Out of Sight
by
Elmore Leonard


Out of Sight is the thirty-third novel by Elmore Leonard, who has been
called 'a literary genius' by Martin Amis and the creator of 'the best
American crime writing this century' by Martyn Harris.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

The Bounty Hunters

The Law at Randado

Escape from Five Shadows

Last Stand at Saber River

Hombre

The Big Bounce

The Moonshine War

Valdez Is Coming

Forty Lashes Less One

Mr.  Majestyk

Fifty-two Pickup

Swag

Unknown Man No.  89

The Hunted

The Switch

Gunsights

Gold Coast

City Primeval

Split Images

Cat Chaser

Stick La Brava

Glitz

Bandits Touch

Freaky Deaky

Killshot

Get Shorty

Maximum

Bob

Rum Punch

Pronto

Riding the Rap

EL MORE LEONARD

OUT OF SIGHT

VIKING

VIKING

Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane,
London W8 5TZ, England Penguin Books USA Inc."  375 Hudson Street, New
York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,
Victoria, Australia Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,
Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2 Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau
Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:
Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England First published in the United States
of America by Delacorte Press 1996 First published in Great Britain by
Viking 1996 10 987654321 Copyright (c) Elmore Leonard, Inc."  19% The
moral right of the author has been asserted All rights reserved.

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means
(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without
the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

Printed in England by Clays Ltd, St.  Ives picA CIP catalogue record
for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0-670-84819-0

for michoel and kelly

ONE

FOLEY HAD NEVER seen a prison where you could walk right up to the
fence without getting shot.  He mentioned it to the guard they called
Pup, making conversation: convict and guard standing in a strip of
shade between the chapel and a gun tower, redbrick structures in a
red-brick prison, both men looking toward the athletic field.  Several
hundred inmates along the fence out there were watching the game of
football played without pads, both sides wearing the same correctional
blue, on every play trying to pound each other into the ground.

"You know what they're doing," Foley said, "don't you?  I mean besides
working off their aggressions."

Pup said, "The hell you talking about?"

This was about the dumbest hack Foley had ever met in his three falls,
two state time, one federal, plus a half-dozen stays in county
lockups.

"They're playing in the Super Bowl," Foley said, "pretending they're
out at Sun Devil Stadium next Sunday.  Both sides thinking they're the
Dallas Cowboys."

Pup said, "They ain't worth shit, none of 'em."

Foley turned enough to look at the guard's profile, the peak of his cap
curved around his sunglasses.  Tan shirt with dark-brown epaulets that
matched his pants, radio and flashlight hooked to his belt; no weapon.
Foley looked at his size, head-to-head with the Pup at six-one, but
from there, where Foley went pretty much straight up and down in his
prison blues, the Pup had about forty pounds on him, most of it around
the guard's middle, his tan shirt fitting him like skin on a sausage.
Foley turned back to the game.

He watched a shifty colored guy come out for a pass and get
clotheslined going for the ball, cut down by another shifty colored guy
on defense.  The few white guys, bikers who had the nerve and the size,
played in the line and used their fists on each other, every down.  No
Latins in the game.  They stood along the fence watching, except for
two guys doing laps side by side around the field: counterclockwise,
the way inmates always circled a yard here and in every prison Foley
had ever heard of.

The same two ran ten miles a day every day of the week.

Coming to this end of the field now, getting closer, breaking stride
now, walking:

Jose Chirino and Luis Linares, Chino and Lulu, husband and wife, both
little guys, both doing a mandatory twenty-five for murder.  Walking.
They hadn't done anywhere near their ten miles.  While they circled
this end of the field and started up the side, past the cons watching
the football game, they had Foley's full attention.

A minute or so passed before he said, "Some people are going out of
here.  What if I told you where and when?"

The Pup would be staring at him now, eyes half closed to slits behind
his shades, the way he judged if a con was telling the truth or giving
him a bunch of shit.

"Who we talking about?"

Foley said, "Nothing's free, Pup," still not looking at him.

"I get your liquor for you."

"And you make a good buck.  No, what I need," Foley said, turning to
look at him now, "is some peace of mind.  This is the most fucked-up
joint I've ever been in, take my word.  Medium security and most of the
cons here are violent offenders."

Pup said, "You being one of 'em."

"If I was I've slowed up.  Look at those boys out there, that's a
vicious breed of convict.  Myself, it's not so much I'm violent as
habitual, liable to pick up on the outside where I left off, so they'll
keep me here till I'm an old man."

The Pup kept giving him his squint.

"So you turn fink?"

"It's okay," Foley said, "if you do it to insure your future.  I give
you the chance to stop a prison break, you make points, advance your
career as a hack.  I get peace of mind.  I'd expect you to look out for
me as long as you're here.  Let me run my business, keep me off work
details .. ."

The Pup was still squinting.

"How many going out?"

"I hear six."

"When?"

"Looks like tonight."

"You know who they are?"

"I do, but I won't tell you just yet.  Meet me in the chapel going on
five-thirty, right before evening count."

Foley waited, staring back at those slitty eyes trying to read him.

"Come on, Pup, you want to be a hero or not?"

Noon dinner, Foley took his pork butts and yams down the center aisle
looking for Chino among all the white T-shirts and dark hair.  There he
was, at a table of his little-guy countrymen eating macaroni and
cheese, a dish Foley has passed on in the chow line.  Jesus, eating a
pile of it.  The guy across from Chino giving him more, scraping
macaroni from his tray on to Chino's.

The man's gaze raised to Foley, dark eyes beneath lumps of scar tissue,
all he had to show for his career as a welterweight before age and
killing a man put him out of business.  Chino was close to fifty but in
shape; Foley had watched him do thirty pull-ups on a bar without
kicking his legs, trying to climb through the air.

Chino gave him a nod but didn't make room, tell any of his people at
the table to get up.  Lulu sat next to him with a neat tray of macaroni
and Jell-O and a cup of milk they gave inmates under twenty-one years
of age to build strong, healthy bodies.

Foley ate his noon dinner at a table of outlaw bikers, consV

who bought half-pint bottles of rum Foley sold for three times what he
paid Pup to sneak the stuff in.  He sat there listening to the outlaws
having fun, comparing his rum to piss and running with it, enjoying
their use of the word, speculating on what land it was, dog piss, cat
piss, how about alligator piss?  They liked that one.  Foley saw it had
to be an uncommon kind of piss, said, "How about chicken piss?"  and
the table showed him bad teeth and the food they were chewing with
grins and grunts of appreciation.  Foley worked through his dinner and
went outside to smoke a cigarette and wait for Chino.

Lulu tagging along when he came, Lulu cute as a bug with his girlish
eyelashes and pouty way of looking at you.  Chino had had to punch out
many a suitor to keep Lulu for his own.  He had told Foley Lulu wasn't
a homosexual before entering this life, but had become one and was good
at it.  Confiding things like that after Foley told Chino he was the
most aggressive welterweight he had ever seen fight.  Saw him lose to
Mau-ricio Bravo in L.A. when Foley was doing banks out there.  Saw him
lose to the Mexican kid, Palomino, at the Grand in Las Vegastough
break, the TKO in the sixth when Chino's right eye closed and they
stopped the fight.  Foley said, "I never saw a fighter take as many
shots as you did and keep coming back-outside of Rocky Balboa." Chino's
record was 22 and 17, not good if you were the fighter, not bad if you
admired him for staying with it as long as he did.  Foley was the only
Anglo the Cuban allowed to get close.

He had his arm around Lulu's shoulder as they approached, then let it
slip down to hook his thumb in Lulu's belt, the next thing to having
him on a leash.

Foley said, "Today's the day, huh?  You excited?"

The man was cool, no expression.

"I told you, man, Super Bowl Sunday."

"Yeah, but I see you moved it up."

Now a glint showed in his eyes.

"Why you think is today?"

"You were out running this morning, sticking to your routine, anybody
happened to notice.  But you only did a couple of miles, saving
yourself for the main event.  Then I see you eating about ten pounds of
macaroni.  Carbohydrates for endurance."

"You want," Chino said, "I tole you you can come."

"I would, but I can't stand to get dirty."

"Is finish.  All we do now is go out."

"You sure you're past the fence?"

"Fifteen and a half meters, one to spare."

From the covered crawl space beneath the prison chapel to the grass
just beyond the razor wire perimeter fence.  They had been digging
since before Christmas with their hands and a broken shovel, using
scrap lumber from the construction site of a new wing being added to
the chapel to shore up the walls of the tunnel.  It was Christmas Day
Foley happened to see Chino and Lulu come out of the ficus bushes in
front of the chapel, their faces streaked with black dirt, muck, but
wearing clean blues.

What were they doing, making out in the bushes?  That wasn't Chino's
style, so Foley the fight fan said, "Don't tell me about it 'less you
want to."  And Chino said that time to his Anglo friend, "You want to
go with us?"

Foley said he didn't want any part of it-only three feet of crawl space
underneath the chapel, pitch-dark in there, maybe run into fucking mole
rats face-to-face.  No thanks.  He'd said to Chino, "Don't you know
you're digging through Everglades muck?  I've talked to people.  They
say it's wet and'll cave in on you."  Chino said, yeah, that's what
people thought, but the tunnel only caved in once.  If they were
careful, took their time, the muck stuck together and became dry and
was okay.  He told Foley they had dug down four feet and then out
toward the fence, the tunnel a meter wide and a meter high.  One man at
a time dug and the muck was passed back and spread around the crawl
space under there, so nobody was going to see it.  They worked two at a
time in dirty clothes they kept there and put on clean ones before
coming out.

Foley said to Chino that Christmas Day, "If I caught on, how come none
of the hacks have?"

Chino said, "I think they believe like you no one can dig a tunnel in
muck.  Or they don't want to crawl in there and find out.  They see us
dirty they think we work construction."

It was that day Chino said they were going out Super Bowl Sunday, when
everyone would be watching the game, six o'clock.

But now they were going out five days early.

"You finish ahead of schedule?"

Chino looked toward the fence along the front of the yard, between the
administration building and the gun tower close to the chapel.

"You see what they doing, those posts out there?

Putting up another fence, five meters on the other side of the one
that's there.  We wait until Super Bowl Sunday they could have the
second fence built and we have to dig another nine ten days.  So we
going soon as it's dark."

"During the count."

"Sure, and when they get the wrong count," Chino said, "they have to
start over.  It give us some more time to get out of here.  You want-I
mean it-you can still come."

"I didn't help dig."

"If I say you can come, you can come."

"I appreciate the offer," Foley said, looking toward the fence and the
visitors' parking area just the other side, a few cars in the front row
facing this way, not twenty yards from the fence.

"And it's tempting.  But, man, it's a long run to civilization, a
hundred miles to Miami?  I'm too old to start acting crazy, try a stunt
like that."

"You no older than I am."

"Yeah, but you're in shape, you and little Lulu."  Foley winked at the
queer and got a dirty look for no reason.

"I ever make it out it won't be in state clothes or no idea where I'm
going.  Shit, I'm fairly new here, still feeling my way through the
system."

Chino said, "You do okay, man.  I'm not going to worry about you."

Foley put his hand on the little guy's shoulder.

"I wish you luck, partner.  You make it out, send me a postcard."

Some of the newer white boys doing time for drugs called home just
about every day after noon chow.  There they were lined up by the phone
outside the captain's office.  Foley went in to put his name on the
list, came out and went to the head of the line saying, "Fellas, I got
an emergency call I have to make.

Y'all don't have a problem with that, do you?"

He got hard looks but no argument.  These boys were fish and Foley was
a celebrity hard-timer who'd robbed more banks than they'd been in to
cash a check.  He gave talks at AA meetings on self-respect, how to
stay alive in here without taking too much shit.  If you saw it coming,
hit first with something heavy.  Foley's choice, a foot or so of lead
pipe, never a shank, a shank was crude, sneaky, it put you in the same
class as the thugs and hogs.

No, what you wanted to do was lay the pipe across the guy's jaw, and if
you had time break his hands with it.  If you didn't see the guy coming
you were fucked, so keep your eyes open.  It was about all you could
tell these fish.

A woman's voice accepted the charge, Foley's ex-wife now living in
Miami Beach.  He said, "Hey, Adele, how you doing?"

She said, "Now what?"  Not with any kind of attitude, asking a simple
question.

Adele had divorced him while he was doing seven years at Lompoc in
California and moved to Florida.  Foley never once held it against her.
They'd met in Vegas where she was working as a cocktail waitress in a
skimpy sequined outfit, cut low on top and high up her legs from the
crotch, got married one night when they were both feeling good, and it
was less than a year later he went up to Lompoc.  They hadn't even kept
house, so to speak.  A few months after he got out, Foley came to
Florida and they seemed to pick up where they'd left off, drinking,
going to bed .. . Adele telling him she still loved him, but please
don't talk about marriage again, okay?  It made Foley feel guilty that
he hadn't been able to support her while in prison, and it was this
feeling that got him sent up again.  He robbed a Barnett bank in Lake
Worth, intending to give Adele the entire proceeds-show her his heart
was in the right place-but was caught and ended up at Glades doing
thirty to life.  It meant, the way sentencing worked now, he'd be here
at least twenty-four years before he was eligible for parole.  All on
account of wanting to be a good guy.

He said to Adele, "You know that Super Bowl party?  They changed the
date.  It's on tonight, six o'clock."

There was a silence on the line before Adele said, "Didn't you tell me
one time calls aren't monitored?"

"I said not as a rule."

"So why don't you come right out and tell me what you're talking
about?"

"Listen to Miss Smarty Mouth," Foley said, "out there in the free
world."

"What's free about it?  I'm looking for work."

"What happened to Mandrake the Magician?"

"Emil the Amazing.  The kraut son of a bitch fired me and hired another
girl, a blonde."

"He must be crazy, want to trade you in."

"Emil says I'm too old."

"To do what, watch pigeons fly out of a hat?  You have that cute,
amazed look down cold, in your little assistant magician outfit. You'll
hook up with another one before you know it.  Run an ad. Anyway, not to
change the subject," Foley said, "but the reason I called .. ."

"I'm listening."

"It's today instead of Sunday.  About six, like only a few hours from
now.  So you'll have to get hold of Buddy, whatever he might be doing
..."

Adele said, "And the one driving the other car."

"What're you talking about?"

"Buddy wants to use two cars."

"You said he might."

"Well, he's going to, so he got this guy you know from Lompoc.  Glenn
Michaels?"

Foley didn't say anything, picturing a young guy who wore sunglasses
all the time, even watching movies.

"Cute but seedy," Adele said, "has real long hair."

But none on his body.  Foley remembered the guy in the yard always
working on his tan.  Glenn Michaels.  The guy stole expensive cars on
special order and delivered them all over, even Mexico.  Acted hip and
told stories about women coming on to him, even movie stars, but none
Foley or Buddy had ever heard of.  They called him Studs.

"You met him?"

"Buddy thought I should, just in case."

"In case of what?"

"I don't know, ask him.  Glenn said he thought you were real cool."

"He did, huh.  Tell Buddy I see this guy wearing sunglasses I'll step
on 'em.  I might not even take 'em off him first."

"You're still weird," Adele said.

"A quarter to six the latest.  But don't call him on your phone."

"You tell me that every time," Adele said.

"Will you be careful, please?  And don't get shot?"

Five-twenty, Foley found a child molester they called the Elf alone in
the chapel with the lights off: a skinny white kid sitting
round-shouldered by the windows, a stack of pamphlets in the pew with
him.  Foley turned the lights on and the kid hunched around to look at
him, no doubt afraid he was about to get beat up again, the fate of
guys with short eyes among a population that felt superior.

"You're gonna ruin your eyes," Foley said, "trying to read that
inspirational shit in the dark.  Leave, okay?  I need to speak to my
Redeemer in private."

Once the Elf was out the door Foley turned the lights off and went
along the row of windows pulling old brown-stained shades down halfway,
keeping it just light enough in here to see the shapes of the pews.  He
walked around to the other side of the chapel now and stepped through
an opening to the wing they were adding on, the structure framed in and
smelling of new wood, big open spaces where windows would be hung.

He looked around at the mess of scrap lumber the prison carpenters, not
giving a shit, had wasted.  A piece of two-by four caught his eye.
Foley had thought of using pipe for what he'd have to do-there was
enough of it around-but he liked the way this piece of scrap wood was
split and tapered to a thin end, like a baseball bat.

He picked it up, took a swing and imagined a screaming line drive
sailing out to the athletic field where half the population-he could
see them through the window openings five six hundred cons slouched
around with nothing to do, not enough jobs here to keep them busy.  It
was going dark now, the sky showing a few last streaks of red, and
there it was, the whistle: everybody back to the dorms for evening
count.  It would take a half hour, then another fifteen minutes to do a
recount before they'd know for sure six inmates were missing.  By the
time they got out the dogs, Chino and his boys would be running through
sugar cane.

Strung-out lines of inmates were coming from the athletic field now,
passing through a gate to the prison compound.

Foley watched them thinking, You're on the clock now, boy.

In the chapel again he placed his baseball bat in one of the pews, on
the seat, and took off his denim jacket to lay over it.

Chino would be down there in the muck telling his boys to be patient,
making sure it was dark before they came out.

Foley turned, hearing the chapel door open.  He watched the Pup come in
and glance around before closing the door.  No weapon on him, just his
radio and flashlight, the peak of his cap down on his eyes, the man
anxious.  His hand went to the light switch on the wall by the door and
Foley said, "Leave it off."

The Pup looked at him and Foley put his finger to his lips.  It was
happening now and he took his time.

"They're right underneath you, Pup.  They dug a tunnel."

Now the guard was unhooking the radio from his belt.

Foley said, "Wait.  Not just yet."

Two AREN LEFT WEST Palm at five, drove into the sunset past miles and
miles of cane and had her headlights on by the time she turned into the
parking area and sat facing the prison.  Her high beams showed a strip
of grass, a sidewalk, another strip of grass, the fence strung with
sound detectors and razor wire, dark figures in white T-shirts inside
the fence, brick dorms that looked like barracks, picnic tables and a
few gazebos used on visiting days.

Lights were coming on, spots mounted high that showed the compound with
its walks and lawns; at night it didn't look all that bad.  She lit a
cigarette and dialed a number on her car phone.

"Hi.  Karen Sisco again.  Did Ray ever get back?  ... I tried, yeah. He
calls in, tell him I won't be able to meet him until about seven.
Okay?"

She watched prisoners massing at the gate from the athletic field,
straggling through and then spreading out, moving toward their dorms in
the spotlight beams.  She picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Dad?  Karen.  Will you do me a big favor?"

"Do I have to get up?  I just made myself a drink."

"I'm out at Glades.  I'm supposed to meet Ray Nicolet at six and I
can't get hold of him."

"Which one is that, the fed, the aTF.  guy?"

"He was.  Ray's with the state now, Florida Department of Law
Enforcement, he switched over."

"He's still married though, huh?"

"Technically.  They're separated."

"Oh, he's moved out?"

"He's about to."

"Then they're not separated, are they?"

"Will you try calling him, please?  He's on the street.  Tell him I'm
gonna be late?"  She gave her dad Ray's beeper number.

"What're you doing at Glades?"

"Serving process, a Summons and Complaint.  Drive all the way out here
..."  Headlights hit Karen's rearview mirror, a car pulling into the
row behind her.  The lights went off, then came on again and Karen
adjusted the mirror to deflect the glare.

"I have to drive all the way out here because some con doing mandatory
life doesn't like macaroni and cheese.  He files suit, says he has no
choice in what they serve and it violates his civil rights."

Her dad said, "What'd I tell you?  Most of the time you'd be serving
papers or working security, hanging around courtrooms, driving
prisoners to hearings .. ."

"You want me to say you were right?"

"It wouldn't hurt you."

"I'm giving the West Palm office a year.  They don't put me back on
warrants, I quit."

"My daughter the tough babe.  You know you can always step in here,
work with me full time.  I just got a case you'd love, the rights of
the victim at stake."

"Dad ..."

"Guy pulls a home invasion, beats up an old lady and takes her life
savings she has hidden away, eighty-seven thousand, cash.  They get the
guy and his lawyer cuts a deal with the state attorney, two to five and
the guy will come out and make full restitution.  He does fifteen
months, gets his release and disappears.  The old lady's son hires me
to find him."

Karen said, "You do, then what?  The guy pulls armed robberies to pay
her back?"

"See?  You like it, you're thinking.  Actually, the old lady's son
would settle for beating the shit out of the guy."

"I have to go," Karen said.

"When am I gonna see you?"

"I'll come Sunday and watch the game with you, if you'll call Ray."

