IT took Sammy nine hours and an incredible amount of Langley muscle to spring Vince out of Atlantic City. He couldn't do it by himself, he didn't have the clout. He had to go to Delaney for it, something he hated to do, and Delaney had to go as high as the DDI before the local police would play ball. Even so, it took nine hours, and by the time Vince made the street there were only two days to go before the Polk-Van Buren game. When he called the Center, they told him to go to New York. Sammy and Delaney would meet him there.
The house on East Sixty-fourth Street that the Center used for a New York base was a four-story brownstone with a weathered façade. The top two floors were bedrooms, and the second floor was filled with a gleaming mass of electronic equipment. The interior walls of the ground floor had been knocked out to make one large room. In the days before Sammy took over it had been called the Operations Room, but now it was called the Saloon. Operations were still handled in the back of the room, but up front was an eighteen-foot mahogany bar complete with stools, rail, and a back mirror. There were "Wanted" posters of Old West pistoleros on the walls, a sepia-tone of Lillie Langtry, and a Rubenesque nude in faded oils. Sammy had wanted to put in spittoons, but Langley had turned down the requisition.
Vince stood behind the bar, his preferred spot. Sammy and Delaney sat on stools. Vince dropped a single cube of ice into a glass, and poured a splash of Wild Turkey for himself. To no one in particular, he said, "I had some dynamite cognac down there."
Sammy asked, "Is it true that the Atlantic City slammer has slot machines in the cells?"
Vince nodded. "Every one a loser."
"As long as you're pouring," Delaney said pointedly. "Scotch."
Vince looked at Sammy, who nodded. He made the drinks, and pushed them across the bar. Delaney said, "Lay it out for me. How do you see it?"
Vince shrugged. "Nothing complicated. Domino gets close to Giardelli, and she uses his connections to set up the fix. As soon as I walk into the scene, she knows that I can blow her out of the water, so one of us has to go, Carmine or me."
"Why Carmine?"
"I've been thinking about that. I've had plenty of time to think."
"Don't be that way. We did it as fast as we could."
'Why Carmine, not me? Because the way that she sees it, I'm Company, which means that we're working for the same people."
"You're not. She's a freelance working for a dead man."
"I said the way she sees it. I think it was spur of the moment. She decided not to wax a company man when she didn't have to. All she had to do was keep me on ice until the time frame was over. So she does the job on Giardelli, and sets me up for it. She figured that by the time I worked my way out of it, if I worked my way out of it, she'd be home free."
"Where does Anthony fit?"
"I figure him for a recruit, nothing more. He and Domino, they put on an act about hating each other, but they're probably screwing like rabbits."
"You sure he's the one who slugged you?"
"No question. What have you got on him?"
"Middle-level muscle, name of Riordan. He and the woman have dropped out of sight. God knows where they are now."
"Have you been able to run down anything on Domino? Ogden got her out of Baghdad years ago. That should show in your banks."
"It doesn't," said Delaney. "He must have done it on his own. We still have nothing on her."
"Which leaves us where?" Vince turned to Sammy. "We've got the game coming up the day after tomorrow. What do we do now, coach?"
"Punt," said a gloomy Delaney.
"It's basketball," said Sammy. "I don't know, Vince, I really don't. You gave it a good shot, but it didn't work. The way I see it, we're out of options."
"We can't just sit back and let it happen."
"What else can we do?" Sammy spread his hands helplessly. "The Company gave us the job, we're bound by the rules that they established. The whole point here is to keep the Company clean, which means that we can't go public. We can't go to the cops, we can't go to the media, we can't go to the college. We can't do anything."
"I know what I'd like to do," said Delaney. "I'd like to get those two kids and beat their brains out."
Sammy sighed. "We can't do that either, even if we wanted to. You take those two… what's their names?"
"Holmes and Devereaux," said Vince.
"Polk doesn't have a chance without them. You take them out of the lineup, and Domino gets what she wants."
"Punt," Delaney said again.
Head-to-head, Vince said, Sammy?
Sammy kept a straight face. What?
There's a way.
Show it to me.
Vince showed him. Sammy started to shake his head, but caught himself. No way. He'd never go for it.
It's worth a try.
I'm not sure that I'd go for it, either.
What choice do we have?
