The private detective was part of Eugene Salazar's opposition research team, and every camp has one. Salazar's private dick was straight out of an old black and white movie. Buster Duggs was five foot eight, he smoked and had a drinker's face, soiled shirt, dumb looks, and remarkably worn out tennis shoes - shoes that were actually worn out from beating the pavement. Buster Duggs, private investigator, also wore a blue Chicago Cubs hat - a real one that he purchased at the ballpark, not online. This was a fact that Buster mentioned to everyone.
Today, Buster's problem does not stem from the authenticity of his ball cap, but instead it was the impossibly remote location of Earl Manning's estate that was giving him fits. The huge home sat on eighty acres, specifically smack-dab in the middle of eighty acres. Buster was busy writing down license plate numbers that he viewed through his camera's telephoto lens.
Richie Todd is the local chapter leader for FWR, and he had been followed to Earl Manning's estate - followed by Buster. Buster followed Richie from a safe and reasonable distance then he turned his car around well before reaching the armed security gate in front of the Manning Estate. Buster's job was to see if Richie Todd's and Ernst Kinchen's paths crossed. If so then perhaps a long distance photo-op might be possible.
Salalzar's camp rightfully believed that the closer the link between Todd and Kinchen the worse the public image of the Kinchen campaign. Ted Seabourne, Salazar's campaign manager was appropriating a small fortune to make FWR and Sarge famous bedfellows. Seabourne knew they currently enjoyed a double-digit lead, this according to the conventional polsters. However, Seaboure also knew from years of campaign experience that leads of any size were subject to evaporate under the wrong circumstances. And since no lead was safe, Ted Seabourne needed to paint the Sarge squarely into Nazi corner and leave him there with all the tortured ghosts of the past.
Buster had found a large rock that his fat, athletic body could climb. Buster's flabby overall looks were remarkably deceiving. This fat man could flat out boogie. Buster estimated the rock's steep pitch to be a real fingernail grinder, even by a decent rock climber's standards. It was eighty feet of respectable cliff face. And Buster had made the climb without the benefit of a rope or safety net. Dangerous? Yes. But these photos and this information would be worth at least six grand from Salazar. Perhaps even more if Sarge actually arrived at the Manning Estate.
Duggs was hunkered down on top the tall rock, peering through his lens. "Well, well, by the looks of all that pricey rolling stock this crowd would fit right into Rancho Sante Fe or Beverly Hills," he muttered to himself. But it wasn't the many Rolls Royces, Mercedes, BMW's and the likes that Buster had hoped to see, it was Kinchen's sandstone colored, four-year-old truck Duggs wanted to photograph. Buster was totally unaware that he had already written down the plate to Kinchen's wife's - The Duchess'- black Jaguar sedan. Without knowing it Duggs had also written down the plate numbers and photographed the automobiles belonging to three of the area's wealthiest industrialists, the county's leading plastic surgeon, its biggest land developer, a county commissioner, and several others belonging near the top of Yucca County's social register. Buster had struck gold at the top of this rock and he wasn't even aware of it. If it weren't for the high walls of the courtyard estate, Buster would also have the faces that went with the cars.
Buster tightened the strap on his Cubs hat as the wind picked up. The gusts felt like every breath of twenty miles an hour, and now Buster wished he had used ropes on this climb. However, thoughts of the big payday loomed large and eased his mind. Ah, the payday, if only there was some way past all the tight security he would crash this grand party. Oh! The money he would make. He snickered at the thought of such good luck. He might even extort Earl Manning with a few of the more damning photos. Of course, if Earl wouldn't pay, then he'd run the film right back to the Salazar camp as promised.
Duggs lay atop a red rock while wind whipped sand across his face. Buster lay comfortably on his belly while his whisker covered face bore the brunt of the wind's sting. He was only about a foot over the side of the cliff, and if he could somehow justify edging forward forward another two feet he might be able to shoot a little bit of the courtyard's interior. On the other hand, despite his formidable weight, if he hung himself much further over the side of this rock he might well go head first to the bottom. Still, the pictures would be solid gold. "Hell," he said as he crept forward, pants inching up his tail. "In the long run I'm just going to smoke myself to death, anyway." Buster's left ear twitched nervously and the flab on his broad back quivered but his conscious mind wasn't aware of anything other than that which was to his front.
"I've got to believe that a man who'd climb this big rock without any sort of climbing gear probably isn't worried about his safety, Bo."
"I've got to believe you're right, Zeke."
"Who are you two?" Buster yelled into the stiff breeze. He couldn't see the men because he was laying flat on his big stomach. Also, he was hung too far over the rock's edge to make much of an adjustment.
"Well I'm Bo and this is Zeke and we're just a' wondering what in the flip you're doing way up here on this rock, bubby?" Buster felt two big hands grip around each of his flabby ankles. Then he was dragged several feet closer to the red rock's middle area.