“Goddamn all amateur lobbyists,” Muriel Keyes said.
“You must be hungry.”
“Not very. Did you go out?”
“For a while. When I got back there was a message from Senator Mushmouth.”
“And?”
“He’s talked to young Haynes’s lawyer, Howard Mott—d’you know him?”
“I know his wife and her sister. His wife was Lydia Stallings and her sister, Joanna, is married to Neal Hineline at State.”
“The noted thinker and car wax heir,” Keyes said.
“He is a bit dim, isn’t he? But Joanna’s nice. I haven’t seen Lydia Mott in years.”
“Well, her husband wants to hold the—what? the auction?—in the senator’s office. I told Mott it would be okay.”
“Who cares where it’s held as long as you get it over with?” she said.
“It’ll start at ten Wednesday morning and I see no reason why it should last more than an hour, if that.”
“Who’ll be there?”
“The senator, of course. Howard Mott. Young Haynes. And I.”
“Really? I thought it was to be only Haynes and the lawyers.”
“It was, but I suspect Howard Mott decided he wanted to be a bit closer to the source of the Federal money.”
“Who can blame him?” she said. “Is he a good lawyer?”
“He’s a superb criminal defense attorney. One of the best.”
“Well, let’s hope we never need him.”
“Why would we?” Keyes said.
His wife rose with a smile. “Who knows?” She began to say something else, changed her mind and asked. “How does a bacon and egg sandwich sound?”
“Tempting,” said Hamilton Keyes.
After an hour the repetition began, as it usually does, and Howard Mott decided he had heard enough—or at least everything that was pertinent. He turned to Granville Haynes and said, “Go bury yourself somewhere until ten o’clock Wednesday morning.”
The five of them were gathered in McCorkle’s living room. Padillo had been there for nearly two hours. Mott for an hour and fifteen minutes. McCorkle had been the last to arrive, dropped off an hour before by Darius Pouncy with a stern reminder that the detective still wanted to talk to Granville Haynes.
Mott sat in one of the four cane-backed chairs that looked as if they should be drawn up to a bridge table, which they sometimes were. Erika McCorkle and Haynes sat side by side on a couch that wore a faded chintz slipcover. McCorkle was on the bench in front of the Steinway baby grand that his wife, Fredl, played beautifully and he played rather badly by ear. His best, if not his favorite, piece remained “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.”
The living room faced south and east. The east windows overlooked Connecticut Avenue. The south windows provided a view of the building next door. It was a large and pleasant room that offered what once had been a wood-burning fireplace. Six years ago, McCorkle had substituted gas logs for real ones. His stated reason had been that gas logs cut down on pollution. His true reason was that real logs were just too much bother.
The two McCorkles, Padillo and Mott stared at Haynes, waiting to see how he would respond to the suggestion that he go bury himself somewhere.
“A motel would be best,” Haynes said.
“Consider Maryland,” Mott said. “Or even West Virginia out near Harpers Ferry.”
Haynes nodded his agreement and said, “I’ll have to rent a car.”
“Better you borrow one,” McCorkle said.
Erika turned to Haynes. “You can have mine.”
“Too many people know about you and Granville,” Padillo said.
“Know what?” she snapped.
Padillo smiled and made a small defensive gesture with both palms. “That you’ve been hauling him around in your car—that’s all.”
Mott cleared his throat and said, “I think I have a solution. He took out his wallet, found a card and used a pen to write something on it. When finished, he rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the card.
“It’s the garage in Falls Church where Steady’s old Cadillac is,” Mott said. “I’ll call the owner and tell him somebody’s picking it up.”
Padillo liked the idea. “Take a cab out there,” he urged Haynes. “You have any cash?”
“A few hundred.”
Padillo took out a wallet, looked inside, then handed Haynes a sheaf of tens and twenties. “Here’s a couple of hundred more.” He looked at McCorkle, who was already examining the contents of his own billfold. “How much’ve