"You get dressed up for this guy?"

"I'm wearing the Chanel suit-not the new one, the one you gave me for
Christmas a year ago.  I happen to be wearing it."

"With the short skirt.  You want him to leave home tomorrow, huh?"

"I'll see you," Karen said and hung up.

Her dad, seventy, semi-retired after forty years in the business, ran
Marshall Sisco Investigations, Inc.  in Coral Gables.  Karen Sisco,
twenty-nine, was a deputy United States marshal, recently transferred
from Miami to the West Palm Beach office.  She had worked surveillance
jobs for her dad while in college, the University of Miami, decided she
might like federal law enforcement and transferred to Florida Atlantic
in Boca Raton to take their criminal justice program.  Different
federal agents would come to the school to give talks and recruit, FBI,
DEAKaren was smoking grass at the time, so she didn't consider Drug
Enforcement an option.  She thought about Secret Service, but the
agents she met were so fucking secretive-ask a question and they'd go,
"You'll have to check with Washington on that."

She got to know a couple of marshals, nice guys, they didn't take
themselves as seriously as the Bureau guys she met.  So Karen went with
the Marshals Service and her dad told her she was crazy, have to put up
with all that bureaucratic bullshit.

Karen was five-nine in the medium heels she wore with her black Chanel
suit.  Her marshal's star and ID were in her handbag, on the seat with
the court papers.  Her pistol, a Sig Sauer .38, was in the trunk with
her ballistic vest, her marshal's jacket, several pairs of handcuffs,
leg irons with chains, an expandable baton, Mace, and a Remington
pump-action shotgun.  She had locked the pistol in the trunk so she
wouldn't have to check it inside the prison.  The Sig Sauer was her
favorite, her evening-wear piece;

she didn't want to have to worry about some guard fooling with it.

Okay, she was ready.  Karen took a final draw on the cigarette and
dropped it out the window.  She straightened the rearview mirror to
look at herself and right away turned her face from the glare: the
headlights of the car behind her still on high beam.

THREE

UDDY SAW THE mirror flash and blond hair in his headlights, a woman in
the blue Chevy Caprice parked right in front of him, Florida plate.

He didn't see anyone in the other cars in the first row.  Good.

Cons were coming in from the athletic field, but he didn't see any
hacks running around like crazy or hear any whistles blowing.

That was even better.  He was on time.  After busting his tail to get
out here he wouldn't mind relaxing for a few minutes.  He still
couldn't believe his luck, getting hold of Glenn with just a few hours
to spare, tell him it was on.  Not Sunday, today, now.

Glenn wanting to know how come.  Buddy said, "We don't have time to
chat, okay?  Pick up a car and be waiting where I showed you.  Sometime
after six.  Glenn?  A white car."

Glenn didn't see what difference it made.

"So we're fairly sure it's you," Buddy said, "not some cop sitting in
an unmarked car with a radar gun.  And don't wear your sunglasses."

Glenn argued about that, too, and Buddy told him, "Boy, do as I say and
you'll get by."

Buddy had to hurry to pick up a car himself, a white one Foley would
spot without looking all over the parking lot, then drive most of three
hours to get here from the Miami area.

As minutes passed he wondered if the woman in the Chevy was sitting
there waiting for Cubans to come crawling out of a hole.  He knew
Latins liked Chevys and this woman could be Latina herself with dyed
hair.  Buddy turned his head this way and that looking around,
wondering if there were other cars here waiting to pick up convicts.
Like a commuter station, wives come to pick up their hubbies.

The blonde was in the right spot.  Foley had told Adele the second
fence post from the gun tower by the chapel, that was where they'd come
out.

Buddy hated gun towers, even from outside the fence, the idea of a man
up there with a high-powered rifle watching every minute you're in the
yard.  Foley would look up at a tower and say, "Imagine hoping to see a
man on the fence so you can shoot him off it.  Praying for the chance.
What kind of a man is that?"  Buddy would say your common, garden
variety hack, mean and stupid.

This was when they first met, found they'd both been doing the same
kind of work and became friends for life at USP Lompoc: five miles from
the Pacific Ocean and full of big-time

California dopers, con men, swindlers .. . Foley would say, "Buddy,
what're a couple of pros like us doing in this dog pound, associating
with misfits, snitches and dysfunctional assholes?"

They got their release three months apart.

Buddy, out first, stayed in L.A. with his older sister, Regina Mary, an
ex-nun who lived on welfare, drank sherry wine and went to Mass every
day to pray for Buddy and the poor souls in Purgatory.  When Buddy was
on the road doing banks he'd call her every week and send money.  In
the joint all he could do was write, since Regina wouldn't accept
charges if he phoned.

Foley came out with his fifty dollars gate money and took a bus to L.A.
where Buddy was waiting for him in a car he'd boosted for the occasion.
That same afternoon they hit a bank in Pomona-the first time either one
had worked with a partner cleared a total of fifty-six hundred from two
different tellers at the same time, and drove to Las Vegas where they
got laid and lost what was left of their fifty-six hundred.  So they
went back to L.A. and worked southern California a few months as a
team:

two tellers at the same time, seeing who could score more than the
other without setting off alarms.  Buddy sure missed his partner.

When Foley first called him about this business, Buddy was still out in
California staying with his sister.  He said, "For Jesus sake, what're
you doing back in the can?"

"Looking for a way out," Foley said.

"A judge with bugs up his ass gave me thirty years and I don't deserve
to be here.  It's full of morons and misfits but only medium security,
if you get my drift."  The reason he was in Florida, he said, he'd come
to see Adele.

"Remember how she wrote the whole time we're at Lompoc?"

"After she divorced you."

"Well, I was never much of a husband.  Never helped her out with
expenses or paid alimony."

"How could you, making twenty cents an hour?"

"I know, but I felt I owed her something."

"So you did a bank in Florida," Buddy said.

"It reminded me of the time in Pasadena, I come out and the goddamn car
wouldn't start."

"You talked about it for seven years," Buddy said, "wondering why you
didn't leave the engine running.  Don't tell me the same thing happened
in Florida."

"No, but it was like that.  Like my two biggest falls were on account
of cars, for Christ sake."

"You got in an accident?"

Foley said, "I'll tell you about it when I see you."

From then on it was Adele who called, always from a pay phone, to speak
about this business with the Cubans.

By the time a date was set, Buddy had motored out from California and
rented a one-bedroom unit in the Shalamar Apartments in Hallandale.  It
was on the ocean, just north of Miami.

Then Adele had called to say it was tonight and, man, he'd have to
move.  Got Glenn off his ass, then went out to look for a car and found
the ideal getaway vehicle in a Dania strip mall:

white Cadillac Sedan De Ville Concours.  Buddy was about to jimmy the
door when he saw a woman coming from WinnDixie, middle-aged, wearing
pearls and high heels in the afternoon, but pushing the cart full of
groceries herself, so she wouldn't have to tip a carryout boy, some
poor Haitian who'd come here in a rowboat.  Buddy stuck the jimmy in
his pants, against the small of his back.  He waited until the woman
was opening her trunk before coming forward with, "Here, lemme help you
with those, ma'am."  She didn't seem too sure about it, but let him
load the groceries in the trunk and take the key out of the lock.  The
woman said, "I didn't ask for your help, so don't expect a tip."

Buddy waved it off.

"That's okay, ma'am."  He said, "I'll just take your car."  Got in and
drove off.  The woman might've yelled at him, but with the windows shut
and the air on high he didn't hear a thing.  It was the first time he'd
ever picked up a car this way, sort of like what they called
car-jacking.

A quarter to six.  If it was going to happen the way Foley said, it
should be any second now.  Almost all the cons were in from the
athletic field, a few stragglers coming along in no hurry, moving
through the spotlights.

Now Buddy was watching the woman in the Chevy again.  He saw her hand
come out the window to drop a cigarette and it made him think she did
know about the break and was getting ready.  He saw her other hand
raise, inside the car, to the mirror and saw his headlights flash on
the mirror again, the same way it happened before, when he first
arrived.  Moments later the Chevy's lights were turned off.  Buddy was
pretty sure she'd be getting out of the car now.

He waited, anxious to see what she looked like.

FOUR

OLEY WATCHED THE Pup creep up the aisle toward the front of the chapel,
eyes on the floor, no doubt listening for sounds from below.  Sure
enough, he said, "I don't hear nothing."

"They're not digging now, Pup, they're done.  Six of 'em in the tunnel
as we speak, ready to go."  Foley thought of something he might need to
know and said, "What do you say when you're reporting a break?"

"That's an amber alert," Pup said.

"You sure they're down there?"

"I saw 'em duck into the crawl space."

"Where's the tunnel come out?"

"Second fence post from the tower out there.  Go on, take a look."

Pup turned his back, walked up the aisle and across the front of the
pews to a window.  Lights in the compound reflected on the glass and
turned the shades a dirty yellow.  Pup said, "I don't see nothing
there."

Foley, picking up his jacket with the two-by-four baseball bat, moving
through the pews to the window aisle, said, "You will directly.  Keep
watching."

Pup said, "They's nobody in tower six this time of day-if they do come
out."

Foley said, "You think they don't know that?"  moving up behind Pup,
seeing the guard shirt stretched tight across the man's back, a lot of
heft to him.  Foley let his jacket slip to the floor; he held the
two-by-four in his left hand now, down against his leg.

Pup said, "There some car headlights out there ..."  Now he was pulling
his radio from his belt saying "Jesus Christ .. ."

Saying into the radio, "Man outside the fence!  By tower six!"

Nothing about it being an amber alert-too excited.  Foley edged in
closer to see the car headlights in the parking lot shining on the
fence, a dark-blue car and a white one behind it that had to be Buddy,
bless his heart.  Foley on his toes now looking at freedom, feeling
it-man, right there-as the Pup was identifying himself, saying this was
Officer Pupko and where he was, sending out the word too soon, before
Foley was ready.  He saw a figure by the fence now, lit blue in the
headlights, as Pup was yelling into his radio, "I'm looking at him, for
Christ sake!"

Foley took a moment to remind himself not to hold back, to follow
through.  Hold back, you make a mess.  He got the angle he wanted,
stepped in like he was going for a high hard one and laid the
two-by-four smack against the side of Pup's head.

Dropped him clean with the one swing, bounced him off the window frame
and down without a sound coming from him.

Foley took another look outside, saw two figures now by the fence,
before he stooped down to get Pup undressed.  Undo his shirt buttons
and then roll him facedown, the Pup alive but dead weight.  Man, it was
work getting the shirt off, Pup not helping any.  Foley quick put it on
over his T-shirt.  He heard a car horn blowing now, somebody leaning on
it, maybe Buddy trying to tell him something.  Like come on, move.  He
saw he wouldn't have time for the pants; he'd have to chance his prison
blue wouldn't be noticed in the dark.  Foley squared Pup's cap, too
small for him, tight over his eyes, picked up the flashlight and
slipped out the front door into the ficus bushes.

Karen had the court papers in her hand, ready to get out of the car.
She saw prisoners still coming in from the athletic field, passing left
to right in her view, all of them some distance from the fence.  She
opened the car door .. .

Wait a minute.

One of the guys, a figure she hadn't noticed before this moment, was
right by the fence.  Close enough to touch it.  The guy crouched ... or
on his hands and knees.  Karen popped on her headlights again and saw
him clearly.

Not crouched.

The guy was coming out of the ground.

On this side of the fence.

Reaching down now as head and shoulders appeared and another one came
out of the ground.

Right in front of her.  Not twenty yards from the car.  Two guys
breaking out and no siren or whistle going off, prisoners still
crossing the compound, not even aware .. .

Karen leaned on the horn, held it down and saw the two guys by the
fence, both Latins, looking into her headlights, poised there for a
moment before taking off in the dark, down the fence that ran along the
athletic field.  By the time the third one appeared, came out of the
hole followed by another convict on his heels, Karen was out of the
car.

Buddy didn't see them right away.  The woman commenced blowing her horn
and that got him sitting up.  He still didn't realize the break was on
until the woman was out of the car and he saw her looking off to the
left, along the fence.  By the time he saw the two cons they were
running away from the fence, cutting across the road that came in from
the highway, the two all of a sudden in a spotlight beam that angled
out from the tower at the far end of the athletic field, the spotlight
following them, its beam holding, and now the sound of rifle reports
were coming from out there, the guard in the far tower trying to gun
them down as they ran for an orange grove and disappeared from sight.
When Buddy looked for the woman again she was right in front of him-her
blond hair in his headlights, long slim legs, hell, a girl-at the trunk
of her car raising the lid.

Buddy's first thought, She's gonna put a con in there, help him
escape.

He watched her duck her head in the trunk and come out with a bolstered
pistol, what looked like some kind of automatic.

Jesus, even ready to shoot their way out.

But then she threw the pistol in the trunk, ducked in there again and
came out this time racking a pump-action shotgun.

Buddy watched her hurry to the front of her car and raise the shotgun,
looking off, but the two cons were gone.  Now a whistle was blowing
inside the compound.

Buddy saw convicts in there gathering, looking this way, hundreds of
them bunched in groups, but no hacks in sight.  He told himself he'd
better get out of the car, be ready.  Whether he wanted to or not.

Once he was out he saw the girl, still by the front of her car, had the
shotgun on two more cons, both filthy dirty, standing by the hole they
must've come out of, the girl telling them to get their hands in the
air.  She sure as hell wasn't here to help anybody escape.  So who was
she?  Buddy could see the two cons making up their minds, couple of
Latinos, already edging away-shit, they'd come this far.  They looked
out at that spotlight sweeping around in the dark, then looked the
other way, along the fence toward the main gate, to see armed hacks
coming out on the run, and that decided it for the two cons.

They took off toward the road.  Buddy saw the woman, this good-looking
girl in a short skirt, put her pump gun on them and knew she couldn't
miss, but she didn't fire.  No, the hacks coming from the main gate,
five of them with rifles and shotguns, they beat her to it, opened up
all at once and kept firing and Buddy saw the two convicts cut down as
they ran.

The hacks were looking this way now; they couldn't miss seeing the girl
standing there in her headlights, but they didn't bother with her-Buddy
realizing they knew who she was.  They were more interested in the hole
the convicts had come out of.  Now they were standing by it peering in,
edging closer with their weapons ready, then all stepped back at once,
bumping into each other.

A head appeared wearing a guard's baseball cap, head and shoulders now
coming out of the hole, the guy saying something to them, his face
beneath the cap smeared with muck, shaking his head now, excited.  One
of the hacks was speaking into his radio.  Another extended his rifle
for the one in the hole to grab the barrel and get pulled out.  But the
one in the hole kept yelling and pointing out at the dark, toward the
orange grove.  Finally when the hacks moved off they checked the two
convicts they'd shot, kicked at them to see if they were still alive
and then kept going, and the one in the hole climbed out.

Buddy knew it was Foley, taking his time now to put on a show, standing
with his hands on his hips like an honest-to-God hack, that serious cap
down on his eyes.  Buddy moved up to his headlights, raising his arm
and waving at Foley to come on, and saw the girl turn enough to put the
shotgun on him.  Buddy raised the palm of his hand to her saying, "It's
okay, honey, we're good guys."  Buddy wanting to appear calm, wanting
to believe he'd have no problem with this cute-looking blonde-maybe a
probation officer, though he didn't think probation officers were ever
armed.

She said, "What're you doing here?"  Not so much asking, putting it to
him the way cops did when they were already pretty sure of what you
were doing.  She glanced around to include Foley.  She knew, all right,
but with the two of them to watch was too late making her move.  She
saw Foley coming at her filthy dirty, like a creature out of the swamp,
giving Buddy time to take her around the neck.  She fought him, jabbing
him in the gut with the butt end of the shotgun, before Foley got in
there to wrench it from her grip.  They dragged her to the rear end of
the Chevy, the trunk lid still up, and crouched there as some hacks
came running along the fence past the dark gun tower and crossed the
road toward the orange grove.  Pretty soon they heard bursts of
gunfire, then silence.

Foley said, "I bet that's all the hacks they send out.

Otherwise nobody's left to mind the store."

Buddy said, "Why don't we talk about it later."

He turned his head to see Foley and the young woman staring at each
other in the Cadillac headlights, neither one seeming mad or scared,
Foley saying to her, "Why you're just a girl.  What do you do for a
living you pack a shotgun?"

She said to him, "I'm a federal marshal and you're under arrest, both
of you guys."

Foley kept staring like he was giving the situation serious thought,
deciding now what to do with her, Jesus, a U.S.

marshal.  But what he said was, "I bet I smell, don't I?"  And then he
said, "Listen, you hop in the trunk and we'll get out of here."

FIVE

AREN THOUGHT THEY'D put her inside and leave and she felt around to
find her handgun, quick, the Sig Sauer, before they closed the trunk
lid and she'd have to kick at it and yell until someone let her out.
There, she felt the holster, slipped the pistol out and closed her hand
around the grip ready to go for it, six hollow points in the magazine
and one in the throat, ready to come around shooting if she had to. But
now the one in the filthy guard uniform gave her a shove and was
getting in with her she couldn't believe it-crawling in to wedge her
between the wall of the trunk and his body pressed against her back,
like they were cuddled up in bed, the guy bringing his arm around now
to hold her to him, and she didn't have room to turn and stick the gun
in his face.

The trunk lid came down and they were in darkness, total,

not a crack or pinpoint of light showing, dead silent until the engine
came to life, the car moving now, turning out of the lot to the road
that went out to the highway.  Karen pictured it, remembering the
orange grove and a maintenance building, then farther along the road
frame houses and yards where some of the prison personnel lived.

His voice in the dark, breathing on her, said, "You comfy?"

The con acting cool, nothing to lose.  Karen was holding the Sig Sauer
between her thighs, protecting it, her skirt hiked up around her hips.
She said, "If I could have a little more room"

"There isn't any."

She wondered if she could get her feet against the front wall, push off
hard and twist at the same time and shove the gun into him.

Maybe.  But then what?

She said, "I'm not much of a hostage if no one knows I'm here."

She felt his hand move over her shoulder and down her arm.

"You aren't a hostage, you're my zoo-zoo, my treat after five months of
servitude.  Somebody pleasant and smells good for a change.  I'm sorry
if I smell like a sewer, it's the muck I had to crawl through, all that
decayed matter."

She felt him moving, squirming around to get comfortable.

"You sure have a lot of shit in here.  What's all this stuff?

Handcuffs, chains .. . What's this can?"

"For your breath," Karen said.

"You could use it.  Squirt some in your mouth."

"You devil, it's Mace, huh?  What've you got here, a billy?

Use it on poor unfortunate offenders .. . Where's your gun, your
pistol?"

"In my bag, in the car."  She felt his hand slip from her arm to her
hip and rest there and she said, "You know you don't have a chance of
making it.  Guards are out here already, they'll stop the car."

"They're off in the cane by now chasing Cubans."

His tone quiet, unhurried, and it surprised her.

"I timed it to slip between the cracks, you might say.  I was even
gonna blow the whistle myself if I had to, send out the amber alert,
get them running around in confusion for when I came out of the hole.
Boy, it stunk in there."

"I believe it," Karen said.

"You've ruined a thirty-five hundred-dollar suit my dad gave me."

She felt his hand move down her thigh, fingertips brushing her
pantyhose, the way her skirt was pushed up.

"I bet you look great in it, too.  Tell me why in the world you ever
became a federal marshal, Jesus.  My experience with marshals, they're
all beefy guys, like your big-city dicks."

"The idea of going after guys like you," Karen said, "appealed to
me."

"To prove something?  What're you, one of those women's rights
activists, out to bust some balls?  I haven't been close to a woman
like you in months, good-looking, smart ... I think, man, here's my
reward for doing without, leading a clean, celibate life in there, and
you turn out to be a ball buster  Tell me it ain't so."

"How would you know if I'm smart or not?"

"See?  Putting me in my place, that's the same as ball busting

I should've known you're a militant female, girl who packs, hauls all
this crime-stopping equipment around .. . But, listen, just 'cause I've
done without doesn't mean I'm gonna force myself on you.  I've never
done that in my life."

It amazed her, the guy trying to make a good impression.

"You wouldn't have time anyway," Karen said.

"We come to a roadblock they'll run the car, find out in about five
seconds who it belongs to."

His voice breathing on her said, "If they get set up in time, which I
doubt.  Even if they do they'll be looking for Cubans, little fellas
with black hair, not a big redneck driving a Chevy.

I'm leaving this trip in the hands of my Lord and Savior and my old pal
Buddy.  He's pure redneck.  You know how you tell?  He never takes his
shirt off."

