“You want me to sleep with her,” I said, trying to sound indignant.
“Sleep with her, torture her, what do I care?”
“What if she doesn’t know anything about it?”
“That’s my guess, by the way,” Darwin said. “And if that’s the case, you can hang out with her and keep your eyes open, because sooner or later, someone’s going to make a move.”
“I’m not going to be able to shadow her. Not after she’s met me.”
“Creed, you’re missing the point. I believe she’s already being shadowed. If they see her getting close to you, they’re going to come after you.”
“So I’m the bait.”
“If Alison doesn’t know anything, then yes, you’re the bait.”
“So who’s going to come to my rescue when the bad guys strike?”
“That’s up to you. Maybe you can call your midget army, hide them under your bed.”
“Little people,” I said.
“Whatever. The bottom line is, if you need backup, make the phone calls.”
“Fine,” I said. “What’s my cover story?”
“Jewelry salesman.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. So dress sharp and wear some expensive jewelry.”
“I don’t own any.”
Darwin paused a moment, trying to decide if what I’d said could possibly be true.
“You’re hopeless,” he said. He sighed. “I’ll have something appropriate waiting for you in a box on the Lear jet. And Creed—”
“Yeah?”
“I want it back.”
I said nothing, choosing to ignore the implication that I might steal his jewelry. A lesser man might feel compelled to point out specific examples to certify his unparalleled honesty. But I’m a bigger man than that. Plus, Darwin might think to remind me that I was still living off the millions of dollars I’d stolen from Joe DeMeo, after having killed most of his crew.
“A jewelry salesman,” I said, again, trying to make my voice sound as skeptical as possible.
Darwin jumped to defend his decision: “Pun notwithstanding, this jewelry salesman cover is pure gold. I’ve had a team on Alison two full days, which means I know more about her than her own mother. Trust me, Creed: you tell her you’ve got jewelry in your overnight bag and she’ll be all over you like Octo-Mom in a sperm bank.”
“That’s a nice visual.”
We hung up and I made a quick call before rejoining my slightly miffed girlfriend. I gave her my best stuff and managed to salvage the evening—until I explained I had to take her home and repack my bags and fly to Denver.
I slept on the Learjet and got to Denver in plenty of time to catch Alison’s flight. We chatted all the way to Dallas, landed, got our luggage, and caught the shuttle to the Marriott.
Inside the lobby, the guest registration line moved quickly between two velvet ropes. After Alison checked in she motioned me to join her at the front desk. I did so, trying to guess what she was hoping to learn by watching me check in. Did she want to see if my legal name was really Cosmo Burlap? Did she want to see what type of credit card I’d use to secure the bill? Could she possibly be waiting to find out my room number so she could call or visit me later? Maybe she was just being polite. I asked the clerk to give me the room adjoining Alison’s.
