in two days if everything stays nice and quiet.”
“That just puts me even, Neal. I need something for my trouble.”
“You unbearable little shit…”
“My boy, I need something,” Withers said, his eyes twinkling with the joy of combat, “or I’ll have no choice but to sell this information to the media.”
You’d do it, too, Neal thought. In a heartbeat, if you had one.
“Okay, another ten for your so-called trouble,” Neal said, “In one week’s time, not before.”
“Twenty in three days.”
“Fifteen in five.”
“Done,” Withers said. “A pleasure doing business with you.”
Neal slipped the gun back under his belt and released his grip on Walt.
“I’ll go get your damn money,” he said.
“That’s wonderful, my boy, wonderful,” Withers said, straightening his tunic. “But do you suppose you might advance me, say, a thousand? I find myself fiscally embarrassed.”
“I’m giving you ten large!” Neal protested.
“Unfortunately, I have to remit that to my soon-to-be-former employer, Mr. Scarpelli. Thank you for releasing me from the clutches of that tawdry flesh peddler, my boy.”
“Wait here,” Neal said. “And quit calling me that.”
Neal went into the room, took $11,000 from the briefcase, went back out into the hall, and handed it to Withers.
“If I see you poking around here-no, if I see anyone poking around here, I will shoot you, Walter,” Neal said.
“You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” Walt said.
And a dope, Neal thought.
He pushed the room-service cart into the room, checked it for electronic bugs, and called the ladies to dinner.
Withers strolled into Scarpelli’s suite, walked to the bar, and made himself a martini. Then he sat down on the couch and put his feet on the coffee table, which was shaped like a lyre.
“I saw her,” he announced to the startled Scarpelli and Haber. “She’s in the room with Heskins.”
“That’s terrible!” Scarpelli said. “Or great… Which?”
“It’s great, Ron,” Ms. Haber said, “if we can get access to her.”
“Access,” Scarpelli repeated. He was pretty sure he’d been to a seminar on access. He couldn’t recall what was said about access, but he did remember it was an important thing. “We need access.”
“We could access Heskins,” Ms. Haber suggested.
“We could…” Ron said thoughtfully.
“Why would we want to do that?” asked Withers.
“Tell him, Haber.”
“To make a deal,” she explained. “We can buy and sell Heskins. We’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
Still flush with success from his deal with Neal, Withers asked, “Why pay twice? Why not go right to the source?”
“How do we access her?” she asked.
“Actually, access is not a verb, my dear,” Withers said. “And why don’t you leave that little problem to professionals such as myself? I think you’d have to agree that I’ve done pretty well for you so far. And Ron, would you mind horribly if we settled up on my expenses? I hate to let these things go too far.”
Because, Withers thought, when Lady Luck is kind enough to land in your hand, work the faithless strumpet to death.
18
Overtime drove past the Bluebird Motel three times before he eased into the parking lot, turned off the motor and the lights, and watched. There was a car parked in front of 103 and lights shone through the cheap drapes. He could even see the flicker of the television.
Overtime didn’t want a long wait. His right arm throbbed from the shoulder on down and his back was stiff. But he’d bungled the last operation by rushing in, and he wasn’t going to make that mistake again.
Someone would come out the door. Someone always did. It was proof of the lack of discipline that infected Western society. Even people in great danger would eventually get bored or careless and throw their lives away going to the soda machine, or for something they forgot in their car, or just for a breath of fresh air.
Most people didn’t have the patience for hiding, not in the long run-especially not women. Besides, these people would think they had dodged the bullet. They wouldn’t expect another attack this soon.
He had angled the car to place the driver’s side window toward room 103. Now he opened his Haliburton briefcase and screwed an aluminum tube into the back of the sniper rifle. He considered using the nightscope but decided that the lights of the motel soffit were sufficient.
Overtime popped two amphetamines, rolled down the driver’s window, then lowered himself down against the passenger door and waited.
Chuck Whiting watched from room 120. He had to admit that Carey had picked the rooms well-the hit man had parked on the opposite side of the lot from 103, which put him close to 120. Chuck had seen the man was alone and now could clearly see the top of the man’s head in the passenger window.
Chuck hadn’t been on a stakeout for years. He’d forgotten how tedious and nerve-racking it was. As a good Mormon, he didn’t drink coffee or smoke, so all he could do to pass the time was think about Mrs. Landis. The hours spent waiting to see whether a hit man would arrive had been soul-torturing. In the long hours of forced introspection, Charles Whiting had to admit to himself that Neal Carey had been right: He did have feelings-strong feelings-for her.
It’s true, he thought, I’m in love with Candice Landis.
In the old Mormon Church… Never mind.
He forced his thoughts back to the alleged perpetrator in the vehicle. Carey had said just to watch, but Chuck didn’t feel obliged to put himself under Carey’s authority, even if he did have some mysterious influence over Mrs. Landis. Carey viewed this as strictly an intelligence-gathering operation, but now Chuck had the chance to capture the perpetrator. All he had to do was sneak out the door and come up behind him.
The door would be the difficult part.
Charles Whiting crouched in the darkness and thought about it.
Overtime felt eyes on him.
Paranoia, he thought as images of frothing dogs and baseball bats skidded across his brain.
Control yourself. Breathe. Focus on the target.
Goddamn it, there are eyes on me. I can feel them in the back of my head.
For one awful moment, he imagined the crosshairs lining up on the back of his head. His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to slip lower into the seat but was afraid that would trigger the shot.
Trigger… so to speak.
That’s good. You’ve retained a sense of humor.
Professional. Analyze your situation.
Hypothesis: They set you up.
Supposition: They’re behind you.
Potential solution: Turn and shoot.
Analysis: One, you won’t have the time to turn, roll over, find the target, and shoot. Two, there’ll be cross fire coming from 103. Three, they’ll shoot the tires out and then take their time.
He paused to suppress the rising terror.
Breathe.