Feeling free and talkative.  Karen kept quiet.

"I mean in the sun, like when we're in the yard.  Joint out in sunny
California only a few miles from the ocean, never once took his shirt
off.  Has one of those farmer tans.  You see Buddy in the shower, his
face and arms have color but his body's pure white.  Good guy, though,
wrote to his sister ever week without fail.  He'd tell her what the
weather was like.  She'd write back and tell about her weather, which
wasn't that different.  His sister used to be one of those nuns who
never spoke.  Buddy says she still doesn't talk much, but now she
drinks."

Riding in the trunk of a car with an escaped convict, chatting, passing
the time, the car bumping over back roads, the floor beneath them hard,
un giving  Finally when they picked up speed and were moving in a
straight line, Karen believed they were on 441 now, heading for West
Palm and probably the interstate.  Not the turnpike, you couldn't get
on it from 441.

She felt his hand patting her thigh, inches from her hand gripping the
Sig Sauer.

She said, "Buddy.  That's his given name?"

"One I gave him, yeah."

"Well, what's yours?  It'll be in the paper tomorrow anyway."

He said, "Jack Foley.  You've probably heard of me."

"Why, are you famous?"

"The time I was convicted in California?  They said, "How about telling
us some of the other banks you've done?"  This was the FBI.  They gave
me immunity from prosecution, just wanting to close the case files on
whatever I could give them.  I started listing the ones I could
remember.  After I was done they checked and said I'd robbed more banks
than anyone in the computer."

"How many was it?"

"Tell you the truth, I don't know."

"About how many?"

"Well, going back thirty years, subtract nine years state and federal
time served, starting with Angola.  You know where it is?  Lou'siana. I
started out driving for my uncle Cully when I was eighteen, right out
of high school.  Cully and a guy use to work with him, they went in a
bank in Slidell, over by the Mississippi line?  The guy with Cully
jumps the counter to get to the tellers and breaks his leg.  All three
of us went up.  I did twenty-two months and learned how to fight for my
life.  Cully did twenty-seven years before he came out and died not too
long after in Charity Hospital, I think trying to make up for all the
good times he'd missed.  My other fall, I did seven years,

that was at Lompoc.  I don't mean the place where some of Nixon's
people went, Haldeman, some of those guys.  That was Lompoc FPC,
federal prison camp, the one they used to call Club Fed.  No fence, no
guys with shanks or razor blades stuck in toothbrush handles.  The
worst that could happen to you, some guy hits you over the head with a
tennis racquet."

"I know the difference," Karen said.

"You were in Lompoc USP, the federal penitentiary.  I've delivered
people there."

"Handcuffed to some moron?"

"We have our own plane.  It still isn't any fun."

"The fog'd come in off the ocean," Foley said, "roll in and just sit
there in the yard, sometimes past noon.  So that's nine years, Angola
and Lompoc.  Add county time awaiting hearings, and that hole we just
left, that's more'n a decade of correctional living.  I'm forty-seven
years old and I'm not doing any more time."

Karen said, "You're sure about that?"

"If I go back I do a full thirty years, no time off.  Could you imagine
looking at that?"

"I don't have to," Karen said, "I don't rob banks."

"If it turns out I get shot down like a dog it'll be in the street, not
off a goddamn fence."

"You must see yourself as some kind of desperado."

He said, "I don't know," and was quiet for several moments.

"I

never actually thought of myself that way."  He paused again.

"Unless I did without knowing it.  Like some of those boys of
yesteryear.  Clyde Barrow-you ever see pictures of him, the way he wore
his hat?  You could tell he had that don't-give-as hit air about
him."

"I don't recall his hat," Karen said, "but I've seen pictures of him
lying dead, shot by Texas Rangers.  Did you know he didn't have his
shoes on?"

"Is that right?"

"They put a hundred and eighty-seven bullet holes in Clyde, Bonnie
Parker and the car they were driving.  Bonnie was eating a sandwich."

"You're full of interesting facts, aren't you?"

"It was in May 1934, near Gibsland, Louisiana."

"That's north Lou'siana," Foley said, "a long way from New Orleans,
where I was born and raised.  Once you leave the Big Easy you may as
well be in Arkansas, where Buddy's from originally.  He went up to
Detroit to work in an auto plant once, but didn't care for it, moved to
California.  I remember seeing the movie-it was after I got out of
Angola and started doing banks on my own.  That part where they got
shot?  Warren Beatty and ... I can't think of her name."

"Faye Dunaway.  I loved her in Network."

"Yeah, she was good.  I liked the guy saying he wasn't gonna take any
more shit from anybody."

"Peter Finch," Karen said.

"Yeah, right.  Anyway, that scene where Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway
get shot?  I remember thinking at the time, it wouldn't be a bad way to
go, if you have to."

"Bleeding on a county road," Karen said.

"It wasn't pretty after," Foley said, "no, but if you were in that
car-eating a sandwich-you wouldn't have known what hit you."

"How'd you get the guard uniform?"

"Took it off a hack."

"You killed him?"

"No, hit him over the head-the most ignorant man I ever met in my
life."  He paused and said, "I should talk, after the stunt I pulled to
get sent up this time.  I'd just done a Barnett bank in Lake Worth. I'm
on a side street waiting to turn left on Dixie Highway .. . It's a long
story.  The only reason I was even in Florida I was visiting somebody."
 He paused and said, "I better keep quiet."

"You robbed the bank," Karen said, "in your own car?"

"I wasn't that dumb.  No, but then I got in a situation with the car ..
. The dumbest thing I've ever done."

She felt Foley's fingertips moving idly on her thigh, his voice, quiet
and close to her, saying, "You're sure easy to talk to.  I wonder-say
we met under different circumstances and got to talking-I wonder what
would happen."

"Nothing," Karen said.

"I mean if you didn't know who I was."

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"See, that's what I mean you're easy to talk to.  There isn't any
bullshit, you speak your mind.  Here you are locked up in the dark with
a guy who's filthy, smells like a sewer, just busted out of prison and
you don't even seem like you're scared.  Are you?"

"Of course I am."

"You don't act like it."

"What do you want me to do, scream?  I don't think it would help
much."

Foley let his breath out and she felt it on her neck, almost like a
sigh.  He said, "I still think if we met under different circumstances,
like in a bar .. ."

Karen said, "You have to be kidding."

After that, for a few miles, neither of them spoke until Foley said,
"Another one Faye Dunaway was in I liked, Three Days of the Condor."

"With Robert Redford," Karen said, "when he was young.  I loved it, the
lines were so good.  Faye Dunaway says-it's the next morning after
they've slept together, even though she barely knows him, he asks if
she'll do him a favor?  And she says, "Have I ever denied you
anything?"

" Foley said, "Yeah ..."  and she waited for him to go on, but now the
car was slowing down, coasting, then bumping along the shoulder of the
road to a stop.

Karen got ready.

Foley said, "I don't know anymore'n you where we are."

Still out in the country, Karen was sure of that.  Maybe halfway to
West Palm, or a little more.

She heard the other one, Buddy, outside, say, "You still alive in
there?"

The trunk lid raised.

Karen felt Foley's hands on her, then didn't feel them and heard him
say, out of the trunk now, "Where in the hell are we?"

And heard Buddy say, "That's the turnpike up there.  Glenn's waiting
with a car."

Glenn.

Karen said the name to herself and stored it away.

As Foley was saying, "How do we get to it?"

"Over there, through the bushes."  Buddy's voice.

"You have to climb up the bank."

And now Foley, sounding closer this time, saving, "Come on out of
there."

Karen pushed off, rolled from her right side to her left bringing up
the Sig Sauer in both hands to put it on them, both standing in the
opening, in the dark but right there, close.  She said, "Get your hands
up and turn around.  Now."

They were moving as she heard Foley say, "Shit," and saw the trunk lid
coming down on her as she fired the .38 pointblank, fired again and
fired again through the trunk lid slamming shut, locking her in with
the deafening sound, again in the close dark.

They had moved so fast in opposite directions she didn't think she'd
hit either one.  She listened, but didn't hear a sound now, pretty sure
they were getting her shotgun from the car and would be right back.

Six UDDY SAID HE forgot she had a piece in there--all that was going
on-even saw her throw it back in the trunk when she brought out the
shotgun.  He said to Foley they may as well leave her, they were
leaving the car and had to leave her someplace anyway, what was the
difference where?

It was already set in Foley's mind she was going with them.

He wasn't finished talking to her.  He wanted to sit down with her in a
nice place and talk like regular people.  Start over, let her get a
look at him cleaned up.  Even if he had time he wouldn't be able to
explain why he wanted to talk to her some more, that wasn't clear in
his mind, so all he said was, "She's going with us."

Buddy gave him a funny look, a frown.  He said, "Jesus Christ, what
were you doing in there?  I can understand you need to get laid, but
you have Adele, don't you?"

"Get the shotgun," Foley said, "and her purse.  I'd like to know who
she is."

"I already looked," Buddy said.

"Her name's Karen Sisco, like the Cisco Kid only spelled different,
S-i-s-c-o."

Foley said, "Karen Sisco," nodding a couple of times.

"I

wonder if she's ever called that, the Sisco Kid."

Headlights would come at them from the direction of West Palm and
they'd keep to the narrow space between the car and the concrete
abutment of the overpass.  A sheriff's office green and-white went
screaming past, gum balls flashing, then another one and another, a
string of green-and-whites in the space of a minute, going out to chase
after escaped convicts.

No time for a car sitting dark under an overpass.

When the road quieted down Foley stepped up to the Chevy's trunk,
keeping to the side of it, and banged on the sheet metal once with his
fist.

"Karen?  Be a good girl now, you hear?  I'm gonna let you out."

Foley jumped at the sound of a pistol shot, muffled from inside the
trunk but real, the bullet ripping through metal.

He yelled at her, "You're putting holes in your car!"  and looked up to
see Buddy, with the shotgun and a black leather handbag, staring at
him.

Foley took a moment to settle down before saving, "We're not leaving
you.  I'm gonna open the trunk enough for you to throw the gun out.
Okay?  You shoot-Buddy's got your shotgun, he says he'll shoot back if
you do and I can't stop him.

So it's up to you."  Foley put his hand out and Buddy, still looking at
him funny, gave him the keys.

They heard a voice yell "Hey!"  Not from the trunk, a clear sound
coming from somewhere above them.

"It's me, Glenn."

Foley stepped out in the open, Buddy close behind.  They looked up to
see a figure, head and shoulders against the evening sky, leaning on
the concrete overpass rail.

"Hey, Jack, good to see you, man.  The fuck're you guys shooting at?"

Buddy raised his voice saying, "We'll be there in a minute."

"I don't mean to complain," Glenn said, "but you know how long I've
been here?  Florida Highway Patrol comes by I'm fucked."

Foley looked at Buddy.

"Do we need him?"

"Three green-and-whites saw us," Buddy said.

"One of 'em starts thinking, What's that car doing there?  Ties it to
the break and turns around .. . We got to get out of here."

Foley, looking up at the overpass again, said, "Hey, Studs?"

sounding surprised.

"We thought you were somebody else."

Glenn straightened, tossing his hair out of his face.

"Man, I haven't heard that since Lompoc."

Foley waited.

Glenn said, "You guys .. ."  shaking his head now.

"I'm risking my ass for you and I don't even know why."

"Sure you do," Foley said, making the effort to sound pleasant.

"We're your heroes."

He walked back to the Chevy and banged on the trunk.

"You coming out?"

Foley stuck the key in the lock, standing right in front of the trunk,
and turned to Buddy.  Buddy walked up to the trunk and racked the pump
on the shotgun.  Foley said, close to the sheet metal, "You hear
that?"

He turned the key and raised the trunk lid.

Karen, hunched in there, extended her arm, her hand holding the Sig
Sauer auto by the barrel.  She said, "You win, Jack."

Buddy gave him another funny look.

If he leaned out over the rail Glenn could see part of the open trunk,
Foley reaching a hand in to help someone get out.

Jesus, a girl.  Standing by the car now smoothing her skirt, touching
her hair.  Guy busts out of stir and picks up a girl?

Now they were crossing the ditch into weeds and some bushes; he
wouldn't see them again until they came up the grade.  Or, she worked
at the prison and Foley grabbed her, used her as a shield going out.

Glenn thought about it returning to the car he'd left on the grassy
side of the road, trouble lights blinking just in case: a black Audi
sedan he'd taken up to 137 miles an hour when he first hit the turnpike
at Palm Beach Gardens.

Or, Buddy brought her for Foley and he was so horny he couldn't wait,
gave her a jump in the trunk of the car.  Not in the backseat with
Buddy watching.  It was a possibility.  Except these two guys never
lost their cool or acted crazy.

Glenn had gotten to know them at Lompoc USP, a twenty four-year-old
fish looking around for any reasonably intelligent guys who read books
or at least weren't fucking morons.  Buddy asked him what he was doing
and Glenn said networking, trying to find out who he should know and
who he should stay away from.  Buddy said he meant how much time was he
doing. Oh, two to five, Glenn said, for grand theft auto, but it looked
now like he was doing the whole five.  He didn't explain that until
later. What he told them was he stole Porsche and Mercedes top
of-the-line models he picked up on special order and delivered anywhere
in the U.S. with clean titles.  He told them he'd spot the car a
customer wanted and use a slim jim or lemon pop to get in, a slap
hammer to yank the ignition, a side lack to extract steering column
locks and usually liquid nitrogen to freeze the alarm system.

See if that impressed them.

Foley said between him and Buddy they'd boosted three to four hundred
cars in their time, but never sold any or kept them for more than a
couple of hours.

These were cool guys for hicks, both fairly tall and stringy, Buddy
with dark curly hair that was always slicked back-he kept a comb in his
pocket-and looked wet.  Foley's light-brown hair was short and thick
enough he could do okay combing it with his fingers.  Foley smoked
cigarettes, Buddy dipped Skoal, stuck it behind his lower lip.  They
didn't seem in great shape-they'd rather watch than work out-but both
had that hard-boned look, like they'd worked construction or in oil
fields all their lives instead of robbing banks.  Easygoing but looked
you right in the fucking eye when you spoke to them or they had
something to say.

Glenn stayed close to them and was never seriously apT

pro ached by any perverts or butt fuckers.  Foley said, "Don't take it
up 'less you think you might like it."  Buddy said, "What you do, just
say no, then kill the guy."  They watched each other's backs and never
had any trouble they weren't able to stare down, giving ill-tempered
assholes a calm look that said, Fuck with us, man, at your own risk.

Glenn believed they let him hang around because he was from L.A."  West
Hollywood, he knew what was happening, had even spent a couple of years
at Berkeley but never copped a superior attitude.  He'd tell them
stories about when he was in the car-detailing business and got laid a
lot: how he'd work on cars at these multimillion-dollar homes in
Beverly Hills and wait for the lady of the house to make the move.  Get
asked in for a cold drink, a dip in the pool?  It happened, man, more
often than you'd think, couple of times even with movie stars.

This was when they started calling him Studs.

One day in the yard Glenn said, "I'm gonna tell you guys something only
one other person here knows about.  I was originally at FPC, the camp
over there?  And was transferred here with another guy for trying to
escape."

See what they thought.

"You know Maurice Miller in the boxing program they call Snoopy? Fights
lightweight?  He was at FPC doing a gig for fraud, I think credit
cards.  Anyway, we went out one night jogging, like Snoopy's doing road
work and I'm his trainer.  We made it almost all the way to Vandenberg
and got picked up by air base MPs.  They thought we were a-wol."

Buddy asked him was he nuts?  Do an easy two or even less of his
two-to-five at the country club, cable TV, salad bar in the chow hall,
and he'd be out.  Now he'd have to do the whole five.

"In an altogether different kind of mind-fucking incarceration," Glenn
said.

"I knew if we didn't make it Snoopy and I'd get sent here or some other
max joint.  There're some scary fucking slams you can get sent to,
Marion, Lewisburg .. .

Maybe I was pumped, a little overanxious, but at the time I didn't
worry about getting caught.  See, what happened, I got next to a guy
over at FPC doing three years on a felony conspiracy thing, strictly
white collar.  He got the three years and was fined-listen to
this-fifty million dollars and wrote 'em a fucking check.  Like that,
fifty mil, signed his name."

Foley said, "One of the Wall Street scammers," and he was right.  He
said, "I remember reading about the guy.  Went up for insider trading.
Paid off snitch brokers to give him information on stock deals before
they went down.  Like takeovers."  Telling this to Buddy, who didn't
know shit.

"A company buys out another company and the bought company's stock goes
up.  So if you have the inside scoop, you know it's gonna happen, you
buy in just before it goes up and then sell when the stock peaks."

This fucking guy Foley, never even went to college.

"That's basically what he did," Glenn said, "made a fortune."

"Everybody thought the guy was a genius," Foley said, "till they found
out he made it the old-fashioned way, he stole it."

"Anyway," Glenn said, "here's a multimillionaire making eleven cents an
hour mopping floors, sweeping the tennis courts .  Guy that used to be
on the phone he said eighteen hours a day, had over a hundred
extensions in his office, now has to stand in line to make a call.  But
the thing I'm getting at, the guy loved to talk."

"Yeah, to the U.S. attorney," Foley said.

"He rolled over on all the snitches he was doing business with and got
'em brought up.  I can't think of the guy's name."

Glenn waited.

And Foley said, "Ripley.  Richard Ripley.  Called Dick the Ripper on
account of how he ripped off the stock market.  Big good-looking guy,
but I think he wore a rug."

"Not at FPC," Glenn said.

"He was vain, though.  What he talked about most of the time, outside
of the market, was himself, and I listened.  Anybody that can write a
check for fifty mil, he says anything, I'm all fucking ears.  See, my
bunk was right above his.  I was polite, I played kiss-ass to a degree,
I'd stand in the phone line for him; we're out gardening I'd do the
stoop work and let him rake .. . All this time he's talking about what
a high roller he is and I'm taking it all in.  I learn he's got money
in foreign banks, plus, around five mil in hard cash, plus, loose
diamonds and gold coins, a shitload of coins worth around four bills
each.  The man actually told me, five mil in cash.  He said, quote,
"Where I can put my hands on it anytime I want."

Nothing to it."

Foley said, "He keeps it at home?"

Buddy said, "Yeah, where's the guy live?"

Glenn hesitated and Foley said, "He must've been getting out soon."

"He's out now.  It was in the paper."

"I mean when you and Snoopy jogged away from FPC.  You mentioned you
were anxious.  It sounds like you wanted to get to Ripley's house
before he got his release.  Is that it, you couldn't wait?"

"You might say I was highly motivated," Glenn said.

"Five mil sitting there waiting?  All I have to do is walk out?  No
fence, no gun towers.  The only thing to stop anybody from leaving is a
sign that says Off Limits.  Man, once I was pumped up-listen, they
would've had to fucking chain me to a wall to keep me there."

"But you didn't make it," Foley said, "you and Snoopy.  You know he was
Maurice "Mad Dog' Miller back when he was a pro?  Now you pet him he
goes down."

"I didn't bring him along as a bodyguard," Glenn said.

"Maurice happens to live in Detroit, the same place Ripley has his
home.  No, the Snoop isn't any protection, but he knows the Motor
City."

"So does Buddy," Foley said, "if a guide's all you need."

Neither one of them showing much interest, that time in the yard at
Lompoc USP, five years ago.

Glenn got his release and moved to Florida, second only to California
in the number of cars stolen, but better: car thieves were hustled
through the system and hardly ever had to do time.

So if he ever wanted to get back in the business .. .

He tried to keep in touch with the bank robbers, still at Lompoc, wrote
to them a few times but never heard back, not a word.  So when Buddy
called a few weeks ago it came as a total surprise.

Buddy saying it was a good thing he'd hung on to the letters and wasn't
it a small world: he'd just arrived in Florida and Foley was here, out
at GCI the past five months.  The way Buddy put it, "He don't like it
there and sees a way to bust out.  If you aren't doing anything, you
want to drive one of the cars?

Take a few hours of your time is all."

If he wasn't doing anything.

Glenn said, well, he'd been up to Detroit on a deal, but at the moment
was free.  He said, "Yeah, I think I can make it."

You had to be as cool as these guys.

"Detroit Buddy said, "I spent three years on the line up there at
Chrysler Jefferson till I went crazy and had to quit.  Let me ask
you-you don't see a problem might come out of delivering your special
orders?"

"I'm not in that business anymore," Glenn said.

"No, I went there to look up a friend.  You remember Dick the Ripper we
used to talk about, the Wall Street crook?"