It isn't a question of choice. It's a question of what's possible, and this isn't.
Ask him.
Why me?
Because that's what you get paid for.
Not nearly enough. Sammy cleared his throat, and Delaney looked up. "Vince has an idea."
Chicken.
"Vince?" Delaney looked confused. "Oh, you've been doing your number."
"It's just a thought, and I don't think much of it…"
"Thanks, buddy." Vince slammed his glass on the bar. "I'll tell it myself. Look, these kids sold out. They agreed to dump the game for twenty-five grand apiece, right?"
"Right."
"And we want them to play it straight, right?"
"Of course."
"So we buy them back."
Delaney frowned. "I don't follow."
"We outbid Domino," Vince said patiently. "We offer them a chunk of money to play to win. A big chunk."
Delaney's frown deepened. "Wait a minute. You mean we bribe them?"
"Call it fighting fire with fire. We double the offer. Fifty thousand each if they play it straight."
"Impossible." Delaney's voice was cold and stiff. "You're asking me to authorize the use of Company funds to bribe a couple of basketball players? Impossible."
"Why? I'm talking about a hundred grand. You spend ten times that much every time you knock off some South American politician."
"We don't do things like that anymore."
"The hell you don't."
"Look, it's out of the question. I mean, what if it ever got out? Our job is to keep the Company clean, not get it involved."
"It's already involved, up to the ass, and this is the only way out."
"Definitely not. Forget it."
I told you he wouldn't go for it, said Sammy.
How about giving me a hand?
I told you, I don't like it, either.
Maybe if you made a pitch he'd change his mind.
No way. He'll never do it.
Then lend me a hundred thou.
Be serious. I don't have that kind of money liquid.
I don't have that kind of money, period. But this is the only way to do it.
Getting a little emotional about this, aren't you?
Maybe.
Making it personal, aren't you?
"I guess I am," Vince said aloud. He came out from behind the bar, and headed for the door.
"Hold it," said Delaney. "Where are you going?"
"To work." He kept on walking.
Sammy looked into his head, and saw what he had in mind. He called after him, She won't do it, you're wasting your time. But Vince was out the door.
On the way over in the taxi, he realized that he should have called first, for there was no good reason why a woman as active as Ida Whitney would be at home at eleven in the morning. But she was. She showed no surprise when she saw him. She sat him down in her living room. She offered him coffee. She listened carefully while he spoke, nodding her head. He realized that he was speaking rapidly, almost wildly, and he tried to restrain himself, but the words came gushing out. Finally, he stopped himself in mid-sentence, and fell silent. He knew that he had made his case poorly. He waited. She looked at him with concern.
"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You sound strange-not yourself."
"I'm not," he admitted, and his voice sounded strange in his ears, too high and thin. "Since the last time I saw you I damn near got myself killed, I got hit over the head, and I spent a night in jail. I am definitely not myself. I'm running on rocket fuel right now."
"Your eyes look terrible."
"Yours look lovely."
"Don't say things like that."
"Sorry, it's the rocket fuel. You haven't answered my question."
"What makes you think that I have access to that kind of money?"
He waved an arm in a gesture that took in the richly furnished room, the Traz original on one wall, the Catelot on another, and the bronze nymph by Giorgino. "Are you saying that you don't?"
"Lewis makes the money. I just spend it."
"That's not an answer."
She leveled her eyes at him, those eyes he remembered so well. They could be warm and liquid, or hard as bullets. They were hard. "I read the newspapers, Vincent. A name was mentioned here the other night. Giardelli. Now he's dead."
"Yes."
"Did you kill him?"
"No."
There was a silence between them. "Is that all you're going to say?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't answer any more questions."
"You're terrific, you really are. The other night you came barging in here and bullied Lewis into giving you a name. Now the name is dead, and you're here again, this time to ask me for a hundred thousand dollars."
"A loan."
"Whatever you call it, but you say that you can't answer. Just who the hell do you think you are?"
"An old friend."
"Well, old friend, this isn't going to work." Those eyes were flashing now. "Either you answer some questions, or this conversation is over."
He hesitated. "I'll answer the ones that I can."
She leaned forward. "Are you really a translator at the United Nations?"
"At times."
"Do you hold any other job?"
