddy, and if his big, tanned hand hadn’t given my spine a chill I might have almost bought the act.  “I’ll talk to our people about adding that feature, and in the meanwhile, if you just sign and send a card of your choosing to my attention here at this address when you place your order, I’ll personally make sure it gets put inside the unit along with a nice bottle of celebratory champagne, just to thank you for the inspiration!”

At the door, he even opened it for me, then turned away to the girl at the desk. “Make a note of that won’t you Marla? Make sure we take good care of Mr. Decatur’s order when it comes through.”

The girl nodded and immediately typed something into the computer, so as I waved goodbye I threw in one more gee-whiz tourist moment to see what he’d say.

“You people are certainly well-organized,” I said. “I’ve been touring RV companies all day, and you may not be the biggest, but you’re certainly on the ball.”

The big man was still smiling, but the wolf eyes couldn’t hide the self-satisfaction that gleamed behind them. The pride said more than just ownership and authorship. It said that this was a boat that nobody would ever be allowed to rock without consequence.

“On the ball. I like it. Simple, straightforward, and accurate. We’re on the ball at Radiant, Mr. Decatur. 24-7. And you know,” he chuckled again suddenly, the amusement the first genuine emotion I’d seen since I’d met him. “Considering that our trailers attach using a ball-joint coupling hitch, that’s literal as well as figurative! Hah! ‘Radiant Coaches Are On The Ball!’ You may have just coined our next slogan, Mr. Decatur! If we use it, I’ll have to send you some of that bubbly, too! So long!”

And with that, I left, still not quite sure what was happening and what had happened to Mike Simms. But one thing was for sure:

As certain as I was that I was the good guy in the drama, I knew I’d just met the bad guys. And I had a feeling that came from experience as well as my gut that Brendan Roe was, for all his polish and graceful faux friendliness, a very, very bad guy indeed.

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