I was still in the hallway, but pushed to one side. I felt the wall all down my right side. People were passing me, going both ways, and a dark shape loomed over me, blotting out the light. There was wet cloth on my face, and the top of my head was throbbing to my heartbeat.
“Hardman, Hardman, you all right?”
“Hump?”
“Yeah.”
“I feel like God’s worst hangover.” I tried to push myself up into a sitting position. “Help me up.”
Hump pulled me to my feet and steadied me. I was dizzy, and the throbbing in my head got worse, and I thought I was going to throw up. I choked it down, feeling the bubble of vomit just below the back of my throat. But it stayed down. “Art here?”
“Inside.” Hump led me into the apartment. The lights were too bright there, and I stood blinking until Art came over.
“Back with us, huh?” Art took my other arm and they led me over to a soft chair and sat me down. While Art made notes, I told them what had happened after Hump had left to go the 7-11 store. When I was done, I said, “Picked up Lockridge yet?”
“As soon as the meat wagon gets here,” Art said.
I’d been looking at the form on the floor. It was covered with a sheet, but a woman’s feet and shoes stuck out at the bottom. “I thought . . . ”
“Alice Jarman or whoever she is got it in here. Lockridge got as far as the front bedroom. One of the shots that got him must have broken the windowpane, and the one you heard. The way we read it, the girl got it first, once in the chest and once in the head. Lockridge made a run for the bedroom, got hit once on the way, and then got hit three more times, including one in the back of the head.”
“Six shots,” Hump said, “and maybe no time to reload.”
“That might be why you’re still alive,” Art said. He reached into his topcoat pocket and brought out a wad of cloth. “Hump found this in your hand.”
“I remember a tearing sound, but I thought that was my head.” I got the wad of cloth and spread it out. It was the inside pocket from a jacket or a coat. J.Mabry. Atlanta, Charlotte, Richmond. I passed it to Art and he dropped it into his pocket once more. “Very exclusive place. Do a background check on you before they even consider tailoring for you. Don’t want their clothes to be worn by gangsters or disreputable people.”
“I’ve called the manager. He’s staying after closing hours.” Art looked at his watch. “He’s expecting me now. You got anybody you want checked our? Anybody you think might have their tailoring done by Mabry?”
“Two,” I said. “No, make that three. Ben Coleman, Hugh Muffin and Arch Campbell.”
“Muffin, your client?”
“Just because he’s my client doesn’t mean he walks on water.” I shook my head. “Whoever it was must be built like a fullback. Muffin’s too old and soft, and so is Campbell.”
“That leaves Coleman,” Hump said.
Art closed his notebook with a loud smack. “First, let’s see what Mabry has. Where you going to be, Hardman?”
“Emergency room, first,” Hump said. “Then his place.”
“While you’re there,” I said after Art, “see about one of their three hundred and fifty dollar bargain suits.”
At the doorway, Art turned and gave me the finger.
After the hospital, where a patch of hair was shaved and a few stitches taken on my scalp, Hump drove me home. I told Hump to look in the cabinet for the J&B, and I went into the bedroom and called Marcy. She wanted to come over but I told her, in the shape I was in, I’d be the worst gentleman suitor around, and how about Christmas Eve instead? She said fine, and I said I’d call her.
Hump sat at the kitchen table with the bottle of J&B and a glass. My flask of Hennessey was on the table, next to my .38.
“Found it on the stairs,” Hump said.
I got myself a shot glass and drank a bit of the cognac. “Anybody around when you got there?”
“Nobody in the neighborhood even cracked a window. Talk about New York City, and that woman getting killed in the courtyard. Shit! There could have been a war in the street, and nobody’d have looked.”
“I can’t blame them.” I touched the taped patch on the back of my head. “Look what it got me.”
“It could have got you dead.” Hump went to the refrigerator and looked in. “We never did have any supper. Your head might be dulling your appetite, but mine’s still sharp.”
“Pack of roast beef in the foil.”
“Got it.” Hump loaded up the table with the sandwich and snack stuff I’d bought to replace the spoiled food from Eddie Spence’s visit about five or six days before. “About your head. I thought you lost it back there.”
“Maybe.” I reached across and picked off a slice of roast beef.
“Maybe, shit! Charging upstairs into a gun fight . . . by yourself.”
I chewed on the beef. “I guess it was impulsive of me.” It was hard forcing it down, but I wanted something in my stomach. “If I had it to do over, I might sit down in the dark yard and wait for him to come to me. Unless he went out the back door, and left me with egg on my face.”
