The young woman at the cash register had so many tattoos and piercings that Jack had to wonder what had motivated her to mark and mutilate herself. Some fashion statements are permanent, and chances were pretty good that one day this girl would be a sixty-year-old grandmother wondering what the hell she’d been thinking.
Then Jack realized he sounded just like his old man, complaining about “kids these days…” It was the natural progression of things, he supposed.
He found the book Copeland had recommended, paid for it, then nodded good night and went outside and across the street to the Etna, where he found a table in back and ordered a single malt.
When it came down to it, this place was the real Beat Cafe. Kerouac had spent many a night here, getting polluted with Neal Cassady and the woman they shared. Jack honestly couldn’t care less about these people, but Bob Copeland’s suggestion that he buy a copy of Carolyn’s autobiography had not been unmotivated.
So, as he waited for his drink, he opened the book-which she’d titled Off the Road — and carefully leafed through the fragile, yellowing pages, scanning them one at a time.
He got his first hit on page 94.
Halfway down, in an excerpt of a letter from Neal Cassady to Kerouac, a word had been neatly underlined in pencil: operation
Jack knew full well that this wasn’t some random marking, but was Copeland’s handiwork, the result of his love for cloak and dagger.
He found the next one on page 98, at the end of another excerpt: road
Then there was nothing for a few pages until he reached page 109, where the last word of the first paragraph was underlined: show
His drink came, and he let it sit as he continued on through the remaining pages, one after another, all 355 of them. There were no more pencil marks to be found.
When Jack was done, he quickly went through it again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. Then he closed the book, knocked back his scotch, and felt its heat roll through him as he quietly contemplated Bob Copeland’s message.
Operation Roadshow.
Jack immediately thought of a PBS television series that Rachel used to watch, where people brought in ancient household items to be evaluated by antiques dealers, in hopes of striking it rich.
He was pretty sure that Copeland’s message had nothing at all to do with antiques.
Not even close.
But what, then, did it mean?
Jack spent most of the night trying to find out.
He got on his laptop back at the boat and hit Google and his usual go-to databases, checking news sources, public records, legislative filings, reference materials, freedom of information archives.
All he found was a single notation in the footnotes of an article about World War II, referencing a little-known intelligence operation called Roadshow, in which British spies attempted to infiltrate the German government and take it down from the inside. The operation had been a complete failure.
And so, apparently, was this search.
A couple hours before dawn, Jack looked down at Eddie, who was curled next to him on the bed. “What do you think, fuzzy? Are we being played?”
Eddie cocked an ear and tilted his head as if puzzled by the question, and Jack gave him a pat.
“My thoughts exactly.”
Abandoning his task, Jack closed his laptop and then his eyes. He quickly fell asleep.
Before long, Jack was launched into a dream about Iraqi insurgents trying to steal his Humvee, which had a cache of explosives in back. His dead friend Richard Riley made an appearance-eyes as blank as ever-and so did Agent Forsyth, both of them coming and going as the dream shifted and morphed into a Truth Tellers panel discussion about Islamic fundamentalists and Beat Generation poetry.
He awoke at six A.M. with Eddie’s usual face lick, and found the little guy wiggling around like crazy-which meant only one thing:
Tony Antiniori was in the vicinity.
Jack pulled on some clothes and found his friend topside, sitting at the dining table across from the galley, sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper. Eddie immediately jumped into Tony’s lap and let him scratch his ears.
“You look like hell,” Tony said to Jack.
“Thanks, pal. You look rested.”
“I had a good workout.” He winked.
“Good thing I’m a gentleman or I’d ask for details.”
Jack rubbed his face, trying to wake himself, then moved to the galley and poured a cup of coffee. Black, no sugar.
“How did things go with Bob Copeland?” Tony asked.
Jack took a long sip of his coffee. “He’s an enigma. I wish for once in his life he’d get to the point instead of circling it. You ever heard of something called Operation Roadshow?”
Tony thought for a moment. “Not that I remember. What is it? Some kind of black op?”
“No idea. And I’m not even sure Copeland knows. But he went to a lot of trouble to put that phrase in my head, so I figure it must mean something.”
“I can check around.”
“Good luck. I tried, and all I found was some obscure World War II reference. Either this is something so far under the radar that it’s out of our reach, or Copeland is playing mind games.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“He may be annoying sometimes, but that’s not usually his style.”
“And you think this has something to do with the cover-up?” Tony asked.
“What I think is that all we’ve got is a hunch, based on speculation and hearsay, and unless we can get some solid information we’re just spinning our wheels.”
“So why not go to the source?” Tony asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Jamal Thomas or his brother. Ask flat out if they’re sure about who was driving that car and whatever else they might remember.”
Jack shook his head. “The brother’s not talking and the cops have Jamal on lockdown. I tried talking to his brother’s public defender a few days ago and got rebuffed. No way I’ll ever get to those kids.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” Tony said, then folded the newspaper over and slid it across the table. “The story’s buried on the second page, but I think you’ll find it interesting.”
Jack put his cup on the counter and crossed to the table, staring down at a single column, headlined CARJACKING SUSPECT TO BE RELEASED.
“Jamal’s bail was set at 200K,” Tony said. “His folks could barely afford the 25K they paid for Leon. His attorney filed a motion to reduce bail and the judge granted it.”
“How much?”
“He’ll be putting up ten percent with the bondsman, twenty thousand dollars. They’re taking him home at the close of business tonight.”
“Hold on,” Jack said. “If his folks-”
“There’s just a mother.”
“Okay. If she was tapped out by Leon’s bail, where’s the twenty grand coming from?”
Tony tapped the tabletop. “Read the article. Says the bond is being put up by an organization called the Juvenile Defense Coalition.”
“Never heard of it,” Jack said.
“Apparently they’re dedicated to keeping troubled teens out of jail because the poor things might actually have to take responsibility for their actions.”
Jack nodded. “Better to have them out on the street where they can sell dope to school kids and break into
