He briefly considered running over the drunk, just for the hell of it. What was it the kids said? Ten points for the old man! But he didn’t have time for that, fun as it might be, and besides, blood-spattered tires might catch a cop’s attention. It would be a long while before that drunk was able to file a police report, and Moroconi would have another car by then.
He pulled onto Commerce and zoomed down the road. He had to get out of downtown before the cops got their act in gear. In fact, he needed to get out of Dallas altogether.
And then, once he was safe, he was going to make a few phone calls to some old friends. …
20
8:58 P.M.
“HELLO?”
“How’s my friendly neighborhood FBI traitor?”
“Christ! Al!” The agent covered the receiver with his hand. Thank God he wasn’t using the speakerphone.
He quickly scanned the office. No one was around, except, of course, Mooney, who was walking toward him with a notepad. Efficient little twerp. He’d seen the light flash on his monitor board. Might’ve known Al would call when that squid was on duty.
“Should I take the call, sir?” Agent Mooney asked.
“No, thanks. I’ll handle it. It’s one of my informants.”
“I see. I’ll monitor on the extension.”
“No! I mean, I’m perfectly capable of taking my own notes. Continue with what you were doing, Mooney.”
Mooney eyed him oddly, but returned to his desk in the next room. Mooney had just been assigned to this special team; he was the typical asskissing backstabber. Just waiting for you to make a mistake he could ram down your throat. He didn’t care much for the look Mooney gave him as he left. If someone even suspected what he was doing … Well, he’d have to watch Agent Mooney very carefully.
He uncovered the receiver. “Al?” he whispered.
“In the flesh. Free as a bird. Can you believe it? Your plan actually worked, you dumbass son of a bitch!”
“Of course it worked. I told you it would. Why are you calling me here?”
“We got some business to conduct.”
“I told you we would—”
“Screw that plan, compadre. It takes too long, and I don’t have time to jack around.”
“What do you mean?”
He heard Moroconi plug another quarter into the pay phone. “Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“There were some complications. People got hurt.”
“Hurt! How bad?”
“I didn’t have time to take their pulse. I think one of them’s dead, though—I shot him in the fuckin’ neck. The other one might pull through.”
The agent was stunned silent. That stupid, vicious—
“Don’t bother askin’ if I’m okay,” Moroconi said. “I know you’re real concerned. I’m fine.”
“Oh, my God. This is awful. Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything. And—my God! You shouldn’t have called me here.”
“Why? ’Fraid someone might be listenin’?”
“Who the hell knows? This changes everything. Hang up the damn phone.”
“What about our rendezvous?”
“Fuck the rendezvous! It’s too risky. You could be caught any second.”
“We made a deal, you chickenshit. I want the list.”
“Look, as soon as things calm down, I’ll get back in touch with you.”
“No way, asshole. We do it tonight.”
“I can’t possibly—”
“Do you want to do this deal or not? I can always take my business somewhere else. There must be others like you.”
There was an extended pause. “Fine. Have it your way. Where do we meet?”
“I’m not going to tell you over your might-be-bugged line, chump. Call me from a pay phone.”
“What’s the number?”
“Ready to play a little baseball?”
“Oh, Christ.” He rustled through his desk drawers, groping for a pad of paper and pencil. “All right. Ready.”
“It’s the top of the fifth and Tucker’s three-and-two with two outs. The man on third had seven hits on the eighth day of the ninth month and two strikeouts with all three bases loaded. Are you gettin’ this?”
He grunted as he scribbled down the proper numbers in the proper order.
“There’s a change-up. Jones pulls a slider and two men slip by. That’s six since the relief pitcher left at four o’clock. At the top of the seventh, it’s three up, three down, eight points behind. He decides to reverse it. Plan B. Got it?”
He reversed the numbers, added carefully, and examined the resulting phone number. “Got it.”
“Guess you learned somethin’ in crime school after all. I’ll be waitin’ for you. Don’t dawdle. Send the little woman my best.”
Before the agent could spit back his reply, the line went dead.
THURSDAY
April 18
21
12:52 A.M.
TRAVIS WAS HAVING A wonderfully weird Daliesque dream. He fantasized that he was in court, but it wasn’t Dallas County Court, and it wasn’t federal court—it wasn’t even the Supreme Court. It was the Court of Celestial Appeals. Travis was arguing with great passion and persuasion, pleading with the jury not to spare someone’s life, but to return a life—to grant Angela a second chance. He was really on a roll; he had the jury in the palm of his hand. He was winning, and in just a few seconds it would all be over and Angela would be back. …
And then the phone rang.
Travis fumbled in the dark and knocked the phone onto the floor, mercifully silencing the bell. He fell out of bed and crawled around till he found the receiver. “Geez,” he mumbled, “do you know what time—”
“Ain’t you lawyers on call for your clients whenever we need you?”
“Moroconi?” Travis stared at the phone, disbelieving. “How can you—where are you?”
“I’m out, Byrne.”
“You’re out! How the hell can you be out?”
“How do you think?”
“I assume the President didn’t grant you a pardon while I slept.”
“You got that right.”
“Did you bust out?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Travis turned on the lamp on his nightstand. The harsh light made him squint, but it was just as well—he had to clear the cobwebs out of his brain somehow. “Listen to me. You’ll never get away with this. You need to turn yourself in.”
Moroconi snorted into the phone. “You must be kiddin’.”
“Think about it. What are you going to do, run for the rest of your life? Sooner or later you’ll be caught. Probably sooner. It would be smarter to let the judicial process run its course. We were making real headway in court today—”
“Aw, cut the bullshit, shyster. You know damn well the fix is in. The police can put a schmuck like me behind bars anytime they want to. And they want to. Someone got to them. Hell, most of those jurors assumed I was guilty the minute I walked into court.”
“That isn’t always true—”
“Besides, I can’t turn myself in. If I go anywhere near a police station, they’ll blow my head off and ask questions later.”
Travis pondered for a moment. There was some truth in that. Especially if anyone had been hurt during the breakout. “All right, how about if I pick you up? We’ll go in together.”
“What’s to say they won’t kill you, too?”
“They won’t,” Travis assured him. “They’ll listen to me.
“What if they want me to do extra time for the attempted escape?”
“You’ve already brought that on yourself, Al. The best I can do now is see that you don’t aggravate matters.”