“Better than a bullet in it.”
Art called. “Hardman, you got two out of three, and an almost on the third. Hugh Muffin’s been a customer for about ten years, Ben Coleman for about two years, and Arch Cambell just made application.”
“Where are you?”
“At the department, trying to get a search warrant for Coleman’s apartment. If it’s Coleman, I want to get there before he has a chance to get rid of the coat.”
“Where’s his apartment?”
“The Mesa Verde apartments, 8 E.” A pause. “Why?”
“I can’t sleep. Hump and I’ll drive over there and sit out front until you get there.”
“Sure you’re up to it?”
“What’s ten stitches, more or less?”
“All right,” Art said, “but don’t flush him.”
“I’ve got this idea,” I said. “I’m the one with the busted head, right?”
“Right.”
“Before you get there, Hump and I could talk to him. With me, he can’t ask for his lawyer.”
“Or choose to remain silent,” Art said.
“People just look at Hump and start talking.”
“See you there.”
The door to 8E opened a few inches. Ben Coleman squinted out at us, then flicked on the porch lights. “What do you want, Hardman?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the reward.”
“Not tonight,” Coleman said. “Come and see me in the morning and . . . ”
Hump stepped around me and put his shoulder to the door. Coleman fell away from the door and we went inside. Hump closed the door and put on the chain lock. Coleman, in a bathrobe and pajamas, watched this with a hard eye. “I’m not sure the police will . . . ”
“That’s tomorrow,” I said. “Right now, the police don’t have anything to do with it.” I gave Hump a nod. “You know what we’re looking for.”
Hump moved around Coleman and went into the bedroom. Coleman turned his head, following Hump, and then looked back at me. “You know this is an illegal search.”
“As illegal as it can get,” I said. “But I’m not the police, so it won’t get to court.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded angry, but there was a lot of bluff in it.
“What it sounds like.” I looked around the room. “You got a drink?”
“Over there.” He pointed to a cabinet near the bedroom door. “I think there’s a vague threat in this somewhere.”
“It’s not vague.” I got out a glass and a bottle of Walker Red. “Let’s just say I’m pissed, and I’ve got a lump on my head and a headache. That’s enough for me.”
“Enough for what?”
“So I won’t lose sleep if you end up in a garbage dump somewhere.”
“That’s not funny.” Under his winter tan, he’d paled some.
“Who’s trying to be funny?”
The rattling around in the bedroom ended with the slamming of a door, and Hump came back in. “Lots of suits and sport coats with the Mabry label. None with a torn pocket.”
I sipped at the scotch and looked at Coleman. “Find a tweed topcoat?”
“No topcoat in there, tweed or otherwise.”
Coleman dropped his eyes.
“That’s strange, isn’t it? A well-dressed fellow like this without a topcoat.” I motioned at the bottle of Walker Red. “Be his guest, Hump.”
“Why not?” He poured himself a big shot. “He’s not going to need it.”
Coleman jerked his eyes open. “I know you’re bluffing. You just don’t go around killing people in cold blood.”
“Mine’s not cold at the moment.” I held out my glass and Hump topped it off. “No topcoat, huh?”
“It’s at the cleaners.”
“Which one?”
His lips moved, but nothing came out for a few seconds. “The one on Briarcliff. I forget the name.”
“That’s a fat lie,” Hump said. “He tossed it out of the car somewhere.”
I watched his eyes. Nothing.
“Or it’s in the incinerator,” I said.
His eyes. Still nothing. “Or in the trunk of his car.” I watched his eyes and he blinked. That might not mean much, but it was worth a try. “See if you can find his car keys.”
“They’re on the dresser,” Hump said. “I saw them a second ago.”
While Hump was in the bedroom, I leaned over Coleman. “Which car’s yours?”
“You know so much, you find it.”
“Smartass.” I hit him across the mouth with my open hand. “But I think you’re telling me something, Ben.”
His tongue licked at the left corner of his mouth. I must have cut the inside of his mouth. “That kind of search, it’ll never stand up in court.”
“I keep losing you. I don’t think you’re listening. You’re the one who keeps talking about this going to court, not me.” I slugged down the rest of my drink and got out my handkerchief. Without looking at him I wiped the glass and put it back in the cabinet. “I just want to be sure in my mind before I do anything rash.”
“Here they are.” Hump tossed me the car keys.
