Twilight at Mac's Place

you got?” Padillo asked.

“Three hundred,” McCorkle said, rose and handed the bills to Haynes.

Mott took a small roll from a pants pocket, removed five $100 bills and gave them to Haynes. “A contribution from Tinker Burns.”

Haynes grinned his father’s grin. “Tinker pay you his retainer in cash?”

“He tried to.”

“You know the routine,” Padillo said.

Haynes nodded as he put the money away in a pants pocket. “Cash in advance. Use a phony name to register. I’ve always liked ‘Clarkson’ because it’s not too common and not too rare. On the registration form, give the car’s make but shift the model year up or down a year or two. Invent a license number. If they ask for a driver’s license, walk.”

“I’ll go with you,” Erika said. “That way you can register as Mr. and Mrs. Geoffrey Clarkson.”

There was a brief silence before Haynes said, “I like the name,” and turned to look at McCorkle. Padillo and Mott also looked at him. Erika didn’t.

McCorkle was busy removing the childproof wrapping from a piece of Nicorette gum. Haynes noticed it was taking him much longer than usual. McCorkle finally got the piece out, popped it into his mouth and gave it seven or eight ruminative chews as he studied the ceiling.

He then looked at his daughter, whose back was still to him, and said, “That’s not such a bad idea, Erika.”

Chapter 39

The private room on the third floor of Sibley Hospital in far northwest Washington was guarded by Mr. Pabst and Mr. Schlitz. When Pabst noticed Padillo and McCorkle coming out of an elevator, he nudged Schlitz, and the two big men rose from folding metal chairs to plant themselves in front of the room’s door.

“No visitors,” Pabst warned when McCorkle and Padillo were close enough to hear him.

The would-be visitors came to a stop. Padillo stared at Pabst for several seconds, then said, “Tell him we’re here.”

“I just told you. No visitors.”

“Tell him,” said Padillo, somehow managing to turn the two softly spoken words into pure menace.

Pabst studied the fire extinguisher to Padillo’s right. “If he don’t wanta see you, you don’t go in.”

Padillo, still staring at Pabst, said nothing. McCorkle gave Schlitz a friendly grin and a nod, which weren’t returned. Pabst shot a furtive glance at Padillo, then darted into the hospital room and came out less than fifteen seconds later to announce: “Harry says it’s okay.”

Inside the room, McCorkle and Padillo found Harry Warnock lying in bed on his back. An intravenous drip solution had been inserted into a vein in his left arm.

McCorkle said, “You look like hell.”

“But far better than Horse Purchase,” Warnock said. “The fucker nicked my liver and the quacks say I best lay off the booze for a few months. And ’tis this sad news that’s causing me to look so dismal.”

“Sad news indeed,” McCorkle said.

Warnock turned his head to look at Padillo, who had moved around to the other side of the bed. “You should’ve seen him, Michael.”

“Who?”

“McCorkle.”

“I heard.”

“One had to be there. Especially when he took his high hop to the right. I thought he’d never come down. A regular fucking Nureyev, he was.” Warnock paused, looked back at McCorkle and said, “How’s the client?”

“Fine.”

“All safe and sound?”

McCorkle nodded.

“I fucked up,” Warnock said. “I didn’t figure on the likes of Purchase and when he came through those elevator doors, he surprised the shit out of me. I thought he might be working a twofer—you and the client. All I could do was make him notice me first.” He paused, took a deep breath, winced, let it out slowly and said, “If I’d even suspected it was Purchase who’d be coming, I’d’ve been up in the room with two helpers and the client locked in the bath.” He looked at Padillo again. “Did Horse make a move on him?”

Padillo said he had.

“What made him miss?”

“The client,” Padillo said. “He’s something of a mimic.”

Warnock grinned. “Voices, right? Two voices talking behind the hotel room door. By God, I like that.”

“Tell us about Purchase, Harry,” Padillo said.

“You never heard of him?”