"Wrote a check for fifty million," Buddy said, "you bet I remember
him."

"My first visit I look up Snoopy.  Maurice Miller at Lompoc, the
lightweight?"

"He isn't brain-dead yet?"

"He's a manager now, for some club fighters.  I gave him a hundred to
check out Ripley for me, where he lives and all.

See, I never did tell the Snoop, even back at Lompoc, exactly what it
was about, so he wouldn't know enough to try on his own.  The next time
I go up the Snoop's gonna show me where Ripley lives and maybe where
he's got an office."

Buddy said, "How's a punchy little colored guy find all that out?"

"He's a crook," Glenn said, surprised Buddy would ask.

"He's into credit cards, bank fraud with bogus checks, the Snoop knows
his way around."

"That's interesting," Buddy said, "but what I need to know is if you're
clean.  You been into anything else?"

Glenn hesitated.

"I wasn't what you'd call into anything, no."

"But what?"

He hesitated again.

And Buddy said, "Take your time."

"Okay.  DEA happened to pull a raid on a house in Lake Worth.  Nobody's
home.  They look around, find ten keys of base in the garage, actually
in a Mercedes that happens to have my prints on the steering wheel and
partials on the door handle.

I'm picked up, I tell them there's no fucking way my prints could be on
that car, and I say I want a lawyer.  But then after a while I realize
they could be my prints, and you know how they got there?  Parking
cars.  Two nights a week I worked valet at a place, Charlie's Crab, and
I must've parked the Mercedes sometime during the previous weekend.  I
tell the DEA guys, they give me their fucking bored look.  Ten days I'm
locked up, have to appear twice in federal court.  The first time's a
bond hearing, a joke, like I can post a hundred grand.  The next one's
like a show-cause hearing.  Okay, but by this time the public defender
has actually checked and found out the car was at

Charlie's Crab the night before; they still have the ticket with the
license number on it.  The magistrate, a lovely, intelligent woman,
dismissed the charge and ate the ass out of the assistant U.S. attorney
for being overzealous."

Buddy said, "Nothing else pending?"

"Nothing.  How about if I go see Foley?"

"You don't want your name on the visitors list out there.  Sit tight
till you hear from me."

"You talk to him," Glenn said, "see if he remembers Dick the Ripper.
I'd still like you guys to go in with me.  You think you might be
interested?"

Buddy didn't comment right out and say if they would or not.

Glenn had seen him three times since that phone call.  At a bar in West
Palm near Glenn's apartment.  A hotel in Miami Beach, a dump, where
Foley's ex-wife lived.  Adele.  About forty but not bad looking.  Glenn
stopped by to see her another time that had nothing to do with the
great escape: see if he could get her to put out without begging or
buying her dinner.  And the third time when Buddy drove him out to
Glades Correctional, showed the route he'd take once he had Foley in
the car, and where Glenn would be waiting with the second car.

Right here.

Twenty minutes with the Audi parked off to the side of the turnpike's
southbound lanes, trouble lights blinking, a note stuck in the side
window that said GONE TO GET GAS, Glenn waiting now among scrub pines
and palmettos a good fifty feet from the car.  If any approaching
headlights turned out to be a trooper, Glenn would be out of there,
through the trees and down the grade-about where they should be coming
up now, with the girl Foley must've used as a hostage.  But what good
was she doing him now?  He should've left her in the trunk of the car.
A few more minutes passed before he heard them coming.

SEVEN

AREN TOLD FOLEY, climbing the bank in the dark, it would be a lot
easier if he'd quit hanging onto her.  He let go of her arm and dropped
back a couple of steps saying he was only trying to help, so she
wouldn't slip in the weeds and fall.  Karen said, "You mean and ruin my
good suit?"  The back and the sleeves stained with his muck, the skirt
snagging now in the brush.  He said he didn't want her to hurt herself.
Karen hoped she'd be able to tell about it later.  The conversation in
a trunk full of handcuffs and tactical gear with a bank robber escaped
convict who wondered if it would be different if they'd met in a bar.
Like a first date, getting to know one another.  Her dad would love
it.

"And then what happened?"  That was a good question.

Foley stayed behind her now looking at her slim figure, her legs at eye
level in the short skirt that hiked up on her, tight against her rear
end as she climbed the grade.  Buddy was up ahead.  Foley said, "Have
your clothes cleaned and send me the bill," wanting to say something to
her, keep it light, but he felt awkward with her now, tense.

She said, "I'll send it to you at Glades."

Still not acting scared.

They reached the top of the grade to move through the scrub and now he
could see the car, amber lights blinking.  He didn't see Glenn until he
heard him.

"Jesus, what'd you crawl through, a sewer?"

Standing at the edge of the trees with Buddy saying to him then,
"That's a white car?"

"What's the difference?  It's the only one here."

Glenn had on sunglasses and a limp, ratty-looking raincoat that hung
long on him, open, over a T-shirt and jeans cut off at the knees.

Foley said, "Take your sunglasses off," his tone mild, Karen Sisco
standing only a few feet away.

"I see better with them on," Glenn said.

"I'd take 'em off," Foley said, "before they get stepped on."

He was aware of Karen turning to look at him, but kept his eyes on
Glenn, who gave a shrug, took the glasses off and stuck them in his
jeans.

"Wait in the car," Foley said.

Glenn didn't move.  He said, "You're out in civilization now, man, ease
up."

"I'd like you to go wait in the car," Foley said.

"How's that?

Take her with you and put her in back."

Glenn said, "In the trunk?"

"The backseat."

"What do you need her for?"

Foley stared at him, waiting.

Glenn said, "Busting out of stir can fuck up your nerves, can't it?  I
know, I've been there.  But I'm hanging my ass out for you, man.  I
don't need any get-in-the-car shit.  I'm here, but I don't fucking have
to be here."

Buddy said, "Be cool, Studs.  Are you cool?  Go on, quit talking so
much."

"Studs," Glenn said.

"Now we're old pals again, back in the yard at Lompoc.  How come that
seems like such a long time ago?"  He motioned to Karen saying, "Come
on, have to do what I'm told."

She walked past Foley without looking at him and he said, "Wait a
minute," to Glenn.

"Let me have your raincoat."  He said, "Somebody forgot to bring me
clean clothes," looking at Buddy with a straight face.

He didn't get it.  He said, "I brought 'em, they're back at Glades in
the Cadillac.  You wanted to take her car .. ."

And Karen said, "You can blame me if you want.  I don't mind."

What Foley wanted was to tell them he was kidding, for Christ sake, he
wasn't blaming anyone, he was trying to lighten up, get rid of this
awkward feeling he had.  And since he couldn't do that he kept his
mouth shut and watched Karen walk over to Glenn as he was slipping the
raincoat off.

Glenn saying, "Here you are, sir," folding the raincoat once and then
rolling it up.  He threw the coat to land in the weeds at Foley's feet.
Glenn got his sunglasses out of his jeans then, put them on and took
Karen by the arm toward the car.

Foley watching them.

Close to him Buddy said, "What's wrong with you?"

Foley didn't answer, watching Glenn and Karen standing by the car now,
Glenn talking to her, Karen as tall as he was, facing him, listening,
Glenn looking back this way before opening the door.  Now Karen looked
over, ducked her head and got in the backseat.

She watched Glenn walk around the front of the car to the other side,
open the door and slide in behind the wheel, the inside light on, Karen
getting a look at him before he pulled the door closed.  Glenn half
turned now, laying his arm along the top of the seats.  He hunched a
little to look out the side window, running his hand through his
hair.

"Like I said, I walked away from a prison myself one time, out in
California, so I know what it can do to your nerves, being a wanted
fugitive.  But if he thinks he can talk to me like that .. . Shit, I've
been here over a half hour watching headlights coming this way, hoping
to Christ they don't stop and it's the Florida Highway Patrol, if you
think that's fun.  I even smoked a doob lurking there in the fucking
bushes.  I wouldn't mind another one, either, right now.  How about
you?"  He turned his head enough to look at her, at the same time
running his fingers through his hair.

"You must be scared shitless, get in a situation like this.  You heard
me ask him what he's gonna do with you?  He wouldn't say.  You know
why?  He doesn't know himself.  In stir, he's as cool as they come; but
you get a guy like that outside, now he's a fugitive, he's too fucking
wired to think straight.  Is he gonna let you go or shoot you?  It's
too bad, but I guess you were in the wrong fucking place at the wrong
time.  I imagine you just got off a work .. ."  He turned to stare out
the window again.

Karen leaned forward to have a look.  She saw them against the dark
foliage, one holding her shotgun, the other, Foley-it looked like he
was unbuttoning his shirt, working at it, his head lowered.  They
seemed to be talking.

"What I mean is you can be the man inside," Glenn said, still watching
them, Karen sitting back now, "but out in the world, if you don't know
where you're going, man, you're fucked.  I came out, took a trip up
north and I had something laid out.  I mean something big.  The land,
one score, you retire.  I'd go do it right now, except it's so fucking
cold up there in January."  He paused for a moment and said, "You know
what he's doing?  Taking off that filthy uniform.  He's gonna put my
raincoat on and ruin it.  I bought it at a flea market out in West
Broward, ten bucks.  It's old but, shit, it's a genuine mackintosh. Now
I'll have to have it cleaned.  It didn't do me much good in Detroit, I
froze my ass off and that was in November.  California, all the time I
was out there I never even owned a raincoat.  Come to sunny Florida-I
wasn't here for Andrew, but everybody was talking about it so much, and
then the end of last summer it started raining like hell, the beginning
of hurricane season, so I bought a raincoat.  That flea market, any
time you go out there it's full of Haitians buying all kinds of shit,
radios that don't work, clothes, even canned goods.  I'm not
kidding."

Karen said, "Glenn?"

His head turned and she was looking at his designer shades, small oval
lenses in a gold wire frame.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

She watched him hesitate, uncertain.

He said, "It couldn't have been out at Glades, if that's what you're
thinking.  I was never out there."

Karen shook her head.

He raised his hand to stroke his hair away from his face.

"But you're sure we've met, huh?"

"A couple of times."

"Is that right?  Where?"

"Last fall," Karen said, "I drove you from the Palm Beach county jail
to the federal courthouse, twice.  You're Glenn Michaels.  I never
forget anyone I've cuffed and shackled."

He didn't move or say a word, staring at her now like he'd been turned
to stone.

Karen said, "Let's think for a minute, Glenn, see if we can work this
out.  Is there a gun in the car?"

Foley had his head down, chin on his chest, fingers working at a button
caked with muck.  Buddy, watching him, said, "You're pulling at it.  If
you want to do that-here."  He laid the shotgun in the grass, came up
to take the guard shirt in his two hands and ripped it open, popping
buttons and tearing the shirt.  He wiped his hands on his khaki pants
as Foley threw the shirt in the bushes, picked up the raincoat and put
it on.

"Why you brought Glenn," Foley said, "I'll never know."

"Since I got so many friends here," Buddy said.

"He came through and you treat him like shit."

"He wants something.  It's the only reason he's here.  He gets picked
up doing one of his cars, he'll make a deal and give us up."

"He talks too much, that's all."

"That's what I'm saying."

"Get rid of the cap."

"I don't know why, but every time he opens his mouth I want to punch
him out."

"He ain't the problem, Jack."

"Look.  I couldn't leave her in the trunk.  And that's all I can tell
you."

"You don't want to leave her here, either."

"She's in the car.  You want to go or stand here talking about it?"

"I have a choice?  Okay, first take your head out of your ass, then
tell me why you want to bring her."

Buddy waited.

"You gonna tell me?"

"It's hard to explain," Foley said.

She touched his arm, leaning in close like she was creeping up on him
and Glenn turned away, all the way around to look straight ahead, get
out of her face, Jesus, and try to think.  He wanted to know what Foley
and Buddy were doing, if they were coming, but didn't want to look to
find out.  He had planned to tell them, when they got in the car, he'd
had the Audi up to one thirty-seven in less than half a mile; German
iron, it cruised, man .. . She said his name.

She said, "Glenn, don't think, okay?"  Knowing that's what he was
trying to do.  She said, "Just listen.  You're in a tough spot, but I
think I can help you."

He said, "Hey, wait a minute .. ."  but didn't know what to say after
that.  She asked him again if there was a gun in the car.  The way she
put it this time, "Do we have a gun in the car?"  We.

Like they were together in this.  He remembered her voice now from
before, riding in the GMC van.  She had a nice voice and never raised
it, not even when she was in some moron's face who was giving her a
hard time.  He remembered you could bullshit with her about different
things, this girl no older than he was.  She said his name again.

She said, "Glenn, Foley's not going to make it.  You said yourself he's
too fucking wired to think straight.  And if he goes down .. . Glenn,
you go with him."  She touched his shoulder and he jumped.  She said,
"If I had hair like yours, all that body, I'd never have to put it up."
She said, "I can understand if you and Foley are close ..."

"We're not.  I'm helping him, yeah .. ."

She stopped him.

"Wait.  Have you helped him, Glenn?  At this point, technically, I
doubt you could be charged with aiding a fugitive.  So you still have a
choice."  She said, "You can help him and risk going down again, get
cuffed and shackled, hope to God you pull a reasonable judge, not some
hard-on.  Or, if you want to play it another way .. ."

She paused and Glenn said, "How?"

"All the time we're in the trunk," Foley said, "we're talking, we're
getting along, you might say."

Buddy said, "Jesus Christ," turning his head, as if he didn't want to
hear it.

"Listen to me, all right?  I kept wondering if she and I had met, you
know, under normal circumstances like at a cocktail lounge .. ."  He
stopped, running out of words, Buddy staring at him again.

"You want to take her up to my place," Buddy said, "and get cleaned up?
You come out of the bathroom with your aftershave on and she goes, "Oh,
I had you all wrong'?"

"I want to talk to her again, that's all."

Buddy kept staring at him.

"You're too late, Jack.  You're what you are, clean or dirty.

The best either of us can do is look at nice pretty girls and think,
well, if we had done it different ..."

Foley began to say-he wasn't sure what, something; repeat himself, not
wanting to give up?  He heard Glenn start the car and looked over to
see the headlights pop on.

"He wants to go," Buddy said, "get out of here, and I don't blame
him."

They walked toward the car.

Then stopped and watched as it took off, tires squealing as the rubber
hit pavement.  They watched the taillights until they were out of sight
down the turnpike, neither of them saying a word.

EIGHT

T GOOD SAMARITAN they told Karen she was lucky, all she had was a
concussion, but they'd keep her here till tomorrow, do a few more tests
to make sure.

Her dad came with newspapers and magazines to camp here and watch over
his little girl.  Milt Dancey, her supervisor, came up from Miami to
stand by her bed for two hours.  Flowers came.  Ray Nicolet came, he
kissed Karen on the cheek and touched her hair but could only stay a
few minutes; he was on the Violent Crimes Task Force hunting the
escapees.  More flowers came.  When Daniel Burdon, FBI special agent,
arrived he asked her dad to please wait outside, they had some business
to do here.  He had in his hand a copy of the statement Karen had
dictated to a court reporter that morning.

It was midafternoon now, sunny outside, the private room pleasant
enough, flower arrangements gathering along the window ledge.

Burdon asked her, "What's in the IV?"

"I think just glucose."

"You sweet enough, Karen.  Tell me how you got the bump on your
head."

"Isn't that my report?"

"Read it," Milt said.

"That's why you have a copy."

"I have read it.  What I want is to hear Karen tell it, if it's all
right with her," Burdon said.

"I don't give a shit if it's all right with you, Milt, or it isn't all
right.  You don't even have to be in the room.  This is my
investigation."

Karen's gaze moved from the black special agent who looked like a
lawyer to the overweight old-boy marshal who was all cop, and said,
"Don't hit him, Milt, Daniel's being important.  I don't mind."

Burdon smiled at her.

"I love the way you talk, Karen, like you one of the boys.  So tell me
what happened.  You tried to grab the wheel-where was this?"

"Coming to the Okeechobee exit.  I wanted to get to a phone and thought
of the tollbooth.  We went off the exit ramp, down the grade and I
guess hit the abutment."

"Must not've had your seat belt on."

Milt said, "For Christ sake .. ."

"No, but I did think about it," Karen said, "once I was in the front
seat.  I climbed over .. ."  Swung her leg over the seat in the tight
skirt and told Glenn not to look.  Actually told him that, Don't look.
And smiled for just a moment remembering it.  Burdon was frowning at
her.  She said, "Glenn had it up to a hundred and twenty, blowing past
cars ... I don't mean when we went off the road.  As soon as I saw the
exit and grabbed the wheel, he hit the brakes.  We were going about
fifty when we went off."

"When he had it up to speed," Burden said, "where was he going in such
a hurry?"

"He didn't know, he was running, getting away.  I tried to talk to him.
I said, "Look, if you come in with me you'll be okay.

You haven't really done anything yet."

" Burdon said, "Hadn't done anything?  The man conspired to aid a
fugitive and he's driving a stolen car."

"I told him not to worry about the car; you have to be brought up on
grand theft at least three times before you go down, and even then it
isn't a sure thing.  Forty thousand cars stolen last year in Bade
County, three thousand arrests and half of them never went to court."

"Recite all those stats to him," Burdon said, "it sounds like you're
aiding and abetting."

"I wanted to bring him in."

"After you piled up, you didn't see him?"

"The next thing I knew, the paramedics were taking me out of the
car."

"And nobody else saw him," Burdon said, "that we know of."

Milt stepped in again.

"That's all.  Leave her alone now."

Burdon raised his hand to the marshal without looking at him.

"There a couple of points I keep wondering about have to do with the
two guys that grabbed you.  Buddy is it?  And this fella Jack Foley.  I
looked him up, I swear the man must've robbed two hundred banks in his
time."

Karen said, "Really?"  Impressed, but sounding tired.

"I

asked him how many, he said he wasn't sure.  He's been doing it since
he was eighteen."

"You talked to him, uh?"

"In the trunk, yeah."

"What'd you talk about?"

"Oh .. . different things, prison, movies."

"This fella has you hostage, you talk about movies?"

"It was an unusual experience," Karen said, looking right at Burdon,
the dude Bureau man in his neat gray suit, pale blue shirt and
necktie.

"But I wasn't a hostage."

"What were you then?"

"I was his treat after five months of servitude."

Burdon frowned.

"He assaulted you, sexually?"

"I wasn't that kind of a treat," Karen said.

Now Burdon was studying her lying there in her hospital gown, sheet up
to her chest, something dripping from the IV into her arm.  Maybe he
didn't know where to go with it now, and Karen felt no desire to help
him.

"Wanted to be close to a woman, so he crawled in the trunk with you."

"I don't know," Karen said, looking up at Burdon, standing ten feet
tall by the bed.

He said, "Foley made me think of that fella Carl Tillman, the one you
were seeing, it turns out the same time he was doing banks.  You recall
that?  I said at the time it was a highly unusual situation, find out a
U.S. marshal's fucking a bank robber."  He smiled, just a little.

"See, then you let this guy Foley get away, I couldn't help but wonder,
you know?"

"What?"

"If bank robbers turn you on."

"You're serious."

"Maybe.  I'm not sure I am or not."

"When I was seeing Carl Tillman, I didn't know he robbed banks."

"Yeah, but I had enough reason to believe he did, and I told you.  So
you had to at least suspect him."

Karen said, "And what happened to Carl?"

Burdon smiled again.

"The time came, you shot him.  But you didn't shoot Foley or the guy
with him.  They're unarmed, you had a shotgun and you let them throw
you in the trunk.

Okay, now you got your Sig in your hand.  You say in the report you
couldn't turn around, he had you pinned down.  But when the trunk
opened, how come you didn't cap the two guys then?"

Karen said, "Is that what you would've done?"

"You say in the report Glenn didn't have a gun, but you let him get
away."

Karen said, "Daniel, you're not carrying, are you?"

He hesitated.

"How do you know that?"

"What do you work on most of the time, fraud?  You go after crooked
bookkeepers?"

"Karen, I've been with the Bureau fifteen years, on all lands of
investigations."

"Have you ever shot a man?  How many times have you been primary
through the door?"

"I have to qualify, is that it?"

"You have to know what you're talking about."

She watched him shrug and start to turn away, smoothing the front of
his gray double-breasted suit.  He paused and said, "We'll talk another
time, Karen.  All right?  I'd like to know why Foley put you in that
second car when he didn't need you anymore."

"You'll have to ask him," Karen said.

"Sounds to me he liked having you around.  I'll see you, Karen." Burdon
turned and walked out.

A few moments later her dad came in as Milt Dancey was saying, "The
white man's Burdon.  That's what we call him in Miami."

