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.'
'Maybe not, but I can tell you Fat Crack is serious as hell about this. He wanted me to call up the department and ask Bill Forsythe to send more patrols out this way.'
'To protect us from a dead man,' Diana said.
'Right.'
'What did you tell him?'
'That Bill Forsythe would laugh himself silly at the very idea.'
'Good, because that's exactly what would happen.'
'But still,' Brandon cautioned, 'maybe it would be better if you didn't run around by yourself too much for the next little while. What are you doing tomorrow?'
'I have that interview, the one New York set up out at La Paloma, but first I go to the beauty shop for hair, nails, and makeup. There's a photo shoot along with the interview. And then in the evening, there's the dinner. You're already going to that.'
'If you want me to, I'll be happy to go along in the morning as well,' Brandon offered.
'To the beauty shop and the interview?' Diana asked incredulously. 'Have you lost your marbles?'
'I love you, Diana,' Brandon said. 'Sure it sounds crazy, but Fat Crack scared the hell out of me. If anything happened to you…'
'Nothing's going to happen,' Diana said firmly. 'And if you wouldn't go with me to the damn Pulitzer banquet, you sure as hell are not going to come hold my hand in the beauty shop or bird-dog me through an interview. That's final.'
'But-'
'No buts,' she said, shaking her head. 'I could have used you at the ceremony, but the beauty shop is absolutely off limits. I'd say that's true for both of you,' she added with a smile. 'You wouldn't be caught dead there, and neither would Andrew Carlisle.'
Back home in his RV on Coleman Road, Mitch Johnson tried to sleep but couldn't. He was too excited. He felt like a little kid again, and thinking Christmas Eve would never end, that morning would never come, and it would never be time to unwrap the few presents that his impoverished parents had somehow managed to put under their scrawny tree.
His own son, Mikey-Michael Wraike, as he was now called-had never known the kind of grinding poverty that had shaped his biological father. Raised in the affluence provided by his hotshot developer stepfather, Mike was now a tall, handsome, rangy kid, a student at the University of Arizona, who had attended his stepfather's funeral service with no idea that his natural father-his real father, as Mitch liked to think of himself-was standing in the fifth row only a few yards away.
Mitch had known that going to the funeral was risky, especially since Lori's relatives would be there right along with her dead husband's. But using the makeup techniques Andy had taught him, Mitch had taken great pains to disguise himself. Obviously it had worked. He had held his breath when Lori's Great Aunt Aggie had plopped her ample butt down on the pew beside him.
Even though being so near her made him nervous as hell, he nonetheless had to smile to himself at the realization that after years of good living, Lori had gone to fat as well, just like her well-fed auntie.
Aunt Aggie had given Mitch the benefit of one of her cursory and universally disapproving glances. Then, with no hint of recognition, she had sighed and settled back in the pew, turning her attention to the beginning of the service.
Larry Wraike's funeral was, of course, a closed-casket affair. That may have been a surprise to Aunt Aggie and a few of the other attendees. It was no surprise to Mitch Johnson. He had made a very conscious effort to make sure that would be the case.
'Greedy targets are easy targets,' Andy had told him once. In Larry Wraike's case, that had proved absolutely true. Using a simple electronic device that altered his voice, Mitch had called his wife's second husband at his plush office at Stone and Pennington in Tucson to give him some unwelcome news.
'The problem is, Mr. Wraike, that the land you've developed wasn't yours in the first place.'
'Now wait just a goddamned minute here!' Larry had sputtered. 'I don't know who the hell you think you are, but-'
'I think you'd better hear me out,' Mitch interrupted. 'As I understand it, there's been a mistake of some kind, back in D.C. Kiser Ranch Estates is actually supposed to be part of the reservation.'
'But that's impossible. It's been in my wife's family for years.'
'Illegally,' Mitch said.
'But the Kiser land isn't anywhere near the reservation. This doesn't make sense.'
'Since when does anything that happens in Washington have to make sense? Here's the deal. A few people out on the reservation-a very few-are aware of this situation. And they're prepared to forget it-for a price, that is.'
'For a price?' Wraike protested. 'They can't do that. That's blackmail!'
'My principals would prefer you didn't call it blackmail,' Mitch Johnson said smoothly. 'They'd like me to meet with you to discuss a possible settlement. If I were you, in advance of that meeting, I'd make damned sure I didn't mention a word of this to a soul.'
There was a long silence on the phone. 'A meeting where?' Wraike asked at last, and Mitch Johnson knew he had him.
They had met in a darkened bar in Nogales, Arizona. It had been an easy thing to slip a dose of scopolamine into his drink. Larry was so upset at the thought of losing his real estate empire that he never suspected a thing, never saw through Mitch's simple disguise that made a much older man out of a middle-aged one.
It was only later when the makeup was gone and as the drug started to wear off that he recognized who Mitch was. Even then Wraike didn't tumble to the full extent of his danger.
That was something Mitch regretted now, as he sat looking up at the stars over Kitt Peak. He had rushed things. He hadn't made sure Larry Wraike was fully aware of what was going on before it happened. Mitch had only himself to blame that he hadn't taken time enough to savor the moment.