"Yes."
"Are you employed by any government agency, and if you are, is it federal, state, or local?"
She's good, he thought. Of course, she's been watching Lewis at work for years. "Federal."
"Can you tell me the name of your organization?"
"No."
"Would I know the name if you told me?"
"I doubt it."
"Is the work you do legal? I mean, is it within the law?"
"Sometimes."
"Is it in the national interest?"
"Always."
"Sitting here, right now, are you acting as a representative of your organization?"
"No. My organization has rejected this solution to the problem. They have refused to fund it. That's why I've come to you."
"I see. One last question. What the hell is so important about a God damn basketball game that an agency of the federal government has to get involved in it?"
Vince shook his head. "I can't answer that one, but I'll say this much. It's important to the government, it's important to my organization, and, of course, it's important to the young men involved."
"You'll have to explain that last part to me. The other night you made a strong case for trying to help two young black men who were about make the biggest mistake of their lives. Now you're suggesting that I supply the money that will compound the felony. So tell me this, old friend. How is throwing good money after bad going to help these young men straighten out their lives?"
Vince stood up, and walked around the room. He stopped in front of the Traz, and looked at it carefully. He stepped back, and looked again, staring into the geometries of the composition. It told him nothing. He turned around.
"I don't have a good answer to that. You may be right, it may be throwing good money after bad, but it's the only move I can think of to make. Like I said, I'm running on rocket fuel, and I don't have much time. I can't let those kids throw that game. I can't."
He came close, and bent over her. Their faces were inches apart, and her scent was all around him. "That's it, the bottom line," he said. "Will you do it?"
She said faintly. "Is this part of your sales pitch?"
"Will you?"
"Why not ask Lewis?"
"I'm asking you. Now."
"Back off."
He straightened up, and stepped away. She stood to face him. Her eyes were warm again, but her face told him nothing. "A hundred thousand?"
"In cash."
"We'll go to the bank. I'll need ten minutes to change and call Lewis."
"Why Lewis?"
"He's my husband. I have to tell him where I'm going."
"You're going to the bank."
"I'm going to New Hampshire. With you." She smiled for the first time. "I go where the money goes."
At a certain point, it turned into a farce. Until then, Vince had been running on rocket fuel, the whine of engines competing with the throbbing in his head. There had been the rush to the bank to pick up the money, the transaction smoothly handled by an assistant manager who had thrown in a Vuitton carrying case as a lagniappe. There had been the rush to LaGuardia to catch the commuter flight to Manchester, the rush driving north in the rental car through driving snow, through Concord, and Franklin, and Bristol, and the rush to find a decent place to stay for the night. The place was called the Hunters' Lodge, and then there was the rush to their separate rooms, the rush to wash and change, and the rush to get a drink and something to eat.
Vince was holding an ice-filled towel to his head when Ida knocked at his door. She saw the towel, and asked, "What's the matter?"
"Where I got hit."
"You going to be all right?"
"No problem."
"Have you called them yet?"
"Just about to."
"Make it for the morning. It's too late to do it tonight." She had the bag with the money slung over her shoulder.
"Yeah, all I want tonight is a couple of drinks, a rare steak, and some sleep."
"The dining room is off the lobby. Make the call, and I'll meet you there."
She left, and he checked the team list from the Athletic Department. He dialed a number, and when someone answered, he asked, "Is this Willy Holmes?"
"Yes, that's right," said the voice.
"My name is Bonepart, from Hoops magazine. I interviewed you the other day, remember?"
"Oh sure, Mr. Bonepart, sure I do." There was a sudden enthusiasm in the voice. "What can I do for you?"
"I want to talk to you, Willy."
"Say, anything I can do to help the press, you name it."
"You won't be helping the press, you'll be helping yourself, kid. I want to see you first thing tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?"
"That's what I said, and I want to see Devereaux, too."
"Dion?"
"He's your roommate, isn't he? Is he there?"
"Well… uh, yeah."
"I want to see the two of you, together. I'm staying at the Hunters' Lodge out on the Parkland Extension. You know the place?"
"Yes sir, but…"
"No buts, Willy. I want to see you and Dion at eight in the morning, sharp. I'm in room number twelve. You got that?"