I looked down at the half-dozen or so keys and the miniature license tag. “It’s better you don’t help us, anyway. This way, I can keep my mad going.” I read off the tag numbers to Hump and tossed the keys back to him. “It ought to be out front, probably on this side of the street.”
I heard a couple of car doors slam out front. I went to the front window and looked out. Art was coming up the walk with two uniformed cops.
“No help,” I said to Coleman. “It’s a friend.”
I unhooked the chain lock and let Art in. “Coleman hasn’t been too helpful.”
“His scotch is okay, though,” Hump said.
“The search warrant you’ve got,” I asked, “does that cover his car too?”
All nodded. He showed the warrant to Coleman. I tossed him the keys. “I think the topcoat’s in his trunk.”
“Which is your car?” Art asked.
Coleman shook his head.
“You see? Not helpful. The tag numbers are on the key chain.”
“Oh, what the hell,” Coleman said. “It’s the tan Dodge.”
“That’s more like it.” Art sent the two uniformed cops out to search the car trunk. He closed the outside door and leaned his back against it. “Why’d you kill Lockridge and the girl?”
“I didn’t kill the girl or Lockridge.”
“The coat with the torn-off pocket, that’ll place you there. That’s step one. We’ll build up the rest of it.” Art looked at me. “We could make a love triangle out of it. You and Lockridge had it out over the girl. You got mad and killed both of them.”
“I hardly knew the girl,” Coleman said.
“I’ve got a witness who’ll say otherwise,” Art said. “Right, Jim?”
“Sure.” I grinned at Coleman. “I was following you. In my notebook, I’ve got four or five times you went over to the Jarman girl’s place around midnight and stayed until the next morning.”
“Anything else?” Art asked.
“You mean something that’ll give us a motive? Let’s see. How’s this? One night, I heard Coleman and this Alice girl having a hell of an argument in a parking lot. Coleman was saying he knew she was seeing Lockridge, and she’d better stop it or else.” I winked at Hump, letting Ben Coleman see me doing it. “You got any idea what parking lot that was, Hump?”
“It’d be a high-class place,” Hump said. “The Chateau, maybe.”
“That was it, the Chateau.”
“That ties it up,” Art said. “Relationship with the girl, motive for the killings and, with the topcoat, we place you there, Coleman. That’s murder one.”
“You’re serious?” Coleman looked like he might faint. “You really serious?”
“That’s my case.” Art nodded toward me. “What do you think, Jim?”
“I’d buy it. And to strengthen it, we’ll add Hump. Hump’ll say he was with me two or three times.”
“Right.” Hump laughed. “I was with you that night outside the Chateau when he had the shout-out with the girl, and I was with you twice when you had the girl’s apartment staked out. Coleman, you stayed to breakfast both times.”
“Art, you’ll get a citation for breaking this one,” I said.
“It was easy,” Art said. “The wonder is, it took as long as it did. I should have known two hours ago.”
“It wasn’t me,” Coleman choked out. I could barely hear him.
“Speak up,” Art said. “I can’t hear you.”
“I didn’t do it. Hugh Muffin did.”
Lockridge reached Hugh at a cocktail party at the Regency, around four-thirty. Lockridge was in such a panic that Hugh could hardly understand him. There was something about two men coming by asking questions about Mullidge, and saying that the police would be by to ask the same questions. And they’d frightened his secretary into a mild case of shock. To calm him, Hugh said he’d meet Lockridge right away, and they’d settled on Alice Jarman’s apartment. It was a safe meeting place they’d used before. Hugh and Coleman arrived first and parked down the street. They had a drink with Alice Jarman, and Lockridge appeared not long after them. At first, it seemed that Hugh had it under control, that he had Lockridge snowed. It turned out that it wasn’t that way at all. Lockridge was frayed around the edges. He kept saying that his only connection with the case was that he’d gotten Mullidge off on the theft-from-auto charge. He wasn’t about to take any of the rap for murder. Yes, he knew about the murder of the girl, and he wasn’t about to . . .
That was when Hugh went berserk. He pulled his hand from his pocket and there was a gun in it. The girl got in the way and took the first slug, and she went down hard. Hugh winged Lockridge as he ran for the bedroom, and then Hugh followed him into the bedroom and finished him off. He was still in the bedroom when Coleman got over the panic and shock. He was afraid that Hugh would kill him, too, and that was when he switched off the lights and made a run for it. It was then, out in the hallway, that he ran into Hardman. He got by Hardman, but not without losing part of his topcoat. The rest of it was out of the same nightmare. He’d come over in Hugh’s car, and now he had run for what seemed like miles until he reached a service station. He got a cab and rode downtown to the Regency, where he picked up his car. On the drive home, he discovered the torn inside pocket of the topcoat. When he reached the apartment, he locked the topcoat away in the trunk of his car while he tried to decide what to do with it. Whether to destroy it or try to have it repaired.