Her dad said, "That's what everybody calls him in Miami, Miami Beach,
the Metro-Dade guys.  He's got a knack for pissing people off."

"Yeah, but he's got style," Karen said.

"You notice that suit he had on?"

"That combination," her dad said, "it reminded me of the way Fred
Astaire used to dress, the shirt and tie the same shade.  There was a
guy with style, Fred Astaire."  He said, "How you feeling?  You hungry,
you want something to eat?

How about a beer?  I can go out and get some."

"Tomorrow," Karen said.

"I'm not supposed to do anything for at least a week.  I was wondering,
how about if I stay with you a few days?  We'd finally have time to
talk."

"About what?"  Her dad cocked his head looking at her.

"These guys you let get away?  You want to use me, don't you?

Get me to work for nothing."

"You're my dad."

"So?"

Foley held in his hand a credit application brochure that said on the
cover in bold letters:

LOOKING FOR MONEY?  YOU'VE COME

TO THE RIGHT PLACE.

There were headings inside the piece that mentioned auto loans, home
loans, lifestyle loans, but nothing about getting out-of-town loans.
Foley folded the brochure and put it in his pocket.  Now he continued
to study the bank layout, standing at the glass top counter in the
middle of the floor, where the forms were kept.  There were tellers at
three of the five windows, cameras mounted high on the wall behind
them, no security guard in sight, a customer leaving and one coming in,
a guy in a suit with an attache case.  Foley watched him move through
the gate into the fenced-off business area at the front of the bank,
where one of the executives rose from his desk, shook the guy's hand
and they both sat down.  As the guy began opening his case, Foley,
wearing a brand-new Marlins baseball cap and sunglasses, crossed to the
teller window where a nameplate on the counter said this young woman
with a pile of dark hair smiling at him was Loretta.

She said, "How can I help you, sir?"

Foley said, "Loretta, you see that guy talking to your manager, has his
case open?"

She said, "That's Mr.  Guindon, one of our assistant managers.

Our manager is Mr.  Schoen, but he's not in today."

"But you see the guy," Foley said, "with the attache case?"  , Loretta
looked over.

"Yes?"

"That's my partner.  He has a gun in there.  And if you don't do
exactly what I tell you, or you give me any kind of a problem, I'll
look over at my partner and he'll shoot your Mr.  Guindon between the
eyes.  Now take one of those big envelopes and put as many hundreds,
fifties and twenties as you can pack into it.

Nothing with bank straps or rubber bands, I don't want any dye packs, I
don't want any bait money.  Start with the second drawer and then the
one over there, under the computer.  Come on, Loretta, let's go.  Don't
be nervous, the key's right there next to you.  No bills off the bottom
of the drawer.  That's the way, you're doing fine.  The twenties go in
if there's room.  Smile, so you won't look like you're being held up.
Here, give me the twenties, I'll put 'em in my pocket.  Okay, I haven't
had to give my partner a sign; that's good.  Now, he's gonna wait
thirty seconds till after I'm out the door, make sure you haven't
slipped me a dye pack or set off the alarm.  If you have, he's gonna
shoot Mr.  Guindon between the eyes.  Okay?  I think that'll do it.
Thank you, Loretta, and have a nice day."

Foley walked out the front entrance with his head lowered and his knees
bent.  Some banks put a mark on the doorway at six feet, so the teller,
watching the guy go out, can estimate his height.

Buddy was waiting for him across Collins Avenue in a black Honda. Foley
got in and as they drove off Buddy said, "You're a better man than I
am, Gunga Din.  Bust out one day and back to work the next."

"Lompoc," Foley said, "you picked me up and we did the bank in Pomona
the same day."  He was quiet then, looking out the window at pink
hotels, white ones, yellow ones, all past their prime but still doing
business.  He said, "I always feel a letdown after."

"Once you start breathing again," Buddy said.  Foley handed him the
brochure he'd taken and Buddy smiled.  "

"Looking for money?  You've come to the right place."  They got that
right.  It's like they're asking for it.  I can't figure out how nine
out of ten bank robbers get caught."

"They talk about it," Foley said, "or do something dumb, call attention
to themselves.  The time I did the bank in Lake Worth for Adele and
ended up in Glades?  I drove away from the bank and cut through side
streets till I came to Dixie Highway.  I'm waiting for traffic to clear
so I can make a left, I hear this car behind me revving its engine, guy
in a red Firebird Trans Am, can't wait.  He backs up about ten feet,
guns it, cuts around me, tires screaming-it's like he thinks I'm one of
those retirees, takes forever to make a turn.  I'd just robbed a
fucking bank and this guy in the Firebird's showing me what a hotdog he
is."

"So you went after him," Buddy said.

"I made the left and tore after him.  Caught him about a mile down the
road and came up on the driver's side, close, seeing how close I could
come while I stared at him, gave him the look.

He pulled ahead, I came up again and this time I gave him a nudge,
sideswiped him.  I was in a Honda, I think just like this one."

"I read it's the number one choice of car thieves," Buddy said, "your
Honda."

"Yeah, I read that, too.  Anyway, what happened, when I sideswiped the
guy I blew a tire and fucked up the steering,

the car kept going to the right, so I had to pull over.  The guy in the
Firebird-I don't think he had any idea what this was about-he's gone. I
wasn't there two minutes a sheriff's radio car pulls up.

"What seems to be the trouble, sir?"  No trouble, I just robbed a bank
and my fucking car broke down.  Outside of that .. . He's checking my
license when he gets a report about the bank-somebody spotted the
car-so the next time I see him he's pointing a big chromed-up Smith and
Wesson in my face.

The only time I can ever remember losing my temper like that and I draw
thirty to life."

"Time goes by," Buddy said, "you'll think it's a funny story."

"If I'm still around."

"I'll tell my sister, see if she laughs," Buddy said.

"I have to think of things to say to her before making the weekly call,
otherwise we have these long pauses."

"Between your weather reports," Foley said.

Going over the causeway at Haulover Cut, Foley threw his brand-new
Marlins baseball cap out the window.  A few minutes later they dropped
the Honda off at a strip mall and picked up Buddy's car-an '89 Olds
Cutlass Supreme in faded maroon he'd paid cash for in L.A."  costing
him, Buddy said, a bank job and change.

Foley sat in the middle of an imitation Danish sofa in a room with bare
white walls, a TV set and house plants Buddy had bought.  The currency
from the bank, counted now, was on the coffee table in a single neat
stack he could press into a wad that would be not much more than two
inches thick.  Foley raised his voice to tell Buddy, out on the
concrete balcony reading the paper, "Thirty-seven eighty.  That
Loretta's all right."  He got up and walked out into the sunshine.

"She could lose some weight, though, do something with her hair."

Buddy said, "You see your picture?  They pass this one around you can
go anywhere you want, nobody'll know you."

"The straight-ahead mug shot, I wasn't feeling my best that day, I look
like some kind of terrorist.  The one of Chino, he must've been thirty
pounds heavier then."  Foley was looking down at the newspaper Buddy
held open, at the seven head shots in a row across the front page,
beneath a color photo of the red-brick prison.

"Chirino, that's Chino.  He must've put the weight on right after he
quit fighting, then got back in shape to make his run.  Linares, the
cute one, that's Lulu, Chino's girlfriend."

"They're the only two made it," Buddy said.  "

"Four were shot down outside the fence in a hail of gunfire."  All
doing twenty five to life for murder.  Your pal Chino, it says he
hacked a guy to death with a machete."

"He was in a bind," Foley said, "owed a lot of money and got forced
into throwing a fight.  Only he didn't go down in the fourth, when he's
suppose to-couldn't bring himself to do it, fighting this white kid-and
waited till the sixth.  Not only the guy wouldn't pay him, the
promoter, Chino says the dive fucked up his chance of ever going for
the title.  A few years later he's done.  So he got a machete, went to
the Fifth Street Gym, Miami Beach, and used it on the promoter."

Buddy said, "Linares .. ."

"That's Lulu."

"Yeah.  It says he had an argument with his roommate over a bag of
marijuana and shot him nine times in the head with a MAC-10.  Jesus."

"While the guy was sleeping," Foley said.

"I think there was more to it than the grass.  Like jealousy.  Chino
says Lulu was straight before he met him, but I don't believe it.  He
was too good at being a girl."

"It says they're concentrating the search for him and Chirino in
Miami's Little Havana."

"Where're they looking for me?"

"I haven't come to you."

Foley put on his sunglasses.  He moved to the concrete railing to look
out at the ocean and the beach and, directly below, the building's
patio and pool area, seven floors down, everything pink and white.

"They mention Pupko?  That's the guard gave me his shirt."

Buddy looked up from the paper.

"I thought you read this."

"I skimmed it.  The diagram of where they tunneled out from the
chapel's pretty accurate."

"Here it is, Pupko.  Says he was overpowered by the escapees.

"Suspicious when he saw them going in the chapel, Pupko confronted the
inmates .. ."  Wanted to know why they weren't in their dorm for the
evening count.

"While he was held immobile Pupko was struck repeatedly by inmate John
Michael Foley'-there you are-'using a two-by-four from the construction
site.  Foley later made his escape in Pupko's uniform."  It says you
were doing thirty for armed robbery."

"I wasn't armed that time.  I didn't hit the guard repeatedly,

either.  One swing, he went down.  Chino reads that, he's gonna get the
wrong idea."

"FBI, sheriff's office, Florida Department of Law Enforcement are all
out looking for you, but it doesn't say where.

They think you may 'flee the country."

" "I've had to run like hell a few times," Foley said, "but I don't
think I've done any fleeing.  You ever flee?"

"Yeah, I read one time I fled the scene of a robbery.  I don't see
anything about Glenn."

Foley waited, watching him now.

"They found the girl's Chevy, at the Holiday Inn on Southern, right
where we left it.  Nothing about the car we picked up there.

It says the Chevrolet was taken from the GCI parking lot .. ."

"Nothing about Karen?"

"I'm coming to it.  The car, property of the U.S. Marshals Service ..
."  Here.

"Deputy Marshal Karen Sisco had driven from her office in West Palm
Beach to GCI to serve a Summons and Complaint filed by one of the
inmates."  It doesn't say anything about .. . No, here it is.

"Authorities believe Foley used the car in his escape and left it at
the Holiday Inn."

" "Where he took a hot shower and went to bed," Foley said.

"Why don't they know we took her with us?  Maybe they do, but for some
reason they're not saying."

"There's nothing about me," Buddy said.

"No mention of aiding in the escape.  How come?  I mean if she got away
the cops'd know about me, right?"

"She got away from us, yeah."

But what happened after she drove off with Glenn?

He had thought about her last night, trying to fall asleep on the hard
sofa, and had thought about her all day.  Now he was thinking about her
again, looking out at the ocean.

Buddy said, "It's pretty here, isn't it?  If you like looking at views.
I don't think you should go out anymore.  I mean for a couple of weeks,
anyway.  You got the need to do a bank out of your system.  Fell off
your horse and got right back on.  I was thinking we could hire a boat
to take us to the Bahamas for a while.  Get one right at the Haulover
docks, a fishing boat.  Pay the skipper the going rate.  How's that
sound to you?"

"I'd like to know where Glenn is," Foley said, "and what happened to
Karen."

"I imagine somewhere along the line he threw her out of the car and
kept going.  It's what I would've done."

"You don't think she took him in?"

"How would she do that?"

"It's her business.  Has Glenn ever been here?"

"I never told him where I live or gave him my phone number."

"How about Adele?"

"She has my number, yeah, but never called me on her phone."

"If they have Glenn, once he starts talking he'll never stop.

He'll give Adele up in a minute."

Buddy said, "As soon as they check you out they'll see you were married
and divorced.  They get Adele's name, either one, her date of birth,
they've got her.  That's a given.  I even told her, if Foley makes it
they'll be around to see you.  She said, "What do I know?"  You can put
your money on Adele."

"I was thinking," Foley said, "you could give Glenn a call.  If he did
get away and feels safe .. ."

"And if he didn't get away and they hung a wire on his line"

"We could call the West Palm marshal's office."

"For what?"

"See if Karen's there."

"She is, what's that tell us?"

"She's okay, he didn't-you know-do anything to her."

"What if they have that kind of hookup-it gives 'em the number of
anybody that calls?"

"Use a pay phone."

"You're still thinking about her."

"I want to know what happened."

Buddy folded the paper and got up.  He said, "I'll see what I can do,"
and left the apartment.

When they came in last night an old woman asked if they were delivering
her oxygen.  Foley thought he was in a nursing home-all the old ladies
and a few skinny old guys sitting around the lobby.  In the elevator
Buddy said, "They'll stop me and want to know if I'm the laundry man,
or am I from the dry cleaners or the grocery store.  They're outside on
the patio, they're in the lobby, they're like birds sitting on a
telephone line watching everything that's going on.  Can you imagine
bringing that girl marshal through there and up seven floors and not
cause some attention?  You're no problem.  They under stand somebody
wearing a raincoat.  They put on their raincoats any time they see a
cloud.  Over their beaded sweaters.  I've never seen so many beaded
sweaters in one place in my life."

Foley said to him last night, "But you still would've let me bring her
if I had my way.  I'm sorry I acted like an asshole.  I think I'm over
it."

"I might've acted the same way," Buddy said.

"She was the first real girl you'd seen in five months and, man, she
smelled good, didn't she?"

Last night and all day today Foley kept seeing her in different ways:
in the headlights before putting her in the trunk, her face up close,
when she came out of the trunk showing her legs and when she stood
there in the road, her body in profile, her nice tight rear end in that
short skirt; and seeing her close from behind as they climbed the
grade.  Those pictures of her kept popping into his head and he would
take his time looking at them.  He never thought of her in a sexual
way, like picturing her naked or wondering what her bush looked like.
He would remember the feel of her, though, his hand on her arm, on her
thigh with her skirt pushed up.  He could hear her voice, too, saying,
"Why, are you famous?"  Saying, "Are you kidding?"  And coming out of
the trunk, "You win, Jack."  That was his favorite.

"You win, Jack."  He played that one over and over.  She said, "Buddy.
Is that his given name?"  Because he'd slipped and said Buddy was
driving.  Talking too much.  Then had tried to cover by saying it was
the name he'd given him.  What else did he tell her he shouldn't have?
Karen listening to every word.  Alert the whole time.  Smarter than he
was.  Smarter than Glenn, the college boy.

Foley was sure she had talked Glenn into taking off.  Glenn too long
there alone, waiting, scared to death.  But she couldn't still be with
Glenn.  Could she?

If she took him in it would be in the paper.  If she didn't take him
in-what happened?

Buddy wasn't gone long.  He came out to the balcony where Foley was
taking the sun and sat down in one of the plastic deck chairs.

"I called Glenn.  The little fella's answering machine came on saying
he was out and leave a message, but I didn't speak to it."

"I wouldn't either," Foley said.

"Hear yourself talking and nobody's there.  How about the marshal's
office?"

"I asked was Karen there; they said she's on leave, won't be back till
next week."

"Last seen flying down the turnpike," Foley said, "and the next day
goes on her vacation.  How come I knew she wouldn't be there?"

"I guess 'cause you think too much," Buddy said.

"You realize what you're doing?  Worrying about a person that works in
law enforcement.  You want to sit down and have cocktails with a girl
that tried to shoot you.  You hear what I'm saying?"

Foley said, "I should never've got you into this."

"I had my eyes open," Buddy said.

"Listen, you want to go to the Bahamas or not?  It's up to you."

It made sense.  Foley nodded, saying, "It would be a change.

We have enough cash .. . Thirty-seven eighty, that's not bad.

I used the one, the guy talking to the bank manager's my partner.

Guy's an accomplice and doesn't even know it."

"I heard about one," Buddy said, "the guy tells a joke to get the
teller relaxed.  Then hands her a note that says, This is no joke. Give
me all your big bills."

" "That's pretty good."  Foley nodded again and seemed to be thinking
about it.  Finally he said, "You know, after a while it gets to be the
same old thing.  You try to come up with ways to make it
interesting."

"Like any job, sure, it gets boring," Buddy said.

"But there other trades, like burglary, home invasion .. ."

Foley shook his head.

"I couldn't be a burglar, it's too sneaky.  And it's hard work.  You
pick up TV sets, you need a truck.  You swipe jewelry you have to know
if it's worth anything."

"Home invasion they're home," Buddy said.

"You bust in, it's like a holdup.  Or we could do supermarkets, liquor
stores."

"Then you might as well stick to banks," Foley said, "a holdup's a
holdup."  He got up from his chair to look out at the ocean again.

"I'd sure like to know what happened."

"Well, Glenn'd be the one to talk to," Buddy said.

"If they caught him it'd be in the paper, so he must be hiding out. Or,
he might've gone up to Detroit again."  Now Buddy was nodding.

"When I first spoke to him he'd been up there checking things out.  You
remember the Wall Street crook, Dick the Ripper?  That's where he
lives."

"Ripley," Foley said, "sure, I remember him, with the five mil
walking-around money.  Glenn's still talking about that?"

"He wanted to visit you at Glades, see if you're interested."

"I might be, now.  So you think Glenn's in Detroit?"

"If he ain't locked up.  He sure isn't hanging around here.  Not after
leaving us out on the highway."

"I'm not mad at him," Foley said.

"I don't think any less of him than I ever did.  No, but if he's up
there and has it worked out .. ."

"He got hold of Snoopy Miller.  You recall how he was taking Snoopy
with him that time?  He isn't fighting no more, Glenn says he's
managing some guys.  I figure all we'd have to do is find out where
they hold fights and there's Snoopy."

"He takes us to Glenn," Foley said, "and we help him rip off the
Ripper.  That the idea?"

Buddy said, "If you don't mind breaking into the man's home."

"It's the sneaking around in the dark never appealed to me much," Foley
said.

"But you never know if you're gonna like something or not till you try
it.  I never tried okra, even living in New Orleans, till I was a grown
man.  Now I never see it."

"Look at it another way," Buddy said, "there's nothing like work to
take your mind off your worries."

NINE

ER DAD, READING the paper, said, "They're finally offering a reward,
ten grand for information leading to the arrest ..."

The doorbell rang.

"That's on each one.  Somebody could make thirty grand."

Karen got up.  Leaving the room she heard her dad say, "He's late," and
something about missing his program.  It was eight-fifty in the evening
of the third day following the escape.

She opened the door for Ray Nicolet, smiling at her in the porch light.
He said he couldn't find the house, all the trees and vegetation, and
came in saying, "It's like a jungle out there."

"It is a jungle," Karen said.

"I asked my dad if he remembers what the house looks like.  He said,
Teah, it's white."

"He needs a gardener."

"He has gardeners, he likes the seclusion.  When my mom was alive you
could see the house from the street.  She was outside every day
trimming, weeding."

"So, you having a nice visit?"

"He took the week off so we'd have time together.  So far he's played
golf every day.  He watches Jeopardy during dinner and English murder
mysteries after.  Inspector Morse, Wexford .. .

You never see a MAC-10 or blood on the walls."  She told Ray this
bringing him through the dark house to a screened sitting room of
chairs and sofas slip covered in green and red hibiscus patterns.

Her dad sat in soft lamplight with the paper.  Outside, beyond the
garden and a sweep of lawn, was the fifth fairway of the Leucadendra
Country Club.  Karen said, "Dad?  Ray Nicolet?"

Watching them shake hands she said, "Ray's with the Violent Crimes Task
Force, working on the prison break."

"I see that," her dad said, and Ray turned to Karen holding his jacket
open to show the task force inscription on his T-shirt in red, her dad
saying, "In case no one knows what he does."

Ray said, "The reason I'm late-" Got that far as her dad said, "Ray,
answer a question for me."

Karen felt her body tense; but then decided it was okay.  Her dad had
the paper open looking for a story; he wasn't going to ask Ray about
his personal life, his marriage, separation, was he still living at
home, any of that.

"Here it is.  It says in the headline, "I slept with a murT

derer," says shaken Miami woman."  She lives in Little Havana.

The guy comes to her door, says he's a rafter, just made it here from
Cuba and doesn't know anybody or have a place to stay.

She fixes him pork chops and rice, the next thing you know they're
making love on the sofa.  She says he was very gentle."

"I spoke to her," Ray said.

"The guy told her he missed his little girl and she felt sorry for
him."

Her dad said, "That's how you score now?"  He looked at the paper
again.

"Listen to this.

"Afterward, she went to sleep in the bedroom with her children."  She
says, quote, "I don't allow any man other than my husband in our bed."
The husband's out of town, working.  The next morning she fixes the guy
Kellogg's Corn Flakes for breakfast and sends one of the kids to the
store to get him a can of Colgate shaving cream, regular scent."