"Mr. Bonepart, you're going a little too fast for me here." Now there was a nervous edge to his voice. "Could you tell me what this is all about?"
"It's about your future, and it's about money. How does that sound?"
"Look, I'm not sure that I can…"
"You can. You don't have a choice. Either I talk to you and Dion, or I talk to your coach, and I think you know what I'll be talking about. Now, how do you want to play it?"
There was a long pause. "Just a minute." There was a longer pause, and Vince heard muffled voices. Willy came back. "You said eight o'clock?"
"That's right."
"We'll be there."
His head still throbbed, but the ice had helped. He went looking for
Ida, and found her in the dining room. It was a pleasant, quiet room with candles in sconces on oak-paneled walls, and a bluestone hearth that burned logs the size of an elephant's ankle. The linen was crisp, and the crystal on the tables twinkled. Ida had taken a table next to a window that looked out onto a moonlit snowfield. More snow fell, dancing down the window. Ida waved as he came into the room. In an angora sweater and a pleated skirt she looked younger than he could remember her being, younger than she could have been when he first had known her. As he took his seat, she asked the question with her eyes, and he answered, "Eight in the morning, both of them."
"How did they sound?"
"I only spoke to Holmes. He sounded edgy, but he'll show. They both will."
"I ordered you a drink. Wild Turkey, one rock, right?"
"Right." He smiled because she had remembered.
She read his smile accurately. "Don't flatter yourself. I remembered because Lewis takes it the same way."
"He got it from me. He never drank before he met me."
"I've ordered dinner."
"Steak?"
"Actually, I ordered venison for both of us."
"I said that I wanted a steak."
"I know, but the waiter talked me into the venison. He said he shot the deer himself. He was very persuasive. I just couldn't say no to him."
"That has to make him the luckiest waiter in the state of New Hampshire."
It wasn't very funny, but she laughed. Vince laughed, too, and it was at that moment, while both of them were laughing, that what they were doing turned into a comedy for him. Like a bad movie, he could no longer take the assignment seriously. It was a joke. He didn't give a damn who won some stupid ballgame. He didn't give a damn if Holmes and Devereaux were greedy little bastards who were screwing up their lives. He didn't give a damn that Giardelli got waxed; the world was better off without him. All he cared about was the moment, sitting in a romantic spot with a lovely woman he once had adored, and still admired. The rest of it was a farce, and he couldn't help laughing at it. He realized that Ida was looking at him strangely, and he heard the echo of his laughter in his ears. He had not stopped laughing. He was still laughing loud and hard. He stopped.
Watch it, he warned himself. Get a grip.
Ida asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Just fine."
"How hard was that hit on the head?"
"I can still feel it, but I'm all right." The throbbing was worse. "What did Lewis say when you told him you were coming with me?"
"He said to take good care of the money."
"That's all?"
"If you mean what I think you mean, Lewis and I have the best of all possible marriages. We trust each other. I understand his needs, and he understands mine."
"An open marriage?"
"A free marriage."
"Permissive?"
"Understanding."
"No jealousy on either side?"
"Definitely not."
"Sounds ideal."
"It is."
He leaned across the table, and took her hand. "The other night you said that you used to be in love with me a little."
"A little, yes."
"I felt the same way, but I never said it."
"Just as well."
"There was Lewis."
"Yes."
"And now? How do you feel now?"
She shrugged, but she was smiling. "Some things don't change."
"Then what are we waiting for?"
"The venison, of course."
The venison came, and they agreed that it was delicious, but they did not eat much of it. They did not eat much of anything, and they barely touched the wine. They fiddled with their food with their eyes locked on each other, and finally, when they could rightfully say that dinner was over, they went up to Vince's room and made love.
It was a long time coming, years delayed, and everything about it seemed right. Their moves and their responses meshed. They rode the wave together, crested together, gasped and cried out together, and made the slow and lazy tumble home together, happily spent. It was their first time together, but they made love with a practiced ease. Everything about it seemed right, the machinery functioned, but in truth there was nothing special about it. There was an aspect of romance that might have made it special, the love that never made it years before now given a second chance, but it didn't work out that way. It was nothing more than a romp in the hay, and when it was done they both knew it. It was nothing special. It wasn't even sad.