And hardly an hour ago, Hugh Muffin had called. Coleman thought he’d convinced Hugh that he had no intention of going to the police. He’d just been shocked back there at the apartment: it was the first time he’d ever seen anybody killed.
“But that was a lie, wasn’t it?” I said. “You were going to be a good citizen the whole time.”
Coleman nodded. “Hugh’s crazy when he’s like that. You can’t talk to him or reason with him.”
“Emily Campbell,” I said. “What about her?”
“I don’t know. Hugh killed her or he had her killed. It might have been Mullidge.”
Art said, “It wasn’t Hugh himself. He was iron-clad, at a dinner party from eight to around one that night.”
“Mullidge then.” I turned back to Coleman. “What was the tie between Hugh and Mullidge and Lockridge?”
It was a long story. Hugh’s office had been one of those that Mullidge had stolen from while he worked as a janitor for the state. The articles taken hadn’t been especially valuable, but Hugh had nosed around and decided that it had to be the cleaning crew. He waited in his office and confronted Mullidge. Mullidge cracked wide open under pressure. He thought he was headed for jail. Instead, it turned out that Hugh wanted him to continue stealing from selected offices. It was always good to know what was going on in other parts of the building. For a time, it worked well. Mullidge would steal documents and letters and return them the next day, before they were missed. At the same time, against Hugh’s warning, Mullidge continued to steal other things. When the pressure got bad, Hugh advised Mullidge to find another job. That led to the parking lot job. Hugh continued to use Mullidge from time to time, when he needed some small-time strong-arm work. In trouble again, this time at the parking lot, Mullidge came to Hugh and Hugh sent him on to Lockridge. Lockridge fixed the charge by spreading some money around. After that, Lockridge felt that Mullidge owed him, and from time to time, Mullidge did small jobs for Lockridge. Mullidge didn’t contact Lockridge through his office, but through Alice Jarman. That kept Lockridge clear in case anything went bad.
“The numbers in Mullidge’s wallet,” Art said.
“I’ll make book you’ll find Alice Jarman’s number there,” I said.
“Where’s Hugh now?” I asked.
“You’re not going to believe me,” Coleman said.
But I believed him. At least the whorehouse part of it.
We left Ben Coleman in the interrogation room with Lieutenant Bartholome. He had a lot more to tell that we were interested in, but more than anything else, we wanted Hugh Muffin. Coleman could wait. We went down to Art’s office and closed the door behind us.
“I’d need a tank division to get in there,” Art said. “Or a company of paratroops.”
“I’ve never heard of the place before,” I said.
“You, Hump?” Art asked.
“A black I met at a Hawks game said Madame Fiona had girlpussy out there that you wouldn’t believe. That’s all I heard.”
“A whorehouse? Is that all it is?”
“That’s the pleasure part of it,” Art said. “About five or six years ago, four rich guys got together and founded the Royal Hart Hunting Club. They had the idea of importing all kinds of African game and putting it into a preserve. Kill your own lion or rhino without going all the way to Africa. They sold shares and memberships, and they began buying up land. They even built a thirty-room hunting lodge. Very plush. Before trouble hit, they’d put together three hundred acres of land and were dickering for another seven hundred. But the roof fell in. All the groups that love animals got on their backs. The newspapers, the TV, the environmental groups, the humane society. A number of court suits were thrown at them.”
“I remember it now,” I said. “They gave it up, the whole idea.”
“Right. And after a time, all that was left was the lodge and about fifty acres of land. It turned into a sort of rich man’s drinking club. Two years ago, one of the original founders died and the other three lost interest. The lodge and the land went on the block. A go-between bought it for something in the area of a million dollars. That seems like a lot, but the lodge was worth almost that. The real buyer, it turned out, was the Black Mafia.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“That’s what the newspapers call them. We call them the Black Eight. Slim Ed Brownlee of Savannah, Jimmy Freestone of Macon, Bubba White of Augusta, Warden Pike of Atlanta . . . ”
“This Warden Pike of Atlanta, you got a picture of him?”
