Pabst looked up. “I said Harry won’t know if you don’t tell him.”
“Why wouldn’t I tell him? You sliced my car top. But Harry won’t pay for it unless I tell him what you two did and why.”
“Maybe we could work it out,” Schlitz said with a broad smile utterly lacking in confidence.
“How?”
“I mean if you guys need something done, well, maybe we could do it and that’d sort of pay for your car top and then Harry wouldn’t have to know about this.”
Padillo studied Schlitz for a moment before asking, “Does Tinker Burns worry either of you?”
“Nope,” Pabst said. It was a quick answer and McCorkle thought it was probably far too quick.
“Then you wouldn’t mind lying to him, would you?” Padillo said.
After a cautious nod, Pabst said, “Go on.”
“We want you to call Tinker at his hotel,” Padillo said. “If he’s not there, leave a message. The message will say only that you’ve learned that McCorkle and Padillo have the Haynes manuscript. That’s all. But if Tinker himself answers the phone, tell him you were at Pong’s with Harry Warnock and the lads and heard talk that McCorkle and I have the Haynes manuscript. When Tinker asks for details, tell him that’s all you know. Absolutely all.”
It was Schlitz who repeated a reasonably close version of the instructions and asked, “When d’you want us to call him?”
“Now,” Padillo said.
“I’ll use your car phone.”
“I don’t have a car phone.”
Not bothering to conceal his astonishment, Schlitz said, “Jesus, everybody’s got a—”
“I don’t,” Padillo said.
“He doesn’t have a fax machine either,” McCorkle said.
“Well,” Schlitz said, “I guess we can use the phone in my car.”
After McCorkle knocked on the hotel room door, it was opened by his daughter, who apparently wore nothing other than a man’s white oxford shirt and it rather loosely buttoned.
“They have house phones in the lobby,” she said.
“We can wait out here till you get—”
McCorkle was interrupted by Granville Haynes’s voice from behind the partially open door. “Who is it?”
“It’s Pop and the old guy who rides shotgun.”
“Then ask them in.”
“You’re invited,” she said, walked away from the half-open door and disappeared into the bathroom.
McCorkle entered the room, followed by an amused looking Padillo. Once inside, McCorkle turned slowly, nodding at Haynes, who wore pants, shirt and loafers, but no socks. McCorkle continued his slow turn, noting the room-service cart, the empty and half-empty glasses, the discarded copies of the Sunday
“What’s so funny?” McCorkle said.
“Outraged fathers are always funny.”
“Who says I’m outraged?”
“Your choleric flush.”
“Care for a drink?” Haynes said.
McCorkle turned to stare at him. “Care? No. Need? Yes.”
“Scotch, vodka, beer, what?”
“Scotch.”
“Mr. Padillo?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
“You may need one after you hear about our threatening phone call.”
“Who from?”
“Since Erika took the call, I’ll let her tell it.”
After the drinks were poured and served, Erika McCorkle came out of the bathroom, wearing pants and over them the man’s white shirt, now buttoned except for the collar button and the one just below it. She went to the mini-refrigerator, removed a can of beer, popped it open and drank thirstily. She then turned to her father and said, “Okay. Let’s have it.”
McCorkle took another look around the room. “I suppose this is as good a way as any to spend a long Sunday afternoon. Your mother and I used to spend them like this in Bonn a hundred years ago. Usually out at her place in Tannenbusch. She lived in a one-room studio on the top floor of a
