Flicking my lighter, however, miraculously brought him back to life.
“Mr. Roanoke. I left my sense of humor in Columbus, Ohio. You and your father are shitbags of quite epic proportions. But I have no wish to see you dead. Unless I get that book now, the people whom you failed to remove from office will destroy this place, with you in it. I need the book now. Or else you will discover not only that you can live through having your head set on fire, but that death by bombing actually hurts more.”
His eyes were very wide, and he wasn’t blinking. “I don’t have it.”
I slapped him. “Why are you fucking with me?”
“I don’t have it. I had to give it to someone. Daddy doesn’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“I made her sign a receipt. So she wouldn’t…she knew things about me. I had to make her not talk. She said she had the video locked somewhere safe, and that someone would go and get it if she disappeared. And I didn’t have any money.”
He looked sad. “Some things are very expensive.”
“Show me the receipt.”
“It’s in the desk.”
“If I think you’re pulling anything but a piece of paper out of there, I’m going to ignite your head.”
With my lighter held within his halo of vodka fumes, he slowly withdrew an envelope. It looked like he’d been doodling on the back of it at some point. On closer inspection, it appeared that he’d been practicing his alphabet.
I popped the envelope. The sheet of paper inside had been typed, thank God.
“You gave the book to a prostitute, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’ll be glad to know that there’s apparently precedent for that. Last known address?”
“Right there. It checks out. My family has friends there who keep tabs on her for me.”
I folded the paper, put it into my jacket, tossed the envelope at him. “I have to talk someone out of turning your house into Baghdad, now.”
I got up and walked to the door. Behind me, a rasping voice said, “Break America’s heart before it breaks yours.” I didn’t look back.
Chapter 32
True to her word, Trix was out in the car, and the engine was running. Since I was clearly not carrying a book, Trix was freaking out a little bit.
“Quit strolling and get in the fucking car!”
Two seconds after I got in, the car took off like a fighter plane. She’d obviously been talking to the driver, who was perspiring heavily.
“Mike, what happened? Are they going to do it?”
I took out my cell phone and dialed all those fives. Counted off two rings. And let it ring.
On the fifteenth ring, the chief of staff answered the phone. “I said two rings, McGill.”
“They don’t have the book.” I was forcing myself to speak slowly. “I have in my possession a receipt for the book, which I believe to be genuine.”
“Oh, you believe it, do you?”
“You hired me for my skills. Try listening.”
“…I think I liked you better before you started acting like you grew a pair, McGill.”
“Jeff Roanoke Jr. gave the book to a prostitute in exchange for her continued silence regarding services rendered for what I presume was an extended period of time. He’s also maintained enough sporadic surveillance on her to give a credible assurance that she remains in the location given on the receipt document. He was not in a position to lie convincingly to me.”
“And why is that?”
“Because he was seriously confused by controlled substances. And because I was going to light his head on fire.”
The chief of staff laughed over the phone. Wind passing through bones.
“Okay, Mike. Okay. What was your opinion of the Roanokes?”
“In my considered opinion, it would be far more cruel to let them live.”
More laughter, and then he abruptly hung up.
I smiled at Trix. “Everyone’s going to live.”
She sagged in her seat. “Christ.”
“It’s not all good news,” I said. “We have to go to Las Vegas now.”