“An old one.” Art brought a file from a cabinet in the corner of the room and opened it on his desk. “Pike keeps a low profile now. A Journal photographer tried to take his picture a couple of years ago and got a broken camera and a broken arm.” He dug out an arrest photo and passed it to me. “Here he is.”
The photo went back perhaps ten years, but it was unmistakably The Man. Hump looked at it over my shoulder and nodded at me. I returned it to Art. He dropped it back in the file. “That was Pike’s only arrest. He was pimping then, and got in a row with a rival pimp. Why the interest?”
“Just curious.”
“You sure?”
I thought I’d better change the subject. “You got a layout on the club?”
“Yeah.” He returned Pike’s folder to the cabinet and dug around for another. “When Intelligence got the word that the Black Eight bought the lodge, we ran down two of the founders and a number of people who worked there. This is the picture we got. We added to that some info we got from a construction crew that made improvements after the place changed hands.”
Art brought out a rolled-up paper and spread it on his desk. The three of us leaned over it.
“It looks easier than it really is,” Art said. “When the Black Eight took over the place, they decided to use only the area around the lodge. They fenced it off, two fences ten feet high. You might get past the outer one. The inside one has an electric charge, enough to stun a bull. One gate, and that’s the only way in or out. Two headhunters at the gate at all times, well armed. At least one more gun up here at the lodge, on the porch if the weather’s not too bad. A jeep that patrols the inside of the fence, but no way of knowing how regular the rounds are. A driver and a shotgun rider. Besides that, there’s probably some kind of alarm system, but we’re not sure where it is or what it is.”
“So much for going over the fence,” Hump said. “How do you get through the gate?”
“All you need is your name on a list that’s kept at the gate.”
I grinned at Art. “You could storm the place.”
“On Coleman’s say-so? To start a war . . . and that’s what it’d be . . . I need more than that. Right now, all I want to do is talk with Hugh Muffin.” He rolled up the map and slipped a rubber band around it. “No, my best bet is to stake the place out and wait until Hugh comes out. Of course, if he finds out we’ve got Coleman, he might never come out.” He tossed the drawing into the cabinet drawer and slammed it shut. “That’s some client you’ve got there, Jim.”
“Not my client, and you know it”
“Who is?” Art asked.
I pushed that aside, “You’re going to have to trust me one last time, Art. I can’t tell you how I know or why I know. Hump’ll back me in this. By morning the word’ll be out that you want Muffin. I don’t care how quiet you try to keep it, they’ll know. And as soon as they know, Hugh’ll be dead and gone. You won’t even find a tooth of a shirt button. Vanished. Right, Hump?”
“He’ll be dead within minutes.” Hump nodded. “Believe him, Art.”
“I’m not that dumb,” Art said. “It’s a matter of racket ties they wouldn’t want him to talk about. If he’s not tied in, then what the hell’s he doing out there?”
I let him believe that. It was easier than explaining that I was working for Warden Pike, The Man, and that Pike would have Hugh’s hide because of his part in the death of Emily Campbell. It would take all night and part of the day to explain all that.
“Shit,” I said to Hump, “you can’t put anything over on Art.”
“Right,” Hump said.
“I think I’ve got a solution. Hump and I might be able to get him out of there.”
“Don’t volunteer me, white man,” Hump said.
“Part of twenty thousand dollars, for an hour’s work?”
“Half? I’m with you.”
“It’ll be rough, and that’s if we get through the gate in the first place.” I stepped away from the desk. “We need one more man, a black who’s good with a gun.”
Hump shrugged. “I don’t know anybody that dumb. It’s not just the time in there. It’s all that running for years afterwards.”
“I might know one,” Art said. “Jim Winters. He’s a cop.”
“Him along, if it backfires, it could make trouble for the department.”
“If he’ll do it, he goes on leave as of yesterday.”
“Try him,” I said.
“A bit too squeaky-clean looking,” Hump said.
I looked Jim Winters over. He was an inch or so over six feet, broad-shouldered and flat-waisted. His hair was short and his sideburns looked regulation. He seemed cool and tough. Maybe it was the cop uniform that threw us. Still, I could see what Hump meant.
“How do you dress?”
“Super cool.” He was talking to Hump, not to me. “The big man here knows what I mean.”
“Got you.” Hump put a hand on Winters’ shoulder. “Get into your street clothes.”
As soon as Winters left, I told Art I needed to make a private call. Art left reluctantly, pulling the door closed behind him. I explained the con to Hump while I looked up Wenzel Brown’s home number in the phone book. Hump said it sounded like fun, and too bad it wasn’t for real. I got an outside line and dialed. A man with the deep, chesty tones of a preacher answered.