They both fell at once into sleep, drained as much by the day as by their lovemaking, and hours later when Vince awoke it was to the sound of a scratching at the door. He woke with a bubble of laughter in this throat. He throttled it, and it never got past his lips, but it was a strange way to come up out of sleep. The room was dark, and the luminous dial of the clock said that it was just past four in the morning. He felt the warmth of Ida asleep beside him, tucked into the small of his back, and he heard her steady breathing. He felt the bubble in his throat again, the urge to laugh that, again, he had to control. It was all so funny, all of it now, not just the job. Now it was this business with Ida that seemed absurd, the candlelight dinner and the crackling fire, the passion rekindled after so many years, the rush to bed, the tumble and toss. And now the scratching at the door.
He heard it again. It was a tiny sound, like a cat in the night, but that was what had wakened him. It was the light and tentative sound that one made at four in the morning instead of a knock.
Another bad movie, he thought, and again restrained the urge to laugh. A French farce, that's what this is turning into. No, for a true French farce we'd have to have Lewis, the outraged husband, come crashing through the door.
The door swung open. The light went on. Lewis stood there staring. "You son of a bitch," he said. "I figured it was something like this."
Vince sat up in bed. "Lewis." Stuck for words, he said the first thing that came into his head. "I was just thinking about you."
Lewis snarled, "I'll bet you were."
The next thing that came into his head. "How did you get here?"
"How do you think? Drove all night through the snow while you were keeping warm with my wife."
"Lewis, don't jump to conclusions."
"You've been doing all the jumping around here." Lewis' hand went into his pocket, and came out with a small, flat pistol. "Let's see how you jump on top of this."
"Lewis." It was Ida, awake and bolt upright.
"You bitch, who did you think you were fooling with that story about the money?"
"It's true, the money is right over there in that bag."
"Just an excuse for a dirty weekend."
"It's only Thursday," Vince pointed out.
"You bitch. You whore."
"Don't you dare call me that."
"You said you had a permissive marriage," Vince complained. He was beginning to feel silly again. He turned to Lewis. "That's what she said."
"Be quiet," Ida hissed. She realized that she was naked, and she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. "Lewis, put down that gun before you hurt somebody."
"You wanna see hurt, you're gonna see hurt."
"Close that door, people can hear."
Lewis kicked the door shut without looking at it. Vince tried to make himself small under the blankets. He muttered, "You said he didn't get jealous. You said that he understood your needs."
"Leave this to me, will you?"
"I heard that," Lewis said sharply. "What needs? What kind of needs do you have that I don't take care of?"
Vince leaned close to Ida. "You said you had an understanding."
"So I lied." Ida spat out the words. "I lied, all right? Now will you please shut up?"
"What needs, huh? You tell me that?"
"Honey, I know this looks bad, but I can explain."
Vince let her explain. He did not try to talk. He had enough to do to keep from laughing. He felt it in his chest and throat, and he had to work to keep it down.
Can't laugh now, he thought, spoil the big scene. Old Lewis, got a face on him like a tiger, snow on his hat and a pistol in his hand. Gentle Lewis, wouldn't swat a fly or step on a bug, but he's got this cute little pistol with a silencer on it, the kind that goes phut. Sweet little Ida clutching the bedclothes to her bosom, so modest, but why? Just Lewis and me, husband and lover, so why? Funny, that's why. The whole thing is incredibly funny, just the idea of my old friend Lewis Whitney shooting off a pistol…
Phut.
Lewis fired. The bullet went into the wall. Ida screamed, and dived under the covers. Vince threw his head back, and roared with laughter. He couldn't help himself, it came pouring out. Lewis stared at him in disbelief.
"What the hell are you laughing at?" he asked. "You think this gun is funny?"
Helpless with laughter, Vince couldn't answer. He nodded as he gasped for breath.
"Laugh this one off."
Phut.
Lewis fired again. This time the bullet went into the ceiling. Vince tried to catch his breath and began to hiccup.
From under the blankets, Ida screamed, "Stop laughing, you're only making it worse."
Phut. The wall again.
She's right, you have to stop, he told himself. It isn't funny. I mean it is, but it isn't. The man is out for blood, he's looking to kill, but I can't… can't stop. It's so ridiculous, a farce. I wanted a French farce, and I got it. Now all we need is for Domino and Anthony to walk in through that door.
