evening?”
He forced himself to ask the question casually, even though he knew from his scheduling discussion with Megan in New York that this was the one time when he could be reasonably sure that Brandon and Diana Walker were going to a banquet together. That meant they would both be away from the house for a predictable period of time.
Already more than a little drunk, Quentin tried to think his way through all the various ramifications. There were risks involved in selling the pottery, but that much money—ten thousand tax-free dollars—almost made the risks worthwhile. At least, it made them seem far less significant.
“I suppose that would work,” Quentin said. “In fact, it’ll probably be better if we go there in the dark. Fewer people will see us if we go then. This place is a secret, you know. I want to keep it that way. Not only that, it won’t be nearly as hot.”
“All right,” Mitch agreed. “What time?”
“Five?”
“I already have another afternoon appointment. Five may be pushing it. Let’s make it six. Where should we meet?”
“Here,” Quentin said. “I don’t have wheels at the moment.”
“No problem,” Mitch assured him. “Meet me out front. You can ride with me.” He stood up and staggered slightly, waiting for his permanently damaged knee to steady under his weight.
Quentin noticed and seemed to relax. “At least I’m not the only one who’s had one too many.”
“I guess not,” Mitch said agreeably. “See you tomorrow.”
He limped outside and climbed into his waiting Subaru. He sat there for a few moments, eyeing the bar’s vivid neon lights and thinking. Originally the plan had simply been to do the girl in her parents’ house and to leave a drunken Quentin there to take the blame. In that basic plan, the pots had been intended as nothing more than bait, something off the wall enough to dupe Quentin into going along with the program.
In the months since Mitch had been out of prison, however, he had been doing some research. He had learned that these pots—if they actually existed—were probably worth a fortune in their own right. And if he could have Quentin Walker and his pots as well, why not go for broke?
The original plan had been a perfectly good one, and it gave every indication of working in a totally predictable fashion. That didn’t mean, however, that it couldn’t be improved upon. After all, Andy hadn’t left Mitch so much money that he couldn’t do with a little more.
Once Mitch Johnson left the bar, Quentin Walker wasted no time in summoning the bartender once again. “Let me have one for the road,” he said. “Jack Daniels on ice. A double.”
“Why the sudden change?” the bartender asked. “Did you win the lottery or something?”
“Damn near,” Quentin replied, trying his best not to sound too enthusiastic. He patted his shirt pocket, checking to make sure the five bills were still there. They rustled crisply beneath his hand. He hadn’t dreamed them, then; hadn’t made them up. He hadn’t made up Mitch Johnson, either.
The money was good. In fact, the money was great, better than he would have dreamed possible. The only problem was taking Mitch Johnson up to the cave.
The prospect of doing that left Quentin almost sick with fear. There must be a way around it, he thought as the bartender delivered his next drink. There just has to be. All he needed was a good solid shot of whiskey to clear his head.
Not long after that, Quentin left the bar. He was afraid that if he stayed around too long, he might shoot his mouth off and tell somebody about the money. In this neighborhood, walking around with a wad of money on you was almost as bad as being handed a death warrant.
Glancing warily over his shoulder, Quentin staggered the block and a half to his alley-fronting apartment. It would have been a crying shame if somebody had hit him over the head and rolled him on his way home.
A hell of a crying shame!
Brandon waited until he and Diana were getting ready for bed before he brought up the subject of Fat Crack’s visit. They had been having so much fun together out chopping and stacking wood that he hadn’t wanted to spoil things by bringing it up. And then again, during dinner, he hadn’t wanted to mention anything at all about Andrew Carlisle in front of Lani.
He was just gearing up to say something when Diana beat him to the punch. “What did Fat Crack want?” she asked.
“It drives me crazy when you do that,” Brandon told her.
“When I do what?”
“When you read my mind. I was about to tell you, and then you asked me before I had a chance to spit out the words.”
“Well?”
Brandon Walker took a deep breath. “He came to talk to us—to me, really—about Andrew Carlisle.”
Diana finished slipping her nightgown on over her head. “What about Andrew Carlisle?”
“Fat Crack says he’s coming back.”
“Andrew Carlisle is dead.”
“That’s exactly what I tried to tell Fat Crack when he was here,” Brandon explained. “It didn’t make any difference. He says he’s read your book and it convinced him that, dead or not, Andrew Carlisle’s still after us. That he’s after you.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Diana said at once. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
