The Jugger

plastic surgery done on his face since he'd served time as Ronald Casper, so when the mug shots didn't look like Charles Willis it slowed everybody down a little.

But not for long. Regan knew something was wrong somewhere along the line, but he didn't yet know what. He sent out another request; would the FBI office in Miami take a look for Charles Willis there? The address he'd given had probably been phoney, of course, but just to be on the safe side somebody ought to check it.

Another surprise; the address wasn't phoney after all.

NINE

PARKER was waiting for the elevator when the manager came over and said, 'Could I see you a minute? In my office.'

'What's up?'

'It should be private.'

Parker looked at him. The manager's name was Freedman, J. A. Freedman. Parker had spent a month or two of each of the last ten years at this hotel, and by now he knew J. A. Freedman pretty well.

Freedman touched Parker's arm and said, softly, 'It's important. Really.'

'All right.'

Freedman led the way to his office. He was short and barrel-shaped and walked as though he'd do better if he rolled instead. His face was made of Silly Putty, plus hornrimmed glasses.

In his office, he motioned Parker to sit down and then said, 'Frankly, Mr. Willis, this is somewhat embarrassing. I don't quite know how to go about it.'

'What's the problem?'

'Apparently,' Freedman said, making vague gestures as though he wanted to minimize what he was saying, 'apparently, you're in some sort of trouble. It's none of my business, tax trouble, I suppose, business trouble of some kind. It could happen to any of us, to me, to anybody.'

It was almost two weeks since he'd come back from Sagamore. The woman he'd left down here had been gone by the time he'd come back, so he'd been keeping Rhonda around since then. As soon as Freedman said trouble, Parker knew it had to do with Sagamore, something had broken there. He said, 'Why do you say I'm in trouble?'

'Two Federal agents came here looking for you.'

It was Sagamore. He said, 'What did they say?'

'Nothing, Mr. Willis. Only that they were looking for you.'

'What did you say?'

Freedman spread his hands. 'I have to co-operate. You're a businessman yourself, you understand the problem.'

'Sure.'

'I told them your room number, but that I didn't believe you were in. They said they'd wait in your room. I sent them up with a bellboy to let them in, and I've been watching for you ever since. Half an hour, I suppose. The least I can do is warn you. There are two of them, so I imagine they hope to catch you off-guard, get you to say more than you should. I thought you should know, in case you want to contact your attorney, make any preparations.'

They already had Rhonda. She'd hold out five minutes when she found out they were Federal. Parker said, 'Thanks. I appreciate this.'

'Not at all. Our positions could easily be reversed.' Freedman smiled sadly. 'Government doesn't understand business,' he said.

Parker got to his feet. 'Things I'd better do first,' he said.

'Of course, of course. I hope this trouble won't – inconvenience you too badly.'

'Maybe it won't. Thanks again.'

'Any time.'

Parker went back out to the lobby. Did they have another man down here? Did they have pictures of him? He didn't cross the lobby, but went the other way, through the bar and out of the door on the other side and diagonally across to the hack stand. He didn't wait for the boy in the purple uniform to open the door for him, but did it himself and crowded into the back seat. 'Cocoanut Grove,' he said. 'Bayshore Drive.' The first address that came into his head, to get him away from here.

Riding away from the hotel, he wondered what had gone wrong. Well, it didn't matter. It had gone sour, that's all. The Charles Willis name was useless now, the whole cover shot.

It meant about sixty thousand to him, too, stashed away in bank accounts and hotel safes under the Willis name. He didn't dare go after any of that now. He had about a hundred on him, and that was it, that was all he had to get started on.

In Cocoanut Grove he left the cab and stole a car, a white Rambler station wagon. He pointed it north and started driving, leaving behind everything, the name he'd built up and the money he'd stashed, and the whole pattern of life he'd developed.

Already he was thinking about what to do next. He'd have to set up a new cover, but that would take a while; building it bit by bit and paper by paper till it had the texture of reality. In the meantime he had to find a place to hole up, and he had to find a score he could connect with. He was going to need cash and soon, and a lot of it.

It would work itself out. He drove north.