The door crashed open. Domino and Anthony walked in. They both held pistols with silencers, the kind that go phut. Anthony was smiling; Domino looked grim.
Anthony said, "Drop it."
Lewis turned slowly to face them. He dropped his pistol on the floor. He said, "Who the hell are you?"
"Black hats," Vince explained. "The bad guys." His head was throbbing fiercely again, but his lips were stretched in a grin. It was still very funny.
Anthony said to Lewis, "Back up." He motioned with his pistol. "On the bed."
Lewis stepped back until he felt the bed behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed. He also sat on Ida's foot. Ida squeaked, and her head popped out from under the blankets. She took a look at Domino and Anthony, and dove back under.
"Close the door," said Domino. "We don't want to wake the dead."
Anthony kicked the door shut without looking at it. Domino came over to Vince's side of the bed. She stood over him. He grinned up at her, and said, "Tennis, anyone?"
One corner of her lips twitched. "Only if we play by my rules."
"I can live with that."
"I doubt it. You're not going to live with anything much longer. I let you off the hook once, but you couldn't leave it alone, could you?"
"Just doing my job."
"And I'm just doing mine."
"There's a difference."
"Not to me, there isn't. Who's the woman?"
"His wife."
"So how come you're the one without any clothes on?"
"Well, you know how it is."
"Yeah." Over her shoulder, she said to Anthony. "What do you think?"
"It could work," he said judiciously. "Husband discovers wife in love nest, kills them both, then plugs himself. Happens all the time."
"Make sure you use the same gun," Vince suggested.
Domino asked him, "Why are you smiling?"
"I don't know. I think it was the knock on the head that he gave me. Everything seems funny."
"Well, stop it. I don't like it."
Vince managed to pull his face into serious lines. "Better?"
"There's nothing funny about this."
"I know that. Deep down inside, I know that. Look, how about you let these two walk. They're civilians, they don't know anything about this."
"No way," said Anthony. "They all go."
Domino nodded. "Has to be. And it has to be now."
Lewis shifted on the bed so that he could see Domino. "Does this mean that you're going to kill us?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything that I can do or say that could get us out of this?"
"No."
"I control a great deal of money."
"No."
"And influence."
"No."
Lewis sighed. "Before you… I'd like to say something to my wife. May I?"
"We're burning time," said Anthony.
Domino hesitated, then she nodded. "Go ahead."
"Ida?"
Her face slowly appeared, the blankets under her chin. She looked up at her husband. Her eyes were filled with fear, but her lips and chin were steady. "Yes, Lewis."
"I don't have time to say much, but I want to say that I love you. I always have, I never stopped, and right now I love you more than ever. I'm sorry that it has to end this way, but I wanted you to know that, and I wanted you to know that… this business with Vince tonight, I forgive you-"
"You what?" She sat up. The blankets dropped, and she pulled them up. "You forgive me? What about that time with Martha Jackson? What about that hooker in Chicago? What about all those times you came home smelling like a perfume factory?"
"Hold it, there was never anything between Martha and me, she's just a colleague, that's all-"
"And what about the other one in your office, the fat one?"
"Ellen isn't fat."
"She's built like a bratwurst. It wouldn't be so bad if you had some taste."
"I married you, didn't I?"
"The one and only time. What about Mary Lou, and the other one, what's her name…?"
She went on and on, and Vince began to laugh again.
"Stop it," Domino ordered. "Stop laughing."
But he couldn't. It was the ultimate insanity, husband and wife facing the end, and bickering right down to the wire. That was funny enough, but funnier still was the feeling that the best was yet to come. Because Lewis Whitney would never have driven through the night from New York to New Hampshire all by himself. Lewis did nothing by himself anymore. He didn't pick up a package, or open a door, or light a cigar by himself these days if he could help it, not with the small army that he had running around and doing things for him. He never would have come alone, he must have brought people with him, thought Vince, and if this is really a high-class farce a couple of heavyweights should come busting through that door right about… now.
A couple of heavyweights kicked in the door, and came into the room. They were tall, they were broad, and each carried a pistol with a silencer on it, the kind that goes phut. Domino and Anthony wheeled to face them, but they never got off a shot.
