“I haven’t talked to the FBI, Senator,” he said carefully. “I was going to call them, but Dolan said he’d take care of it in Washington. Did he?”
“I’m sure he must’ve.”
“Maybe I’d better call their office here — just to make sure.”
“I don’t really think so, Ben,” the Senator said in a tone that managed to be both reasonable and stern. “I’m confident Dolan’s got everything worked out in Washington. A call from you might — well, confuse things and destroy whatever political advantage we might get out of this. I’m talking about political advantage in its broadest aspects, of course.”
“Of course,” Dill said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. “What d’you want me to tell Brattle when he calls?”
“Tell him I’m prepared for a completely off-the-record exploratory meeting either late tomorrow or early Tuesday.” The Senator paused. “Just him, Dolan, me… and you, of course.”
“What about Jake Spivey?”
“Make him the same offer, but don’t let the times conflict.”
“I’ll set it up,” Dill said.
“Good.” The Senator paused again. “And Ben?”
“Yes.”
“I read a brief wire story in The New Mexican this morning. It was about your sister’s funeral. An ex-policeman was murdered at it?”
“Clay Corcoran.”
“The same Corcoran who used to play for the Raiders?”
“The same. He also used to go with my sister.”
“I’m… well, I’m not quite sure how to ask my next question.”
“The best thing to do is just ask.”
“None of what happened to your sister or to Corcoran has anything to do with you — or with us, does it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“It could be awfully embarrassing if it did — although I don’t see how it possibly could.”
“Neither do I,” Dill said.
“Yes, well, I’ll see you tomorrow then — at the airport.”
Dill said he would be there. After the Senator hung up, Dill called down for room service. In the bathroom he stood under the shower for five minutes, shaved, brushed his teeth for another five minutes, and dressed in his gray slacks, white buttondown shirt, and the polished black loafers.
The coffee arrived just as he finished dressing. He tipped the same room waiter another two dollars and received a cheerful thank you, sir, in return. The waiter left, Dill poured a cup of coffee, hesitated, added a shot of Scotch, and sat down at the writing desk to drink it. He was on his fourth sip when the phone rang again.
After Dill said hello, Clyde Brattle said, “Have you spoken to our friend from the Land of Enchantment yet?”
“I just got through.”
“And?”
“He wants a completely off-the-record meeting either tomorrow evening or Tuesday morning. Early. Just you, him, Dolan, and me.
“A bit stacked, isn’t it?”
“What d’you suggest?”
“I’d like to bring Sid and Harley — just for a security check, of course.”
“If you bring them, I name the meeting place.”
There was a pause until Brattle said, “Providing it’s some place neutral.”
“My sister had a carriage house — back on an alley and across the street from a park. Very private. How does that sound?”
Brattle thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “that might do nicely. What’s the address?”
“Corner of Nineteenth and Fillmore — on the alley.”
“What about six tomorrow?”
“Make it seven,” Dill said.
“Until seven then,” Brattle said. “By the way, I understand you didn’t call the FBI after all. Why ever not, if I may ask?”
“How d’you know I didn’t call them, Clyde?”
“What a peculiar question.”
“Dolan’s taking care of it up in Washington.”
“Is he now? Well, that’s fine. Yes, that’s splendid. Until tomorrow then.”
After Brattle hung up, Dill recradled the phone, picked it up again, and called information. He asked for and was given a number. He dialed the number and it was answered on the third ring by a woman’s hello.
“Cindy,” Dill said with faked good cheer. “It’s Ben Dill.”
“Who?”
“Ben Dill — Felicity’s brother.”
“Oh. Yeah. You. Well, I can’t talk right now.”
“I want to talk to Harold, Cindy.”
“To Harold?”
“That’s right.”
There was a pause and Dill could hear Cindy McCabe’s muffled voice calling, “It’s Felicity’s brother and he says he wants to talk to you.”
Harold Snow came on the line with a snarling question: “What the fuck d’you want?”
“How’d you like to make a thousand dollars, Harold, for an hour’s work?”
“Huh?”
Dill repeated the question.
“Doing what?”
“Just put back into place what you took out yesterday.”
“You mean over there — across from the park and up in the attic?”
“But over the living room this time, Harold — for easier listening.”
“When?”
“Either this morning or this afternoon.”
“When’s pay day?”
“You take a check?”
“No.”
“Okay. Cash. Late today. This evening sometime.”
“Where?”
“Your place.”
“What’s going on?”
“Believe me, Harold, you don’t really care.”
“You want me to set it all up just like before — except over the living room this time?”
“Right.”
“And you’ll be over with the whatchamacallit later today?”
“By seven at the latest. I take it you don’t want Cindy to know about the whatchamacallit.”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” Snow said.
“I don’t either, Harold,” Dill said, and hung up.
When Dill picked up Anna Maude Singe at her apartment it was shortly before noon and the Ford’s radio was predicting that Sunday, August seventh, might well set an all-time heat record. At 12 noon it was already 95 degrees. There was no wind, no clouds, and no relief in sight.
Singe was wearing white duck shorts, a yellow cotton shirt with the tail out, and sandals. When she got in the car she eyed Dill critically. “Where’d you say we were going?”
“To Jake Spivey’s.”
“For a prayer meeting?”
Dill looked at his white shirt and gray slacks. “I could roll up the sleeves, I guess.”
“There’s a TG&Y on the way that’s open,” she said. “We’ll buy you a shirt and something to swim in. Then you can take off your socks and wear your loafers barefoot and everybody’ll think you just flew in from Southern California.”
“What’s TG&Y stand for anyway?” Dill said. “I forget.”
“Tops, Guns and Yo-Yos,” she said. “At least, that’s what Felicity always claimed.”
They stopped at the large general-merchandise store in a shopping center that had been, the last time Dill saw it, a dairy farm. He bought a plain white polo shirt and a pair of tan swimming trunks. When he got back into the car he took off his buttondown shirt and slipped on the polo shirt.
“Now the socks,” she said.
“Don’t you think that’s a little daring?”
“You’re down home, not in Georgetown.”
“They dress kind of weird in Georgetown, too,” Dill said as he bent over and stripped off the calf-length black socks. They were the only kind he ever wore, primarily because they were all exactly alike and when he reached into the sock drawer, he didn’t have to worry about whether they matched.
“Well?” he said.
Singe again inspected him critically. “You still look like you’re going to the office on Saturday, but I guess there’s nothing else we can do about it.”