Looking around when Hall made his entrance, Blanchard said, “Morning, sir.”
“Morning.”
“Oh, yeah, morning. Sir,” Gillette the driver said.
“Morning,” Hall repeated. He was so pleased to have these people.
Blanchard dabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the fisherman. “How do I get my quarter back?”
“Ha ha.” Got another one. With a big broad grin, Hall said, “You don’t, Fred. Sorry about that. Ho ho. Now come on, you two, let’s work out our day.”
They obediently moved over toward the genuine nineteenth-century partners desk, built at a time when lawyers trusted one another. As Hall took a seat there, the other two remaining standing, Blanchard frowned back at that fisherman as though wanting to remember exactly where to find him, some other time, but then he joined Hall and Gillette and didn’t seem troubled at all.
37
FLIP MORRISCONE WAS NOWHERE to be found, all day Wednesday. He didn’t make his three o’clock appointment with Monroe Hall or, so far as they could tell, any other of his appointments. To be certain the man had neither overslept nor died in his sleep, the union team of the conspiracy trooped through the Morriscone house one last time, then came back out to report to capital, “Not there.”
Now that they’d finally made their decision, and had finally accepted the need and utility of cooperation between the two groups, it was frustrating that their very first decision couldn’t be acted upon. Before parting for the day, all five gathered in their usual places in Buddy’s Taurus, where Buddy said, “We’re still not getting anywhere.”
“One day,” Mark pointed out. “Maybe he had food poisoning, went to the hospital. Maybe his uncle came to town, he took the day off, they went to the races.”
Buddy, looking confused, said, “Races. Oh, the track, you mean.”
Mac said, “There’s no point giving up after just one day.”
“Exactly,” Mark said.
Ace said, “How much longer you wanna go spinning your wheels?”
“We’ll give it the rest of this week,” Mac said. “Two working days, and Saturday. If we don’t find him before, and if he isn’t home Saturday, we’ll try to think of something else.”
Os said, “I know some people in the Army Reserves.”
They looked at him. Even Mark seemed a little nervous, when he said, “Os? And?”
“If it goes into next week,” Os said, “I borrow a tank.”
•
Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. They did find him, late Thursday morning. Following what they knew of his schedule, they drove along, packed together into the Taurus—Mark and Os were truly sacrificing for this job—and there he was at last, Flip Morriscone, coming out of the well-appointed home of one of his clients. His green Subaru was parked at the curb of the public street, as they pulled to a stop farther along.
Here he came, long canvas bag bouncing on his shoulder, the satisfied look of the successful torturer in his eye. Mark and Mac, as representatives of the combined team, approached him as he reached for the rear door of the Subaru to toss the bag in, Mark saying, “Mr. Morriscone. If we could have a moment?”
It had been decided that an Ivy League accent would be more reassuring than a union accent for the initial approach, and that Mark was just naturally less scary than Os. In the Sancho Panza role, Mac was deemed by all to be the most acceptable.
Morriscone continued his movement of tossing the bag into the back of the wagon, then slammed the door and turned to them, seeming not at all worried to be accosted by strangers. “Yes?”
“There’s a certain someone that you and we know,” Mark began, smooth and calm, “that we have a dislike for.”
Morriscone looked baffled. “There’s somebody I know that you don’t like?”
“Exactly. Now, we want to do something to this fellow—”
“Hey,” Morriscone said, taking a step backward. “Keep me out of this.”
“Not to kill him or anything like that,” Mark assured him, “but to, let us say, cost him something.”
“Good God!” Morriscone was getting more and more agitated. “What are you, gangsters?”
“Not at all,” Mark said, “we are perfectly respectable people, as I’m sure you can see for yourself. All we ask is a little assistance from you, for which you will be well reimbursed as soon as—”
“Bribery!” Morriscone was actually shouting by now. “Get away from me!” he shouted. “I’ve got trouble enough, I can’t be—Do you want me to call the police?”
Mac could see that Mark’s oil was not smoothing the waters the way they’d hoped. They’d agreed beforehand not to mention the target’s name until they had Morriscone convinced to help them, just in case he’d feel the need to go warn Monroe Hall, but maybe all in all that strategy hadn’t been such a good one. Taking a deep breath, speaking forcefully into Morriscone’s agitated reddening face, Mac announced, “Monroe Hall!”
“Mon—” Morriscone’s jaw dropped. He stared at them both like long-lost brothers. “You want to get even with that son of a bitch, too?” A broad grin creased his features. “Why didn’t you say so?”
38
WHAT STAN MURCH HAD been looking forward to driving was, maybe, a 1958 Studebaker Golden Hawk two-door roadster, or another two-door, the 1932 Packard model 900, or a 1955 Mercedes Gullwing Custom, in which the doors swing out and upward, or a four-door 1937 twelve-cylinder Pierce-Arrow limousine, all of which he happened to know were in Monroe Hall’s antique car collection, because he’d researched this job with loving care. He’d gotten lists of Hall’s holdings from newspaper reports and then discussed them with Chester who, after all, was also a driver, though privately Stan thought probably not of the very highest rank.
What he hadn’t expected was to be making supermarket runs at the wheel of a black Suzuki Vitara, a kind of pocket SUV that drove like a jeep; the original jeep, that is, from World War Two, and probably under fire. Nor was that the worst of it, because he really hadn’t expected to be steering a no-pedigree wire-cage shopping cart up and down supermarket aisles in the wake of a harridan named Mrs. Parsons.
Mrs. Parsons was some piece of work. She was to the manner born, and she wanted you to know it. When, at the post-breakfast meeting in Monroe Hall’s office at the main house, Hall had said, “Here’s your cap, Gillette, and I hope you have a tie and a dark jacket to wear on duty. Good. Get them, and then you’ll drive the cook to the supermarket,” Stan had thought he understood all the words in that last sentence, including “cook,” but apparently he’d been wrong.
This was Stan’s first experience as a member of the servant class, and already he could see why it had been necessary to invent electricity, so you wouldn’t need so many servants as before, and that way you might be able to hold them off when they turned on you. Hall himself was enough of a pain in the ass, calling him “Gillette” all the time. He’d never been addressed in quite that last-name style before, and the fact that it wasn’t actually his own last name only took the sting out a little.
And there was also the other fact that the chauffeur’s cap he was supposed to wear dropped down to block his eyes unless he padded the inner rim with newspaper, so that what he looked mostly like, with this black-beaked oversize hat on his head, was a ventriloquist’s dummy. And not one of the smart ones.