through the centre of the cigar. He blew out the tobacco and sighted through it:
the tube of the pen formed a perfectly dean shaft through the cigar. He roughed up one end, concealing the hole. Next he broke the thermometer and holding the hypodermic needle between his fingers, he carefully dribbled two or three drops of mercury into its aperture, Next he took a wooden match out of his pocket, lit it, blew it out and twisted it into the opening of the needle, trapping the mercury inside. He wrapped the end of the match with wadded cotton and then inserted the handmade dart into one end of the cigar. He put the other end in his mouth, stuffed his trash in the paper bag and put it in his back pocket. Then he leaned back against the tree.
The forest got thicker and the road narrower. A sudden downpour thrashed the trees. Wild birds yelled back. It got so dark that he turned on the lights. Then, just as quickly, sunrays swept down through the trees, pock marking the road ahead. A few miles farther on, he suddenly drove out of the woods. The lava field lay ahead, and to his left the Pacific Ocean, as far as he could see.
The place was deserted.
Eddie Wolfnagle got lonely.
He got out of the car and looked around. There were no other cars. Nothing. Nothing but the ocean, the forest behind him and the awesome, black-ridged river of petrified lava ahead, sweeping down the mountainside straight into the ocean, the outfall of a volcano that once, thousands of years ago, had inundated over half the island, leaving behind a crater bigger than the island of Manhattan. The gray-black plateau stretched ahead as far as he could see. To his left it rolled gently down toward the sea, then suddenly fell away, dropping a hundred feet or so down to the ocean.
Jesus!’ he said aloud.
A barrier closed off the road. The sign nailed to it read:
DANGER! LAVA FIELD, ROAD UNSAFE.
THIS ROAD IS PERMANENTLY CLOSED.
TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
HALEAKALA NATIONAL PARK
US RANGER SERVICE
A twig cracked behind him; he turned and saw a man coming toward him. He was about the same height as Eddie and was using a branch as a walking stick.
Eddie was a little surprised. If this was Hinge, he looked like a real square. Butch haircut? A polyester suit? Jesus, where’s he been? And he was younger than Eddie had imagined, and fair-skinned. For some reason, Eddie had expected Hinge to be dark. Maybe even with gray hair. This guy - hell, this guy was hardly thirty.
‘Hinge!’ Wolfnagle called out to the man, who smiled vaguely and nodded. ‘Hey, all right! I’m Eddie Wolfnagle.’
They shook hands and Hinge said, ‘Let’s get in the car, in case somebody comes by.’
‘Good idea,’ Eddie said.
They got in the Honda.
‘Where’s your car?’ Wolfnagle asked.
‘I’m camping out,’ Hinge said. ‘Up the draw there, a mile or so.,
‘Oh.’ Wolfnagle began feeling anxious. This was the moment he had been dreaming about for two months. Now it seemed too easy. ‘Uh ... maybe ... uh, you should show me something. You know, some identification.’
Hinge took a brown manila envelope out of his breast pocket and dangled it from his fingertips. ‘This should be enough,’ he said. ‘You have my goods?’
‘Right here.’ Eddie took a roll of 35-mm film from his coat pocket and held it up with two fingers, but as Hinge reached for it, Eddie let it drop into his fist. ‘Well...’ He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and grinned.
For just an instant Hinge’s eyes went cold, but it passed quickly and he smiled. He handed Eddie the envelope. Eddie gave Hinge the film and opened the envelope. Packets of nice, poppin-fresh hundreds. He riffled them with the dexterity of a Vegas croupier.
Hinge took a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket, and pinching it in front of his left eye with his eyebrow, unspooled a foot or so of film, which he held up toward the light.
‘Whaddya think?’ Eddie said, still counting.
‘So far, so good. You have close-ups of everything?’
‘You’re lookin’ at it, old buddy. Plans and the actual installation. Just what the doctor ordered, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘All here,’ Eddie said and giggled like a kid. ‘I can’t believe it, man. A hundred grand. You know something? I don’t think my old man made a hundred grand his whole fucking miserable life.’
‘Congratulations.’
Eddie took off his Stetson, dropped the envelope in it and put it back on. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘you need something else, I’m your man, okay? I can steal the crutch off a cripple, he won’t know it till his ass hits the ground.’
‘I will be in touch.’
‘I started boosting when I was nine. Stole my first car when I was twelve. Could hardly see over the steering wheel. I did, skit, coupla hundred jobs before I was sixteen. Never got caught. Never seen the inside of a slammer.’
‘You’re lucky.’