Phut. Phut.
Domino and Anthony went down. They lay without moving.
Ida squeaked, and went back under the blankets.
Vince laughed.
Lewis said to his men, "What the hell took you so long?" He said to Vince, "Stop that idiotic laughter."
Vince stopped, but not because he had been told to. Things just weren't funny any more.
"In all my years of practice, and at the fringes of government," said Lewis, "I have never seen an operation so misdirected and ineptly handled."
"It sort of got screwed up," Vince admitted.
"Sort of? I don't know what agency of the government you work for, and I don't want to know, but I'll tell you this. If this job is any indication of how your agency performs, I have serious doubts about the safety of the nation."
"I know what you mean. Sometimes I do, too."
"Under the circumstances, I think that you'd best leave the rest of this to me."
Vince threw up his hands. "Gladly. It's all yours."
"Did you really say that?" asked Sammy.
"Sure, why not?" said Vince. "It was his show by then, and I hadn't been doing so great, you know? Besides, my head still hurt."
"How is it now?"
"Better."
It was the next day, late at night, and they were alone in the Saloon. The place was dark, with only a single lamp burning over the bar. Sammy looked at his watch, and asked, "Time to call?"
"Give it another thirty minutes."
"So what happened next?"
"You wouldn't believe how efficient those heavyweights were. They got rid of the bodies like a pair of pros, which I guess is what they are. An hour later there were no bloodstains, the room was aired out, and everything was neat as a pin. By that time it was around six in the morning, and Holmes and Devereaux were due at eight. We settled down to wait."
"All three of you?"
"Just Lewis and me. Ida got dressed and went out to see if she could find a coffee shop open at that hour. It was awkward for her there."
Sammy grinned. "Putting it mildly."
"Don't make jokes. It seemed funny at the time, I was laughing my head off, but it really wasn't. We were three old friends, and it shouldn't have happened."
"But it did. What next?"
"Holmes and Devereaux showed up on time, and Lewis took over. I tell you, Sammy, those were two scared kids. They knew what was coming, and they didn't know how to handle it."
Lewis sat them down on the edge of the bed, and paced up and down in front of them like a courtroom lawyer examining a pair of hostile witnesses. "Let me introduce myself," he said. "My name is Lewis Whitney, I'm a lawyer, and I'm going to try to get you out of this mess you're in. Now, let's clear away some of the underbrush. We know for a fact that the two of you agreed to dump the game tomorrow night for twenty-five thousand apiece." Holmes started to say something, but a glare from Lewis shut him up. "Don't interrupt, I said it was a fact. The question now is what to do about it." He pointed a finger at Devereaux.
"You. How much did they pay you up front?"
The two kids looked at each other, then looked away. They were silent.
"Get it through your heads, it's over. You're cooked. Either you talk to me, or you talk to your coach, and then the police. Now, I'll ask you once more. How much did you get in advance?"
"A thousand dollars," Devereaux mumbled. Holmes nodded. "Thousand."
"When were you supposed to get the rest?"
"After the game."
"And I suppose that you took that thousand dollars and went out and bought yourselves some new clothes, a suit and some shoes, and maybe you took some ladies out for a big evening, right?"
Holmes looked Lewis straight in the eye, and said, "No, I didn't do anything like that."
"Just what did you do with it?"
"I put it in the bank. We both did. It's still there."
"The bank?" Lewis didn't try to conceal his surprise. "The bank?"
Devereaux drew himself up with a certain dignity. "I don't need any new clothes, and I already have a girlfriend. With respect, Mister Whitney, I think you've got the wrong idea about why we did this."
Lewis sneered. "Just a couple of misunderstood kids."
"No sir, I didn't mean that, but that stuff about clothes and women doesn't apply. Will is headed for med school next year, and that money was for his tuition. Me, my aim is to write poetry, and who ever heard of a rich poet? That money was for the future, Mister Whitney, not for having a good time."
"I'm touched." Lewis put a hand over his heart. "Thieves with hearts of gold."
"We're not thieves," Holmes protested.
"Thieves," Lewis repeated. "You throw a game and you're a thief, just like holding up a liquor store."
There was a pause, and Holmes said quietly, "That's something quite different, that involves violence. With something like this, nobody gets hurt."