"You see it," Karen said, "as a testimonial, an ad.  Escaped con swears
by Colgate shaving cream."

"Regular scent," her dad said.

"No, I was wondering how they know this guy's Chirino."

"From her description of him," Ray said, "down to his tattoos, a bee on
each forearm.  Stings like a bee-the guy was a fighter before he went
up.  The woman also said he stole her husband's gun, a twenty-two
pistol, and some of his clothes."  Ray said, "But listen, I have to
tell you die latest."

"Wait."  Karen's dad held up his hand.

"The woman's married.

She goes to bed with this guy because he misses his little girl and
then tells the world about it.  But you don't reveal her name, you
protect her.  It sounds like you're saying it's okay as long as her
husband doesn't find out about it.  Like the guy who cheats on his wife
saying what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

Her dad picked up his drink and Karen said, "Why don't we let Ray tell
us what's going on, okay?"

"I'm pretty sure it'll be on the news tonight," Ray said.

"We got one of them."

Her dad put his drink down.

"No kidding.  Where was this?"

"Out in West Dade, near the turnpike."

"As soon as I saw you offering a reward ..."

Karen said, "Dad."

"... I said to myself, those guys are done, it's over."

Karen said, "Dad."

He looked up at her.

She said to Ray, "Was it Foley?"

They'd had to run almost five miles along the cane before they came to
the gas station on 27, climbed in the back of an empty truck, a big
semi-trailer, and came all the way here that night to find this place
called el Hueco, the Hole: hidden away in the weeds, a camp of
vagrants, men who lived in shacks made from things thrown away, sheets
of plywood, corrugated metal, old doors, seats from cars-all the men
here Cuban; there were no women.  Chino said he was from a raft that
broke up but came ashore, thanks to Holy Mary Mother of God.  He said
he didn't know the other one who came-wearing the same clothes he
did-and tried not to be seen with Lulu,

ing him, "Don't follow me anymore.  Stay away."  By the third day the
two of them worth twenty thousand dollars to any vagrant who could read
a newspaper and think yes, maybe, why not, and walk one mile to the
highway police.

It was Lulu who came to him this morning with the newspaper and accused
him of being with the woman, showing him in the paper where the woman
said she slept with a murderer.  Chino said yes, of course, he went to
find a woman; it had been eight years since he was with one.  And Lulu
said, "You've been with me."  Hurt.  But also with the anger beyond
reason of a jealous woman.  Perhaps the same way he was when he shot
his roommate nine times in the head with a machine gun.  Chino gave
Lulu a shirt and a pair of pants from the woman's house and told him
he'd see him later, when it was dark.  Now he went to talk to a man who
prepared cafe Cubano and smoked Cohiba panatelas listening to Radio
Mambi on his ghetto box; a man named Santiago who trained fighting
cocks, the roosters with their thighs shaved he kept behind chicken
wire in cages; a man who had been here since Mariel, the boat lift and
knew this world.  Chino said to him, "You know the one you've seen
speaking to me?  He's a homosexual."

"I believe it," Santiago said.

"I know he's also a murderer and wants to kill me for a personal
reason.  But I can't go to the police, they know me from another time.
But if you go and tell them where to find the homosexual, they'll give
you ten thousand dollars.  Do you understand what Fin telling you?"

"Clearly," Santiago said.

"Our phone number and the address of the command post on NW 27th were
in the paper, so the guy knew where to come."

Ray Nicolet sat at one end of the sofa now, close to Karen's dad.  Ray
would look up at Karen, standing-she wouldn't sit down-in her jeans and
shirt hanging out, and then look at her old man sipping his drink as
Ray told them:

"The guy, his name's Santiago, walks in with a dead cigar in his mouth
and says he can give us two of the escaped convicts, they're hiding out
in this squatters' camp way the other side of the airport.  I'd been
there before, raiding cockfights; it's like a junkyard with banana
trees.  We showed him a mess of pictures.

He points to Chirino and Linares and goes, "Him and him.  When do I get
my twenty-thousand dollars?"  We told him to sit tight, we'd be right
back.  By six-thirty we're out there, FDLE, FBI, Metro-Dade, local
cops; there were even guys from Fish and Game.  Once we were in
position, helicopters came in and lit up the camp like a football
field.  You heard roosters, you heard these people yelling in Spanish
scared to death, they're coming out of the shanties with their hands
up.  The order was, you see anybody run, give them a warning, and if
they don't stop on a dime, shoot.  Linares ran right into a Metro-Dade
cop, kept running and was popped four times.  We looked all over for
Chirino, under every rock, you might say, but he wasn't there.

Linares died on the way to Jackson Memorial."

Karen got out a cigarette and picked up the lighter on the table next
to her dad's chair.  He was asking Ray, "Did you pay the guy the
reward?"

"Yeah, as soon as we got back."

"What do you do, write a check?"

"No, we paid it in cash.  It was late, the banks were closed-I asked
Santiago if he wanted to keep the money in our safe till tomorrow.  You
kidding?  No way.  Skinny old guy with dark skin, he looked like a
chicken.  He walked out with the ten grand in a shopping bag."

Karen drew on her cigarette and blew the smoke out.

"Foley hadn't been there?"

"This place was strictly Cuban," Ray said.

"If Foley had a ride he must have his own agenda.  He's the only one
seems to know what he's doing."

The late TV news became weather reports and Buddy clicked the remote to
turn off the set, on a stand surrounded by plants.

Foley and Buddy, on the imitation Danish sofa, didn't move.

"What do you think?"

"I thought Chino would have a better place to hide.  It looked like a
hobo jungle."

"They said he wasn't there."

"If Lulu was, he was.  He got out.  You know what I'm wondering?" Foley
said.

"If he thinks I set him up.  See, he asked me if I want to go with him.
I said no, but didn't tell him I'd made my own plans."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't any of his business.  But now he reads the paper, he sees
I'm out.  He knows it didn't happen the way Pup said all of us ganging
up on him in the chapel.  He's gonna ask himself what I was doing there
with Pup.  Did I tell him they were going out?  I did, but it was to
get Pup in the chapel, for his uniform.  It wasn't like they would've
all made it if Pup hadn't been there and seen them.  As soon as they're
out you know they're gonna be spotted-the hack in tower seven, or they
touch the fence, the shaker wire sets off the alarm .. ."

"He's running for his life," Buddy said, "he doesn't give a shit about
you."

"Unless he thinks I snitched him out.  He does, he'll come looking.
It's the way those guys are, they're big on revenge."

"Yeah, but he'll never find you.  How could he?"

"Maybe through Adele."

"He knows where she lives?"

"I didn't tell him, no.  But we were talking one time, sipping rum and
confiding, you might say.  He tells me how he came here from Cuba,
twelve years old, born in '47.  He tells me how he always wanted to be
a fighter, might've had a chance at a title and blew it when he took
the dive, all that.  I mentioned Adele, told him how I did the bank so
I could give her some money, how I got caught fucking around with the
guy in the Firebird ..."

Buddy said, "If you didn't tell him where she lives-she's not in the
phone book ..."

"No, but I mentioned she worked for a magician and Chino got
interested.  Yeah?  How does he saw the woman in half?  He saw a show
in Vegas when he was fighting out there.  How is the woman in the cage
changed into a tiger?  Does Adele ever get changed into an animal?  He
wanted to meet her.  Or get a look at her if she ever came to visit."

Buddy got up.

"I'm gonna get a Diet Pepsi.  You want one?

Or a beer?"

Foley shook his head.  Buddy started for the kitchen and stopped.

"You tell him the magician's name?"

"Emil the Amazing," Foley said.

"Yeah, I think I did.  You want to call Adele for me, just in case?"

"What do I tell her?"

"Don't talk to any Cubans."

"Her phone'll be wired."

"She knows your voice?"

"I'm pretty sure."

"Just say it and hang up."

As soon as it was dark Chino had walked away from the camp, down the
road to 12th Street and then east past open fields to the Cafe Cuba
Libre sitting by itself.  Santiago had told him this was where he came
to get drunk and Chino believed he would come this evening to celebrate
becoming rich.  He bought six bottles of Polar and took them across the
street to wait in the trees.  Wait for this cock fighter the way he had
waited in the Fifth Street Gym for the fight promoter.  His life coming
to this because of countless reasons, all beyond his control.

His hands had been broken too many times.

He never had time to train properly.

He never had a manager who could influence the right promoters.

He never had gauze for his hands; he had to use cotton wraps and wash
them every day when he trained.

What else?

He had never owned a hooded running suit.

The big one.  He had never had people handling him who cared.  The cut
man should have told him not to clear his nose after taking the shot in
the eye from Palomino.  Blowing his nose put pressure on the blood
vessels, the eye became swollen and closed and the fucking referee
stopped the fight, the one in Vegas Jack Foley saw, or said he did. You
couldn't be sure, since Foley was a liar who pretended to be a friend. 
It was all the bad luck and then blowing his nose that time. If he
didn't blow his nose he would have beaten Carlos Palomino and then
would have had shots at Cuevas and Benitez, Duran, Curry, anyone, and
wouldn't have had to take the dive with the white kid he could have
beaten lefthanded, thirty-nine years old.

In the trees across from the Cuba Libre he drank one of the beers,
waited, and began to drink another.  The gun he had taken from the
woman's house was a Ruger .22 with a long barrel, he believed a target
pistol, not a high-caliber gun, but it should be enough.  At exactly
seven-thirty he heard the police helicopters and saw the searchlight
beams shining down on what would be the squatters' camp over there,
about a mile away.  He wasn't sure if he heard gunfire, maybe.  He
continued to wait, drinking the beer slowly to make it last.  Three
hours passed before he saw Santiago's pickup, the truck so old Chino
didn't know what kind it was, coming from the direction of Miami.  He
walked across the street, the pistol in his belt beneath the woman's
husband's shirt.  The truck was in front of the cafe now, among a few
cars parked there, Santiago getting out, locking the door.  Chino
called to him and Santiago turned.  In the streetlight and in the red
neon that said Cuba Libre, Chino saw the man's look of surprise change
immediately to innocence, wide-eyed now, ready, even smiling a
little.

"They pay you?"

"It was as you said."

"Where is it?"

"Oh, you think I have it?  No, I left it in their safe for tonight.

They said tomorrow I can have it."

Chino turned his head to look in the pickup truck.

"What do you have in that bag?"  It was on the floor of the passenger
side.

"Only some things I bought."

Chino said, "Do you want a beer?"

He had never seen a man appear so grateful, Santiago saying, "Yes,
indeed," smiling again, turning to go in the cafe.

Chino took the man's frail arm in his hand.

"Not in there.  I have some I already paid for.  Why waste it."  He
brought Santiago across the street, the man saying no, let's go to the
bar, it would be his treat.  Saying, listen, he was going to give Chino
half the reward; he was going to surprise him with it, tomorrow.

When they were in the trees Chino said, "I'm going to use your truck."
Santiago said, of course, anytime.  Chino said,

"Where are the keys?"  Santiago said here, in his jacket.  It was a
black nylon with a hood that hung down in back.

Chino said, "Take it off."  Santiago said it was his, whatever he
wanted.  He turned to look across the street at the cafe in red neon,
at the cars and the pickup truck in front, people inside but no one
coming out, as he took off the jacket.  Chino, behind him, drew the
pistol from his belt.  He shot Santiago in the back of the head and
shot him twice again lying on the ground.

Chino walked to the truck with the jacket covering the gun in his hand,
got in and drove toward Miami to find a telephone book.

TEN

HE GOES BY Adele Delisi now," Karen said, "her maiden name.

Married Foley in Las Vegas in '86 and filed for divorce the next year
in Los Angeles County.  Adele's forty-two.  She lives in the Normandie
on Collins Avenue, in the South Beach area."

They were at the kitchen table: Karen having a cigarette and a cup of
coffee.  Her dad, in one of his golf outfits, was having breakfast, a
cheese and jelly sandwich on French bread and coffee, before leaving
for the club.

"Anybody check her phone records?"

"Six times in the past month Adele accepted collect calls from GCI, the
last one the day of the escape.  But she never visited him the five
months he was there."

"Didn't want her name on the list."

"Burdon asked why he kept calling her.  She said because he was
depressed.  She said she hadn't seen him in eight years."

"She's in on it," Karen's dad said.

"I think so too.  Foley told me the reason he came to Florida was to
visit someone, and then dropped it.  He said, "I better keep quiet.""
"He called her.  Who did she call?"

"Her sister-in-law, Ann; she's a disc jockey, I think in Canada.  And a
magician she worked for, Emil something."

"The Amazing, a third-rate act," her dad said, eating his sandwich,
sipping his black coffee.

"The amazing thing about Emil is he's still around.  Works with
pigeons."

"Talking to Burdon she referred to Emil as that kraut son of a bitch.
He let her go right before Christinas and hired a younger girl. Adele's
been surveilled since the day after the escape, but hasn't gone
anywhere to speak of.  She put an ad in the Herald, in the personals,
to get another job with a magician.  Good luck, huh?  Burdon says
they've trapped her line and hung a wire."

"I bet she knows it, too.  Why don't you go talk to her?"

"I was thinking about it.  I mentioned it to Burdon, he said he has all
the help he needs."

"Why don't you talk to her anyway.  Do it right, she'll tell you things
she wouldn't tell Burdon.  Pay attention to how she talks about Foley,
her tone.  Tell her you think he's a nice guy.  No, first tell her
about being in the trunk with him, in the dark for half an hour, and
see how she takes it.  If she's in on it, what does she get for all the
aggravation, cops breathing on her?  I

bet nothing.  So she still likes him enough to stick her neck out.

You think that's possible?  What kind of a guy is he?"

"He's pretty laid-back, confident."

"Cocky?"

"No, but he was surprised I hadn't heard of him.  Maybe I should
have."

"He remind you of that guy Tillman?"

"Not at all."

"Remember calling me?  You'd been out with him I think three times. You
tell me the guy's a bank robber suspect and you don't know what to do. 
I told you to get another boyfriend."

"You said, if I want to know if it's true, ask him."

"Yeah, bring up the subject, see how he reacts.  If he breaks out in a
sweat, call for backup.  But this guy Foley, you know he's dirty and
you still want to see him again."

"I want to bust his ass, put him in shackles."

"Yeah, okay.  Don't overdo it.  Your pride's hurt, you were armed and
he took you.  That bothers you, I can understand how you feel.  But
you're also curious about the man.  Last night, twice you asked your
married boyfriend Nicolet about him.  You were concerned, but didn't
want to show it."

"My married boyfriend-setting him up with that news story so you could
talk about infidelity.  I couldn't believe it.  Yes, I could.  That's
why I never brought my boyfriends home, you interrogated them.  Mom
used to yell at you for that all the time."

"Your mother never raised her voice, God rest her soul.

She'd give me the look.  No, what I was doing, I'd screen your
boyfriends and tell you which ones were jerks, help you weed out the
guys who were unfit.  Take this guy Nicolet, he's okay, I guess, but
he's a cowboy.  The mag stuck in his jeans .. . You like the wild ones,
don't you?  You know I've always said there's a thin line between the
cowboy cops and the armed robbers, all those guys that love to pack.
Maybe that accounts for your interest in Foley, the old pro bank
robber."

"He kidnapped me."

"Yeah, but you talked all the way from GCI to the turnpike.  It sounds
more like a first date than a kidnapping.  You ever hear of the
Stockholm syndrome?"

"Now wait a minute," Karen said.

"The bank robbery in Stockholm," her dad said, "two guys, one of them's
name-I can't think of it."

"Olufsson," Karen said.

Her dad winked at her.

"You know what I'm talking about.

They're trapped in the bank, in there a few days holding the women
hostage.  They come out, three of the women say they're in love with
this Olufsson."

"I wasn't a hostage," Karen said.

"We were in the trunk together maybe a half hour."

"I don't know, this Foley sounds a lot like Olufsson.  Talk to his
ex-wife, see what she says about him."

"I know what he is, an habitual offender, a con."

"Before, you said he was laid-back, confident, like you admired him."

Karen watched her dad bite through the crust of the French bread,
eating his cheese and jelly sandwich, making her want one.  She watched
him sip his coffee, head lowered over the table.  He looked somewhat
like a short Walter Matthau.  Once when he had a subject under
surveillance and was waiting in his car, two women rushed up to him
saying, "My God, it's Walter Matthau!"  The subject came out of a bar
and drove off before her dad could get away from the two women.

He said, "I know what I wanted to ask you.  How come there's no mention
of Glenn Michaels in any of the news stories?"

"Burdon says Glenn isn't anyone's business but theirs, the Bureau.  I
told him what Glenn said in the car about working on a score up north,
a big one.  Burdon wanted to know where up north.  I said, well, Glenn
mentioned freezing his ass off in Detroit last November.  You could try
there.  This morning he called to say no one named Glenn Michaels flew
from here to anywhere in November.  I said maybe he drove.  Burdon said
don't worry about it."

"He didn't say, "Don't worry your pretty head'?"

"Yeah, he did."

"And that makes you want to kick him in the crotch."

"No, it makes me want to bring in Glenn.  I already want Foley.  Buddy,
if he's around."

"Pour me a half a cup, would you, please.  And tell me what we know
about Buddy."

"Not much," Karen said, getting up.  She came back to the table with
the coffee, served her dad and sat down again.

"He's about Foley's age, has a sister who used to be a nun, but we
don't know where she lives.  He and Foley were both at Lompoc and
probably met there.  And that's where Glenn got to know them.  Burdon's
gonna call the prison, see if they can come up with a name, someone who
was a friend of Foley's."

"They'll be lucky if anybody remembers Foley.  What's the population
out there, a couple thousand?"

"About sixteen hundred, the last time I went out."

"They expect some administrative hack or a trusty to go through the
computer hoping to find a Buddy?  Even if they knew his first name-when
did he come in?  How many years would the search have to cover?  You
don't know that unless you know his sentence.  You imagine calling out
to that penitentiary and asking, "Say, any of you people remember a con
named Buddy?"

" He sipped his coffee, getting it all, and said, "Listen, I have to
run."

Karen watched him get up from the table to stand looking out the
kitchen window at the fairway, hiking up his yellow slacks that drooped
in the can.

She said, "I asked Foley if Buddy was his given name and he said yeah,
he gave it to him.  But what if it's his real name?"

Her dad turned to look at her and seemed for a moment surprised.

"Where's he from, originally?"

"Arkansas."

"I don't know-but now that I think about it, Buddy might be the key,
the one to work on.  He risks everything, including his life, to help
some guy he jailed with.  What does he get out of it?

He does it as a friend or because there's a payoff?  You see what I
mean?"

"Either way," Karen said, "Foley owes him."

"So whatever Buddy wants to do next," her dad said, "the chances are
Foley will go along.  Find Buddy and you've got him."

"If we knew Buddy's name."

"You gave me an idea.  But listen, I got to get out of here, I'm late
already."

Karen followed him to the door that opened into the garage.

"Dad, come on.  How do we find him?"

He held the door open and turned to look at her.

"It might work, it might not.  I'll tell you as soon as I get back."

"You'll tell me about your golf game for an hour."

The door closed.

Every drive that stayed on the fairway, every chip to the green, his
specialty, any long putts that dropped in-his Jack Daniel's on the
rocks next to him.  He exaggerated, he even cheated .. . But he knew
how to find people; it was his business.  Karen turned to the sink.
Should she do the dishes?

Or go talk to Adele Delisi?

Buddy had called her three different times this morning, she was never
home.  When he came back the last time Foley said it didn't matter, he
was going to see her.  Buddy told him he was crazy and Foley said he'd
made up his mind.

"You know they'll have people watching the hotel

"To see if she leaves.  You think they're gonna check everybody that
goes in?"

"Why take the chance?"

"I owe her."

"You haven't given her a dime in eight years.  Now all of a sudden
..."

"I'm not talking about owing her money, this is different.  I kept
thinking about it last night trying to get to sleep on this sofa, this
board.  I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Adele."

"That's right, you wouldn't have done the bank and got sent up."

"She helped get me out.  The least I can do is try to see her.  If I
can't, I can't, but I have to try."

"I won't drive you."

"I'll get there."

"They'll spot you on the street."

"You said yourself I don't look like my mug shot.  That's all they have
to go on."

"That you know of.  Your picture's been around, man.  I used to see it
in banks before I ever knew you."

"I'll go as a tourist.  Wear shorts, a straw beach hat, hang a camera
around my neck.  Wear socks with sandals .. . Can you fix me up?"