“This is Hardman. I was told I could call you.”
“Yes, Mr. Hardman, what can I do for you?”
“A small favor,” I said.
“Small or large,” Wenzel Brown said, “our mutual friend said I was to give you all the help you needed.”
“This is more on the order of pleasure.”
“Perhaps you’d better explain it,” Brown said.
“You know Hump Evans?”
“The football player?” He laughed. “I’ve heard legendary stories about Mr. Evans.”
“Hump is working with me on that job for our mutual friend. But tonight he’s off. and he asked me for a favor.” I motioned to Hump. “Here he is now. I’ll let him explain what he wants.”
Hump took the phone. “Mr. Brown? Hump Evans here. I know this may be an odd request. But I’ve been hearing a lot about Madame Fiona’s for the last year or so. I wonder if you could fix it so that I could make a visit.” Hump listened. “Me and a friend from out of town. Roy White. He does some gambling up around Detroit.” Hump looked at me and winked. “No, not Hardman. It’s past his bedtime. And me, you know I wouldn’t want to bother those sweetmeat girls.” He stopped and listened. He laughed. “Rumors, Mr. Brown, just rumors. I don’t know why those particular girls would tell lies like that about me.” Hump nodded at me. “Will you be there tonight? That’s too bad. Some other time, then. And they’ll have my name at the gate? Thank you, Mr. Brown.”
I took the phone. “Hardman again. That business for our friend. The next time you’re in touch with him, you can tell him it’ll be finished in the next day or two.”
“I will, Mr. Hardman. Good night.”
On the drive out of town, I talked through the drill with Hump and Jim Winters. It seemed simple enough, almost too simple. “I saw it in a movie once that starred Alan Ladd,” I said.
Hump grinned at me. “Before my time, old man.”
“How does it sound to you, Winters?”
He shrugged. “It’s as good as any on short notice. If it doesn’t work, we won’t have but about thirty seconds to worry about it.”
“That long, you sure?” Hump said, mock-seriously.
“Well,” Winters said, grinning past me, “give or take a second or two.”
Ahead of us, I could see the braking lights on Art’s unmarked police car. I slowed and followed him when he pulled off the highway. We were on a horseshoe turnoff beside a rest stop and picnic area that the state kept up. As soon as we were off the highway, Jim Winters shifted in his seat and looked through the rear window. “I think somebody’s following us. You expecting anybody else?”
“No.” I braked and we waited. A few seconds later, an old clunker went by. It looked like a ’53 Chevy. The headlights could stand adjusting, and it needed a muffler. I wondered how much of a payoff it took to get that one an inspection sticker, if it had one. The Chevy went by without slowing, and Winters laughed and said, “Must not be.”
I pulled in deeper and parked behind Art. To our left, was the dark green building that housed the toilets. To our right, encircled by the road, the horseshoe area dotted with leaf-covered picnic tables. We got out of the car and walked over to meet Art and the two uniformed cops with him. They were shivering and moving around, trying to keep warm. Art looked grim and unhappy, like he didn’t like the whole idea very much. “We’ll wait here. If you get in and out without trouble, head for us. If we hear gunfire, we’ll try to get to the gate, or we’ll barricade the road out and wait for you. I’m not sure what good that’ll do you. Maybe none.”
I patted Art on the shoulder and we left him. I opened the trunk of my car and handed Hump the keys. The trunk looked like a weapons locker. Art had outfitted us from the mass of confiscated guns in one of the storerooms. I’d picked a sawed-off shotgun with a cut-down stock and a handful of shells. Winters chose an Ml carbine and two spare clips. Hump said he’d stay with his handgun. Art warned us that there might be a frisk at the gate. On that chance, both Hump and Winters selected pistols to be found carrying when they reached the gate. Their personal guns, the ones they’d use inside the compound, were in the trunk.
“One last question, Hump?” I pushed the shotgun and the Ml carbine to the forward part of the trunk.
“Yeah?”
“Why’d you change Jim’s name?”
“Roy White’s a real guy. Did some book for me a time or two. If this comes off, it might be better if nobody knows Jim’s real name.”
“How about this Roy White?” Jim asked.
“They go looking for Roy, they’ll find a tombstone in Cleveland.”
“Luck,” I said. I got in and nodded at Hump.
Hump slammed the trunk door closed and I was in the cramped, closed darkness, smelling the exhaust fumes and gun oil. Of all the goddamn silly places to be.