"Nobody gets hurt, how many times have I heard that one? Look, spare me the morality of the nineties. You were ready to commit a felony, betray your team, your friends, and your family, and all for twenty-five thousand dollars. Think that over, and then tell me that nobody gets hurt."
"You tell 'em, Lewis," said Vince. "Tell 'em what it's like to justify the means with the ends. Tell 'em what it's like to turn your back on the ideals of your youth. You tell 'em, you should know."
Lewis scowled, but he didn't miss a beat. "As you can see, Mister Bonepart is a bit of a cynic. He doesn't think so, but he is. See that bag over there? There's a hundred thousand dollars in that bag, and he was going to give it to you to play the game on the level. He was going to outbribe you. And he talks to me about ideals."
A hundred thousand. Holmes and Devereaux looked at each other with widening eyes.
"Forget it," Lewis told them. "That was his approach, not mine. Mine is much simpler. I assume that you both have checking accounts?" They nodded. "Then you will each make out a check to me for one thousand dollars. That's Lewis Whitney, one thousand, and mark it legal fees." His voice cracked like a whip. "Now."
They fumbled in their pockets, fumbled for pens, made out the checks, and handed them over.
"Thank you, you have now been relieved of your ill-gotten gains, and none too soon. You've been incredibly stupid in three different ways. You were stupid enough to risk your futures this way. You were stupid enough to take only a thousand dollars down, because I can assure you that you never would have seen the rest of it. And you were stupid enough to put the money into a bank account, thereby making the transaction a matter of record. I understand that you both are honor students, but you don't have the brains that God gives to clams."
Vince applauded. "There speaks your moralist, gentlemen. Next time get it all up front, and keep it in cash."
"There isn't going to be any next time for these two. Mr. Holmes and Mr. Devereaux are now honest citizens once again. They have left the life of crime behind them, and tomorrow night they are going to play their fucking hearts out for dear old Polk. Aren't you?"
The two young men glanced at each other quickly, glances sliding away. Willy mumbled, "Not that easy."
"Easier than you think," Lewis assured him. "I suppose that the people you dealt with made the usual threats?"
"Said they would kill us if we tried to back out."
"And they meant it," said Devereaux. "Those were two hard people. I never saw people so hard. "
"A man and a woman?"
"Yeah."
"What would you do if I told you that those two people are out of your lives forever, that you'll never see them again, that they can't touch you?"
Holmes said slowly, "If that's the truth, I'd get down and kiss your feet."
"It's true, all right. And tomorrow night you two are going to play the best ball you ever played in your lives. And you know why?" He smiled at them sweetly. "Because if you don't, I've got people on my payroll who'll be coming around to see you. They won't kill you, they'll just make you wish they had."
"That won't be necessary," said Holmes. "We'll be in there."
They both stood up, and Devereaux said, "We'll do our best, but we can't guarantee anything. You understand that, don't you?"
Lewis gave them that sweet smile again. "Just win, that's the name of the game, because if you don't, you'll be having some visitors. That's my guarantee. Now get out of here, I've got some other business to take care of."
Forty hours later, standing in the bar of the Saloon, Sammy said, "I take it that you were the other business?"
Vince nodded. "I don't know what he had in mind, and I didn't wait to find out. I was out of there. I never did see Ida to say good-bye, I just headed for home."
"Cowardly."
"No question about it. I had enough of those guns that go phut."
Sammy looked at his watch. "Time to call."
Vince went to the telephone at the end of the bar, and dialed the number of The New York Times. He asked for the sports desk, then asked a question. He listened, and then he hung up. He shot a fist into the air.
"We win, Domino loses. Polk beat Van Buren, 78-62. Twenty-four points for Devereaux, and nine boards. Willy was in there, too."
"So that's it," Sammy said thoughtfully. "Polk goes on to the tournament, and Van Buren stays home."
" Mission accomplished."
"I guess so," said Sammy. "I hope so."
Vince caught his tone. "What do you mean?"
"I hate to do this to you now. You came out on top and you're on a high," said Sammy, but it had to be told, and so he sat Vince down and told him about Calvin Weiss, and June Honeywell, and Hassan Rashid, and the girl they called the Poodle, all those years ago at Van Buren College.