29
DISAWAY
I went back to the hotel and went to bed.
The phone rang several times during the night. How many times, I couldn?t tell you. Finally I put it on
the floor, threw a pillow over it, and died. The next thing I knew, someone was trying to knock down
my door. I flicked on the lamp, struggled into a pair of pants, and found Pancho Callahan standing on
the threshold.
“Change in plans” was all he said.
“Huh?” was all I could muster.
“Tried to call,” he said.
“Appreciate it,” I mumbled, and started back to bed.
“Going out to the track,” he said in his abbreviated patois.
“What, now?”
“Yep.”
“What time is it?”
“Five.”
“In the morning!”
“Yep.”
“Tuesday morning?”
“Tuesday morning.”
I stared bleakly at him. He looked like a page out of GQ magazine. Cray cotton trousers, a tattersall
vest under a blue linen blazer, pale blue skirt, a wine tie with delicate gray horses galloping aimlessly
down its length, and a checkered cap, cocked jauntily over one eye.
He didn?t look any more like a cop than John Dillinger looked like the Prince of Wales.
“Not on your life,” I croaked.
He put his hand gently on the door.
“Gonna be a great day.”
I was too tired to argue.
“Smashing.”
At exactly 5:15 we were in a red sports car with more gadgets than an F104, heading out into a damp,
musty morning. As we crossed the tall suspension bridge to the mainland, we picked up fog so thick I
couldn?t see the shoulder of the road. Callahan, a tall, muscular chap, with high cheekbones and a