ELEVEN

DELE SPENT THE morning on the art deco hotel strip going from one to
the next, ten blocks of sidewalk tables and tourists, stopping at each
cafe and bar to ask the hostess if she would do her a huge huge favor.
Even the ones she knew slightly would take the three-by-five card like
it had kaka on it and glance at it, never changing their expressions,
as Adele explained it was a version of an ad she'd placed in the
Herald.

But it was so tiny in the paper she thought if she could get some of
these, you know, displayed around the beach .. . The hostesses said
sorry, and handed the card back, or yeah, okay, and dropped it on their
reservation stand.  The card read:

LIKE MAGIC!

Call 673-7925 and out pops Adele!

Experienced magician's assistant!

Expert with doves and all forms of legerdemain!

Walking along 10th toward Collins Avenue she paused to look back and
saw the guy tailing her come to a stop at the alley.  He stood looking
around as though he might be lost.  The tail across the street had
stopped and was tying his shoelaces.

She wondered why they bothered.  Adele waved to the one across the
street and continued on to Collins.  The next two, another pair of
serious, clean-cut types, were in a car, one of them reading the paper.
Every day there was some mention of Jack on the news and in the paper,
"still at large" along with one of the Cubans, but not a word about
Buddy or Glenn Michaels, so the two-car escape plan must've worked. The
time Glenn came alone to visit, a few days before the break, he'd sat
with his vodka and tonic posing, playing with his hair, waiting for her
to make the move while he talked about himself, letting her know what a
cool guy he was and how he planned to use Jack and Buddy later, for a
job he had lined up.  Five minutes with Glenn, she understood why Jack
didn't want him, why he said on the phone that last time he'd take the
guy's sunglasses off and step on them.  She said to him, "You know who
you remind me of?  That freeloader who lived in O.J."s guesthouse, the
instant celebrity with the hair."  Glenn said, "Yeah?

Really?"  taking it as a compliment.  The best thing to do with Glenn
Michaels, she decided, would be to put him in Emil the Amazing's
vanishing box and lose his ass.

She came to the Normandie in a row of pastel-colored apartment hotels
and nodded to the old ladies on the porch, waiting out their lives.
Crossing the lobby she said hi to Sheldon behind the desk and he showed
her his bad teeth.  At least he smiled.

None of the tight-assed hostesses on the strip smiled or gave her one
fucking word of encouragement.

Adele went up the stairs to the second floor and into her apartment
done in blond furniture from fifty years ago, Miami Beach Moderne, with
sailboats and palm trees on the limp curtains.  She turned on the
window air conditioner.  Every time she looked out now she hoped to God
she wouldn't see Jack across the street, like in a movie: leaning
against a post he lights a cigarette and looks up at the window.  Jack
posed too, but was good at it.

She dropped the LIKE MAGIC!  three-by-five cards she had left over on
the glass top dining table and stood looking down at them.

Expert ivith doves and all forms of legerdemain.  Expert at cleaning up
dove shit in the dressing rooms.  A natural at standing with one
four-inch heel precisely in front of the other, smiling, glowing, her
arm rising in a graceful gesture to the birds flying out of Emil's
filthy coat.

What she should do, hell, advertise herself as a magician and play
birthdays, schools, company parties, that kind of thing;

prisons, why not?  She could do rope tricks: cut and restore, threading
the needle, the coat-escape using volunteers.  She could do
handkerchief tricks: Fatima the dancer, the serpentine silk, the
dissolving knot.  She could do card tricks: the Hindu shuffle, overhand
shuffle, the doubt lift, the glide .. .

The phone rang, on the desk by the window.

She could do sealed envelopes: the Gypsy mind reader, impossible
penetrations .. .

Ill

"Hi, this is Adele speaking."

A male voice said, "Oh, is this Adele?"  with an accent, Cuban, or one
of those.

"Yes, it is.  Are you calling in answer to my ad in the paper?"

"No, I don't see it."

"You picked up one of my announcements?  You must have been right
behind me when I passed them out."

"I talk to the guy you work for, Emil?"

"Oh, uh-huh.  Yeah, I was Emil's box-jumper for almost four years."

"You were his what, his box?  ..."

"His assistant.  What did he say about me?"

"He tole me your number and where you live.  See, I'm looking for an
assistant and would like to speak to you."

"May I ask, sir, do you perform in the Miami area?"

"Yes, around here.  I was a mayishan in Cuba before I come here. Manuel
the Mayishan was my name.  Let me ask you something.  You do the sawing
of the box in half trick with you inside?"

Adele paused.

"Yes?"

"How do you do that trick?"

"How do you do it?"

"Forgive me.  I ask you this wanting to be sure you are experience."

"Well, I've seen it performed both ways," Adele said, " 'thin sawing'
or the old Selbit method, if that's what you mean."

There was a silence before the Cuban voice said, "Yes, I see you know
what you doing.  I would like to come speak to you about working for
me."

Adele said, "Well .. ."  She said, "Why don't I meet you at the
Cardozo, on the porch?  You know where it is?"

"Yes, but you don't want me to come where you live?"

"I have to go out anyway.  I can meet you in an hour.  Will that be all
right?"

He took a moment before saying, "Yes, all right."

And Adele hung up.

How do you do the sawing of the box in half trick?  .. . Was he
serious?  He didn't know a box-jumper was an assistant.  Maybe
mayishans in Cuba called them something else.

The phone rang.

She'd wear shorts, show off her legs.

"Hi, this is Adele speaking."

Whoever it was hung up.

Buddy came out of Wolfie's and got in the car.

"She's home."

He turned south on to Collins and didn't say another word until they
had gone ten blocks and were passing the Normandie.

"There it is.  You see the guy sitting on the porch?  The old ladies
and one guy?  You know they'll have a couple more in a car."

Foley was looking around.

"I didn't notice any."

"You know they're there."

"I'll keep my eyes open."

Buddy turned right on 10th and right again into the alley to pass
behind the row of hotels.  He said, "Nobody hanging out back here,
that's good."  They came to llth at the end of the alley and Buddy
stopped.

He said to Foley, "You bring the gun?"

Foley lifted the straw bag from his lap.

"In here, with my suntan lotion and beach towel."

"You giving her some cash?"

"What I got the other day."

Buddy nodded, staring at Foley, studying him.

"I still think you ought to wear a hat."

"All the shots of me in banks I have a hat on, or a cap.  I doubt
anyone's seen me without one."

"Look at your watch," Buddy said.

"It's eleven-twenty.  I'll be back here in half an hour, at ten of
twelve.  You don't show, I'll be back here at twelve-twenty.  You still
don't show I'll see you in thirty years."

This cafe was run by Puerto Ricans-Chino could tell by the way they
spoke-but it was okay.  The coffee was Cubano and they didn't bother
him sitting at the counter or looking out the front window through the
backward words on the glass and see the hotel almost directly across
the street, the Normandie, four stories high.  Jack Foley's former wife
was on the second floor, in 208, maybe a room in front and she was
looking out the window as he looked at the hotel.  He had phoned from
here.  He didn't like the plan of meeting her on the porch of the
Cardozo Hotel, people there, people passing by.  He'd have this coffee
and a little more and go up to her room to talk to her in private. What
could she do?

Foley walked from the alley to Collins Avenue and stopped on the corner
to watch cars creeping by in both directions, tourists taking in South
Beach, or looking for a place to park.  He started walking toward the
hotel in the middle of the block, taking his time.  Buddy was right,
there'd be a car somewhere close by with two guys in it.  He watched a
car up ahead pull away from the curb and a Honda nose into the parking
space, a woman at the wheel.  He wondered if they used women on
surveillance.  What he'd do, walk in the hotel.  If the guy on the
porch followed him in, he'd start talking to whoever was behind the
desk about rates for next season.  Make up a story.  As if he could see
a room or use the men's, hang around until he could slip upstairs.  He
didn't think the guy on the porch would pay any attention to him.  He
was approaching the Honda now, the woman out of the car, standing at
the parking meter in profile, feeling her pockets for change:

Blond hair, tan jacket and shoulder bag, long legs in slim jeans and
heels-plain, pink medium heels that caught his eye, pink shoes, a nice
touch with the jeans.  The hair, the profile, made him think of Karen
Sisco.

She turned from the parking meter and he was looking at Karen Sisco-it
was, right there, not ten feet away, it was Karen-looking at him now,
waiting.  She said, "You wouldn't happen to have change, would you, for
a dollar?"

Foley shifted the straw bag to his left hand, still looking at her,
telling himself to keep going, don't stop, don't say a word.

But he did, he said, "Sorry."  He was past her now without breaking
stride, holding to the same unhurried pace, glancing around at signs,
the sights, the people, but not looking back, telling himself to keep
walking.  It was her, all of a sudden right in front of him.  He saw
her and saw her eyes and for a moment, the way she was looking at him
.. . He told himself if he looked back he'd be turned into a convict on
the spot, in state blue, so don't even think of looking back.  You saw
her again and that's it.  All you get.

Karen watched him walk past the Normandie, past the women on the porch,
the agent sitting there now.  She thought, No, it couldn't be.  She saw
Foley's face streaked with muck in bright headlights, the guard's cap
hiding his eyes.  She saw his mug shot in her mind like all the mug
shots she'd ever seen, a criminal offender with a number, not this guy
in his color-coordinated orange and bright ocher beach outfit carrying
a straw bag, dark socks with those thick leather sandals.  She had
almost smiled and said hi, how're you doing, her hand going to her bag.
In that moment sure it was Foley.  But his eyes gave no sign that he
knew her and he said, "Sorry," without much expression and kept going.
She waited for him to look back.  She waited until he was all the way
to the end of the block, crossing the street, and when he still didn't
look back, she felt a letdown, disappointment, believing that if it was
Foley he would have looked back.  Or he might even have stopped and
said something to her.  It wouldn't make sense, but didn't have to;

it was a feeling she had, so it was okay.  Like if she were to make a
with her two hands, or he would, calling for a timeout, to give them a
few minutes to finish what began in the trunk of the car.  It would be
okay then to say hi, how're you doing?  Oh, not too bad.  They stand
there talking, polite to each other.  That was some experience.  Yes,
it was.  Well, we made it.  He might say something about her shooting
at him and she'd say yeah, well, you know .. . You have time for a
drink?  I guess we have a few minutes.  They walk over to the beach,
sit at a table and talk for a while, say whatever comes to mind, have
another drink, talk about movies .. . Maybe.  Why not?  There would be
no way to predict what they'd talk about, they'd just talk until their
time was up.  Well, okay then, back to work.  She gets up and walks
away, and if she were to look back he wouldn't be there.  It would be
over with, out of the way.  The next time she saw him-and she would try
hard to make it happen-she'd cuff his hands behind his back and take
him in.

Karen walked down to the Normandie.  As a courtesy she stopped at the
porch railing to show the agent, a young guy she didn't know, her ID
and marshal's star, saying she was going up to see Adele.  The agent
said, "Does Burdon know about this?"

Karen said, "Don't worry about it," started to turn away and said, "You
wouldn't have a quarter, would you, for the meter?"

All the way down Collins to 5th Street Foley would stop to look at
store windows, menus displayed on cafes, until he was sure Karen wasn't
following him, hadn't recognized him after all.  Foley thinking, That
was close.  But with more of an empty feeling than a sense of relief.

She'd be talking to Adele now.  That had to be the reason she was down
here.  He realized that if she had come only a few minutes later and
found him in 208, it would've gotten Adele charged with a first-class
felony, aiding a fugitive.  So quit fooling around.  Leave.

But not a minute later he was thinking of going back, walking up
Collins on the other side of the street to wait across from her car,
the Honda, and get another look at her when she came out of the
hotel.

He said to himself, Jesus Christ, where are you, back in grade school?
You just discovered girls?

Foley turned the corner at 5th and turned again into the alley to walk
back that way, by himself, past trash cans and grease smells coming
from the cafe kitchens, seeing Karen in her slim jeans and looking at
possibilities again.  Like if he were to cross the street just as she's
getting in her car.  Walk up to her and say .. .

If she didn't recognize him he could walk up to her and say something,
anything.  He thought of things to say to bank tellers, make it up on
the spot before he asked for the money.  I sure like your hair, Irene?
Is that the latest style?  Or, mmmmm, your perfume sure smells nice.
What's it called?

He could tell Karen he liked her shoes.  I just wanted to tell you I
like those shoes you have on.

And she'd look down at them-the way bank tellers touched their hair
when he told them it was nice.  She'd look down and he'd walk away.

And then she'd look up again wondering who the moron in the beach
outfit was.

When he got to llth Buddy was waiting.

"Well?"

"We got to get out of town."

Buddy said, "Now you're talking."

"We drive or what?"

"We drive.  I wouldn't mind taking off right now."

"What about our stuff?  I just bought new shoes."

"We're gonna need winter clothes," Buddy said, "before we drive into a
fucking snowstorm.  Coats, gloves .. . We could go to a mall."

"And then stop off, get my shoes and stuff."

Buddy turned out of the alley heading for Collins.

"We'll drive up to Lauderdale, Galleria mall, that's the place, get us
a couple of heavy coats."

"Overcoats?"

"If you want, or a parka."

"I don't think I ever owned an overcoat."

"You've never been to Detroit.  January, man, you freeze your nuts
off."

Foley said, "You sure you want to go?"

TWELVE

DELE HAD THE chain on the door and spoke to Karen through the narrow
opening.

"I've already told the FBI anything I know about it I saw on TV or read
in the paper.  I haven't heard from Jack or have any idea where he is.
Why would I?

We've been divorced eight years."

"He talked about you," Karen said, "in the car."

Adele hesitated.

"You were with them?"

"You might say I got in the way," Karen said, "so they put me in the
trunk of my car.  Then Jack got in with me.  I thought the FBI might've
told you."

"You were both in the trunk?"

"From Glades to the turnpike.  But then as soon as I was in Glenn's car
he took off, left them standing there."  Karen watched Adele's face in
the opening, freshly made up, heavy on the eye shadow and lip gloss.

"They didn't tell you that, either?"

"They didn't tell me anything, they asked questions."

"But you know what I'm talking about?  Glenn driving the second car?"

Adele stared.  She said, "I know a Glenn."  The door closed and opened
again, all the way.

"I'm getting ready to go out.  You can come in if you want, sit down
for a minute.  Would you like a Diet Coke?"

Karen said no thanks, looking around at the art deco resort hotel
decor. She turned a chair from the glass top table and sat down as
Adele came out of the kitchenette with a Diet Coke and a pack of
cigarettes: Adele wearing a polyester makeup coat hanging partly open,
panties but no bra, and clear-plastic mules.  Karen saw her as a size
10, her body soft and white, a bit plump but good legs, dark curly hair
.. . She said to Karen, "Those are cute shoes.  The land of jobs I get,
I have to wear these killer spikes, they ruin your feet."  She walked
away and came back with an ashtray.

"When you were in the trunk with Jack ..."

Karen waited while she lighted a cigarette.

"He didn't hurt you or anything, did he?"

"You mean, did he try to jump me?  No, but he was kind of talkative."

Adele sat down at the other end of the table.

"You mentioned, he said something about me?"

Karen was ready.

"He said the reason he came to Florida was to see you.  So I guess you
spent some time together."

"Well, yeah, before he was arrested."

"But you didn't visit him in prison."

"He didn't want me to."

"Why not?"

"I don't know.  He was different after he was sentenced, looking at
thirty years."

"But you spoke to him on the phone."

"He'd call every once in a while."

"He called the day he escaped," Karen said.

Adele stared at her.

"He did?  I don't remember.  What else did he say about me?"

Karen had to think of something.

"He said he wished the two of you could start over, live a normal
life."

"Bless his heart.  I'll say one thing for Jack, he was never ugly or
mean, or drank too much.  His idea of a normal life, though, was
robbing banks.  It's all he's ever done."

"Did you know that when you married him?"

"He said he was a card player, how he made his money.  I could live
with that.  Or he'd come home with a bundle and say he was out to the
track, Santa Anita, and I suppose sometimes he was, he liked to gamble.
I never knew he robbed banks till he got caught with that car that
wouldn't start-if you can imagine something like that happening, comes
out of the bank and the car won't start.  I did go see him at Lompoc-I
guess you know he did time there-to tell him I was filing for divorce.
He said"-Adele shrugged-"okay.  Jack's so easygoing.  He was fun, but
never what you'd call a real husband."

"He met Buddy at Lompoc," Karen said.

"Yeah, and Glenn, the creep."  She squinted at Karen through cigarette
smoke.

"Why isn't there anything about him in the paper?"

"They don't know where he is," Karen said, "and I guess they don't want
to have to admit it."  She said, "It looks like Glenn took off by
himself."

"The weasel.  You know what I wish?  You could put him away and forget
about Jack.  He doesn't deserve thirty years."

"I'd give anything to find Glenn," Karen said.

"I had him in custody once; he sure loves to talk."

"Yeah, about himself, what a cool guy he is.  He said he's lined up a
job and was gonna use Jack and Buddy.  Fat fucking chance."

"What kind of job?"

"He didn't say."  Adele paused to smoke.

"The only reason I met him, he was a friend of Jack's at one time, and
that's all I'm saying."

"And I guess you met Buddy."

"You can guess all you want, I can't help you.  I have to finish
dressing anyway, I'm seeing a man about a job.  He claims he's a
magician, only he's Latin and I have my doubts about him.  You know I
worked for a magician?"

"Emil the Amazing?"

"Yeah, the prick.  This guy that called, he goes, "How do you do that
sawing of the woman in half trick?"  I go, "Are you kidding?"  I
should've said it's not a trick it's an illusion.  He said he was
testing me to see if I was experienced."

"What I can't figure out," Karen said, "is how the two halves of the
box can be separated while you're in it, and you see your head in one
and your feet in the other, moving."

"It's magic," Adele said.

"Or the one, the girl gets in the cage," Karen said, "it's covered, the
cover comes off-" "You spin the cage around first," Adele said.

"You spin the cage around, the cover comes off and the girl's gone and
there's a tiger inside."

"Emil does it with a lion."

"Get out of here."

"A male we'd rent for the evening.  An old one, but still had a lot of
teeth."

"How do you do it?"

Adele shook her head.

"I can't tell you, it would be unethical."

"I'm just curious," Karen said, "I won't tell anybody."

Adele said, "Have you ever heard or read about how illusions are done?
No, because it's a secret.  It's the way they're done, that's what it's
all about.  How isn't that interesting."

"Did you ever tell Jack?"

Adele took time to draw on her cigarette.

"Once in a while he'd ask.  I might've told him about some of the easy
ones."

"How do you do the switch with the lion?"

"If I tell you, you'll be disappointed.  It's always simpler than it
looks."

"Come on, just that one.  I won't ask you about anything else."

"No more about Jack or those guys?"

"I'll leave you alone," Karen said.

"You promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I swear.  Cross my heart," Karen said, facing Adele sitting at the end
of the table.  Karen saw her about to speak and saw her jump at the
sound of three quick raps on the door, three and three more and a voice
then from outside, in the hole.

"Adele?  I want to speak with you, please."

Sounding far away.

Karen watched Adele turn her head.

"Who is it?"

"I'm the man call you about work."

"I said I'd meet you."

"Look, I'm here.  Open the door."

"I'm not dressed."

He said, "Listen to me."  And in a lower voice, "I'm a good frien' of
Jack Foley."

Karen got to her feet, bringing her bag to the edge of the table.  She
saw Adele staring at her and said, "Ask him his name."

Adele turned her head again, the rest of her rigid, upright in the
chair, her cigarette held in front of her between two fingers.

"Who are you?"

There was a pause.

"Jose Chirino."

Karen brought her Beretta out of the bag.

"Or maybe you hear Jack Foley call me Chino.  I'm the same person."

Karen moved along the table to Adele.  She said, barely above a
whisper, "Tell him to wait in the hall, you have to get dressed.  Say
it loud, raise your voice."

She did, yelled it out and her words covered the sound of Karen racking
the slide on the 9-millimeter pistol.

The voice outside the door said, "Tell me where is Jack Foley, I don't
bother you no more."

Karen said, "Tell him you don't know."

She did, and Chino said, "Listen, I'm the one help Jack escape from
prison.  He tole me, I can't find him to see you."

"I said I don't know where he is."

"Listen, why don't you open this fucking door.  Okay?  So we can
speak."

Staring at Karen, Adele said, "Go away, or I'll call the police."

"Why you want to do that, to a frien'?"

Adele didn't answer and there was a silence.

Now he said, "Okay, you don't want to help me, I'm leaving."

Adele started to get up and Karen put her hand on her shoulder.

"I'm going now," Chino said.

"I see you maybe some time, okay?  Bye bye."

In her whisper Karen said, "Go in the bedroom and close the door."  She
waited until Adele was crossing the room before she moved to the
apartment door and put her left hand on the knob.

Karen turned it, held the lock open and looked over her shoulder.
Adele, in her makeup coat and plastic mules, was watching from the
bedroom doorway.  Karen motioned to her, waving the Beretta, to get in
there, go on.  But Adele didn't move.  She stood watching and it was
too late now to say anything to her.  Karen brought the door toward
her, opening it a few inches, listening, then stepped aside, out of the
way, a moment before the door banged open and Chino, a solid figure in
black, was in the room, Chino going for Adele and was past the table
when he stopped, glanced around and then turned to Karen and she saw
the gun in his right hand, the .22 pistol, its slender barrel pointing
down, close to his leg.  Karen brought up the Beretta in two hands,
cocked it and put the front sight on his chest.

She said, "Lay it on the table and turn around."

Chino raised his left hand to her saying, "Wait," frowning.

"You not Adele?"

"I'm a federal marshal," Karen said, "and you're under arrest.  Put the
gun on the table.  I mean now."

"For what?  I haven' done nothing.  If you not Adele," Chino said,
"this must be Adele, uh?"  He turned to face her.

And now Karen was looking at him in profile, the pistol in his right
hand, away from her.  She glanced at Adele.

"Go in the room."

Adele didn't move, staring at Chino.

"Do it.  And close the door."

Adele started to turn as Chino said, "No, I come to see you."

He raised the pistol, aiming it point-blank at Adele, and she
stopped.

Karen said, "Put it down or I'll shoot."

She watched him look past his shoulder at her, raising his eyebrows,
saying, "Oh, is that right?  You going to shoot me?

Nice girl like you?"  Smiling at her as he said, "No, I don't think
so."

That little smile hooked her.

Karen said, "You don't huh?"  and started toward him and saw his
expression change, the smile gone, saw him glance at Adele, still
holding the pistol on her, then look back this way again at Karen
moving toward him, Karen saying, "You can live or die," as she reached
him and put the Beretta in his face, the muzzle inches from his eyes.

"It's up to you."

His eyes closed for a moment and opened, looking at Karen's eyes past
the muzzle.

"You wouldn't shoot me .. . Would you?"

She said, "What do you want to bet?"

He said, "I could walk out of here."

She said, "If you move, if you look at her again, you're dead."

They stared at each other.  She saw him let his breath out, his
shoulders sag and saw him lower his arm and heard the pistol hit the
carpet and she almost looked down, but continued to stare at his face,
his eyes dull now, beyond hope.

"Turn around and put your hands on the edge of the desk."

When he was leaning against it, off balance, Karen raised his jacket,
felt around his waist from behind and, when she was finished, kicked
his feet out from under him.  Chino dropped to his knees, grabbing for
the desk and hitting his head on the edge.  He looked up at her in
pain.

"I think you would shoot me."

Karen picked up his gun and told him to lie facedown on the floor.  She
stepped around him to the desk, punched a number on the phone and
looked over at Adele staring at her.

"Daniel Burdon, please.  Karen Sisco."

She waited, Adele still watching her, then turned to the window as she
said, "Daniel?  I've got a proposition for you."

THIRTEEN

SAID TO Burdon, "If I get Chirino, will you put me on the task force? I
can work it out with my boss if you okay it."

" Her dad said, "You didn't tell him you had the guy?"

"I felt I had to make a deal first."

Her dad said, "My little girl."

They were on the patio with Jack Daniel's over ice, the sun going down.
Her dad had told her often enough it was Walter Huston's favorite time
of day in The Virginian and Walter was right.  This evening he didn't
mention it.

"Burdon naturally was suspicious.  He said, "Girl, are you trying to
run some kind of game on me?"  I said, "All you have to say is yes or
no."  He said, "You come up with the Cuban you can call your shot."  He
got there about twenty minutes later.  He took one look at Chirino and
got his surveillance guys to take him away.  He had to ask how I got an
escaped con to lie on the floor, but didn't act surprised or make a big
deal about it."

"You sandbagged him," her dad said.

"I don't think I'd be civil with you either."

"He had to decide what kind of attitude to have, how to treat me, and
he wasn't sure yet.  He talked to Adele, asked her a lot of questions.
She was pretty cool about the whole thing.  I was surprised."

"If anybody was cool," her dad said, and raised his glass to her.

Karen sipped her drink.  Her eyes raised to her dad and she said, "Once
you're into it and you're pumped up and you know who the guy is and you
know you can't give him one fucking inch .. . He has the choice, you
don't."

"You tell that to Burdon?"

"No, but he said, "Let's go have us a cold beverage and talk some."  We
went over to the Cardozo for about an hour."

"What's he drink, water?"

"Yeah, Evian, one of those.  He warmed up.  For the first time since
I've known him he came down from heaven and acted like a normal guy. He
asked me if I would've shot Chirino if he didn't drop the gun.  I said
yes and he said he believed it.  He wanted to have dinner.  He's asked
me before, but always made it sound like he was making my day. Wow, I
get to go out with Daniel Burdon.  I turn him down and he thinks it's a
racial thing with me.  When I was in college almost every black guy who
asked me out was like that.  I'd say no thanks, 'cause the guy was an
idiot or an asshole or had bad breath, and he'd accuse me of being
racist."

"What's Burden's problem?"

"He thinks he's irresistible.  He wants to get me in bed, that's all,
and I don't see any future in it.  Ray Nicolet is the same way, he's
getting around to it.  All those macho guys .. . Jesus, give me a
break."

Her dad said, "I don't want to know everything, okay?"  He sipped his
drink looking out at the lawn.  After a bit he said, "How come we don't
play catch anymore?"

She smiled at him.

"Anytime you want.  How's your arm?"

"I don't know, it's been so long."

Twelve years old she had her own glove, a Dave Concepcion model, and
they'd throw a hardball at each other out on the lawn.

"You discovered boys and quit playing ball."

"I didn't want to show them up."

"You could've, too, you had an arm.  You never threw like a girl."

They were quiet for a while in the last of the day's light.  Her dad
said, "I don't want to lose you.  I think I'm gonna live forever and I
need my daughter around.  I lost your mother, that's enough."  There
was a silence again.  This time he said, "You're too smart to pack a
gun and deal with felons.  You're too smart and you're too nice a
person."

Karen got up, went over to his chair and kissed him and stayed there,
hunched over, her arm around his shoulders.  She said, "I didn't go out
with Burdon 'cause I wanted to stay home with you.  Before that, the
plan was to see Adele and come right home and be waiting for you.  You
know why?"

"Because you love your dad."

"Because I love you and because you have an idea how to find Buddy."

"You gave me the idea.  Remember you said what if Buddy's his real
name?"

Karen got up.

"And it is?"

"No, but it was something to go on."

Karen turned to sit on the wrought-iron cocktail table, facing him
now.

"I called my main source."  Her dad paused to sip his drink.

And Karen said, "Gregg, the computer whiz.  Just tell me, okay, don't
drag it out."

"That's what I'm doing"-acting a little offended-"I'm telling you.  I
called Gregg, I said, "What can you do with this combination?  Your
search criteria's the name Buddy, bank robbery or armed robbery, and
California between 1970 and 1990."  I told him Buddy got out of Lompoc
either this year or last year, but we don't know how long he was in."

Karen lit a cigarette.  Her dad took it from her, for himself, and she
had to light another one.

"You happen to have any grass?"

"I don't do that anymore.  Come on, what about Buddy?"

"You start with a nickname it looks impossible, doesn't it?

But if you can add a few facts, and if you're lucky .. . Gregg used, I
don't know, Nexis, Lexis, one of the programs he has, and came up with
Orren Edward Bragg, arrested March 22, 1985, and charged with robbing a
branch of City Federal on

Sepulveda in Los Angeles, three months before.  And how did they find
him?  The way they get most of those guys, on a tip.

LAPD got an anonymous call that turned out to be from the guy's sister,
of all people.  One of the detectives quotes her as saying, "It was
Buddy Bragg who robbed the City Federal bank and some others, too, may
Almighty God forgive him."  That was the only reference to a Buddy
associated with bank robbery, buried way down in the news story, and
Gregg had it in about five minutes, printed it out and faxed it.  It's
inside."

Karen stood up and then sat down again.

"We don't know for sure, though, do we, if it's our Buddy?"

"I called Florence-you met her one time-still one of my best sources. I
said, "See if you can run an Orren Bragg for me in Dade, Broward or
Palm Beach County."  I called her from the club, the same as I did
Gregg.  I come home, both faxes are waiting.  Orren Bragg has accounts
with Florida Power and Light and Bell South  His phone number's in
there too.  Buddy resides in Hallandale at the Shalamar Apartments on
A1A, he's in 708."

"That's our Buddy," Karen said.  She stood up again.

"My sources," her dad said, "will bill you about fifty bucks each. I'll
give you the invoices when they come."

Karen stood facing him, nodding and then saying, "Why do you suppose
Buddy's own sister ratted him out like that?"

Her dad said, "She felt it was for his own good.  Or maybe she never
liked him.  He was a brat, made her life miserable when they were
kids."

"Foley said she was a nun, or used to be."

"I don't know," her dad said, "I always liked nuns.  They're so clean.
They never seem to sweat."

She finished her drink and saw her dad watching her.

"You're not thinking of calling, are you?  Ask if your friend's there?
Please don't tell me that."

Karen said, "Okay, I won't."

It was an idea, though, she did think about.  Call Buddy's number and
ask for someone, a name, any name, pretty sure she'd recognize Buddy's
voice, or Foley's if he answered, if he was there, and they'd tell her
she had the wrong number and hang up.  She was tempted, wanting to do
it.  But if they recognized her voice .. . She thought of asking her
dad to call and decided no, go by the book.  So she called Burdon.  He
was cool, wanting to know how she came about this information, and
after she told him he said, "Karen, you're for real, aren't you?

You can come along if you want."  He'd stop by the home of a judge
friend for a warrant, get a SWAT team together and meet her at the
Shalamar Apartments as soon as they could make it.

He said, "Karen"-not calling her "girl" this time" get a key from die
manager, if you would, please."

Karen was aware of details she would tell her dad about later this
evening.

The smell of sauerkraut in the manager's first-floor apartment  His
watery wide-open eyes as she assured him the residents wouldn't be
disturbed.  Telling him this as she imagined their reaction to the SWAT
team invading the place.

The senior citizens in the lobby, mostly women, sweaters over their
shoulders, bifocals shining, real fear in their eyes at the sight of
black uniforms and jackboots, the helmets, the ballistic vests with FBI
in yellow, big, on the backs of the vests, the automatic weapons at
port arms, the SWAT team coming through the lobby like a troop of Darth
Vaders.

She thought, No, these old people wouldn't think of Darth Vader, they'd
see Nazi storm troopers coming in to haul them away, because it could
have happened to some of them.  She had seen old ladies in Miami with
faded numbers on their arms.

Karen would tell her dad what she expected and then say she was
surprised Burdon didn't make it a full-scale SWAT assault.

Very surprised.

He came with eight guys in jackets and wool shirts hanging out, running
shoes, half of them carrying bags that could hold tennis racquets or
different kinds of athletic gear.  The residents did stop what they
were doing, watching television, playing gin;

they had to wonder what was going on, curious, but didn't seem alarmed.
Burdon posted two men outside, back and front, and sent two more up to
seven to cover both ends of the hall.  He said to Karen, "You ready?"

Then had to pause as a woman asked, "Are you delivering the oxygen?"

Burdon, Karen and the remaining four SWAT team agents got on the
elevator.  On the way up Burdon looked at them one at a time.

"You're primary, you're secondary, you're point man."

He said to the fourth, "You're gonna use a ram?"

He carried it in what looked like a navy seabag.

Karen said, "The manager's door is metal.  You know what I mean?  They
might all be."

Burdon looked at her.

"Yeah, you've been through doors, haven't you?"

"A ram on a metal door," Karen said, "makes an awful lot of noise for
what good it does."

She'd tell her dad how you grabbed the handle on top that was like a
dorsal fin, and the handle at the back end and swing the ram hard
against the door.  If it was wood the ram would shatter it.  Metal, you
might only dent it.  But the fourth man also had a shotgun with a
"shock-lock" round in it and that would do the job.

They reached the seventh floor and the SWAT agents took off the jackets
and wool shirts they'd worn over their ballistic vests, heavy ones with
a ceramic plate covering the heart area.  Karen handed the key to the
agent with the canvas bag.  He had his shotgun out now, a Remington
with a three-inch strip of metal taped to the muzzle.  They approached
708.

The primary and secondary stood to the right of the door, Beretta nines
held upright.  The point man, who would be the third one in and would
cover them, held an MP-5 submachine gun.  The one with the shotgun
eased the key into the lock and turned it.  The door wouldn't budge, a
dead bolt holding it shut.

He raised the shotgun and put the strip of metal against the seam,
where the lock entered the frame, the muzzle of the shotgun exactly
three inches now from the dead bolt, and looked over his shoulder at
Burdon and Karen.  Burdon nodded.

With the sound of the shotgun blast the primary hit the door going in,
secondary and point went in right behind him and Karen, her ears
ringing, pulled her Beretta, expecting in a moment to hear gunfire.

FOURTEEN

OLEY SAID UNLESS you wanted to go skiing or hunting they sure had a
piss-poor selection of winter coats here.  Buddy said they had some
pretty nice jackets.  Foley said he didn't even see any wool gloves.
Buddy said well, what did you expect, we're in Florida.

Foley said he expected to see some overcoats, why else did they come
all the way up to this mall?  Part of it was, he felt like a fool
walking through stores in his orange and baby-shit yellow beach outfit,
the socks and sandals.  Driving back, Buddy said it looked like they'd
have to wait till they got up north, say when they crossed the river
from Kentucky and came to Cincinnati, Ohio.

And then said, "No, wait a minute.  I know the place we should go."

They turned off 95 onto Hallandale Beach Boulevard and in a minute came
to the Jewish Recycling Center.  Buddy said, "It's like the Salvation
Army or St.  Vincent de Paul only Jewish.  It's got everything we'll
need."

OVER 3,000 NEW ITEMS DAILY, the sign said on the way in.  They passed
through a section of home furnishings, beds, bureaus, everything from
TV sets to toasters and waffle irons.  Hurried through kids' clothes
and a big section of women's things, narrow aisles cramped with clothes
and shoppers-Christ, mink coats for only eight hundred bucks-and the
constant sound of hangers clicking against metal pipe racks.  They came
to the men's section, aisles packed with suits, jackets, even tuxedos,
and overcoats-some in the exact style Foley was looking for.

The first one he pulled off the rack was dark navy blue,
double-breasted.  With the sandals and no pants on it looked funny in
the mirror, but he knew this was his coat.  A slim cut, not at all
boxy, like the coat was wearing him.

He put on a navy-blue single-breasted lightweight suit that had a
Brooks Brothers label in it and felt good on him, the sleeves a speck
short but that was all right; he'd rather have them short than too
long.  The pants were a perfect fit and not too shiny in the seat.  He
wondered what the guy did who'd owned the suit.  Foley hoped he was
successful.  He looked at himself in the mirror, at the suit over his
cotton beach coat.  It looked okay, but he wanted to get a true effect,
so he picked out a white dress shirt with short sleeves and a necktie
that was mostly dark blue, put them on with the suit and stepped in
front of the full-length mirror again to study his new image, expecting
to see himself as a businessman, some kind of serious executive.

What he looked like was a guy who'd just been released from prison in a
movie made about twenty years ago.  Steve McQueen as Doc McCoy. Yeaaah
... He liked it.  He half turned and cocked his hip in a pose: a photo
of Jack Foley taken shortly after his daring prison escape.  His mind
flicked to a picture of Clyde Barrow, hat cocked down on one eye, and
right away saw Karen Sisco coming out of the Chevy trunk in her short
skirt, and then on the street in her jeans and pink shoes.  He imagined
her seeing him in this suit.  A semi-dark cocktail lounge. They look at
each other .. .

Buddy came over in an overcoat, a double-breasted gray herringbone,
saying, "What do you think?"

Foley nodded, raising his eyebrows.

Buddy said, "I always wanted one like this.  I think I need a hat to go
with it.  I like a hat."

Foley asked how he looked and Buddy took a few moments to say, "Like a
stockbroker."  After that, Foley tried on a tuxedo to see what it was
like.  Buddy told him now he looked like a waiter, one that drank and
was always getting fired.  They were having fun, two grown men playing
dress-up.

T Y Y

There were clothes in the apartment, new shoes, food and drink in the
refrigerator, orange juice, Diet Pepsi Cola in half gallon plastic
bottles, six-packs of beer.  Burdon said, "Don't anybody touch that
leftover pizza, Buddy's coming back and we gonna be waiting for him.
Here in the apartment and somebody in the lobby with a radio till the
people go to bed.  Karen,

I'd like you to call Hallandale PD, ask if they have a quiet,
unassuming evidence tech they can send over to dust around, do the door
knobs, glasses in the kitchen, empty bottles, the handle on the toilet.
Say to come in an unmarked car, please.

They'll send us some little girl wants to be a police officer.

Karen, you see anything interests you, or you recognize?"

"The raincoat in the hall closet, Glenn Michaels was wearing it."  She
paused and said, "Foley asked if he could wear it, so he could take off
the shirt he had on, it was filthy."

"The guard's shirt," Burdon said, "the guy Foley assaulted with a
two-by-four.  So he was here.  Or he still is, huh?  I prefer to think
of it that way, get this done.  Karen, you're on my task force.  Don't
worry, I'll fix it with your boss.  Then when this's closed we gonna
have a talk, see about getting you transferred over to the Bureau."

Karen didn't say a word, she nodded and made the call to Hallandale PD.
After that she began looking around the apartment again for traces of
Foley, something that would tell her he was staying here.

She looked at the shoes again, dark-brown loafers, size 10, so new they
hadn't been worn.  She believed they were Foley's because they were by
the sofa with a pair of white Nikes, same size, also new but showing
some signs of wear.  The shoes in the bedroom closet, two pairs, well
broken in, were no doubt Buddy's.  There were magazines in the living
room, Sports Illustrated, National Enquirer, and a stack of
newspapers-the Miami Herald and Ft.  Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel-for the
entire week, Monday, the day of the prison break, through today,
Friday.  Karen found Foley's mug shot in the Herald and stared at it,
trying to see in this face what she remembered of the guy on Collins
Avenue dressed for the beach.  If it was Foley he might Ve sat right
here to take the Nikes off and strap on the sandals.  Going to see
Adele, a high-risk move.  But so was busting out of prison.  He had the
nerve .. . And maybe the beach outfit showed a weird sense of humor: in
his own mind a disguise because, ordinarily, he would never in the
world dress like a tourist.  Karen's feeling was that after a half hour
alone with Foley in the dark, she could say he was pretty cool, and
cool guys didn't wear orange and ocher beach outfits and socks with
sandals .. .

Burdon said, "We have here Mr.  Orren Bragg's phone bill.

Four long-distance calls last month to the same two-one-three area,
that's Los Angeles.  Who does he know out there, Karen?"

She shook her head.

"Well, we gonna find out.  You been in the kitchen?"

"Not yet."

"There's a shoe box in the trash, looks like a receipt in it.

Must be for the new shoes.  You can go by the store tomorrow, see if
they remember who bought them.  I mean if we don't do any good here."

"But you think they're coming back," Karen said.

"Yes, indeed, and we gonna have a surprise party.  I want you to take a
radio, go down to the lobby and hang out with the folks.  You see Foley
and this guy Bragg, what do you do?"

"Call and tell you."

"And you let them come up.  You understand?  You don't try to make the
bust yourself."

Burdon slipping back into his official mode.

Karen said, "What if they see me?"

"You don't let that happen," Burdon said.

"I want them upstairs."

Buddy turned south off Hallandale Beach Boulevard onto A1A, three
blocks from the Shalamar Apartments.

He said, "It's about, roughly, fifteen hundred miles.  You can do it in
two days.  We leave tonight and drive straight through, we get there
two three o'clock Sunday morning.  The bars close at two in Detroit and
Sunday you can't buy any booze till noon.

Give everybody a chance to go to their place of worship before they tie
one on."

Foley said, "What're you trying to say?"

"You want to leave tonight or tomorrow?  We leave tomorrow morning, say
around seven and drive straight through, we'd get in early Sunday
afternoon.  The game starts at six, so we'd have plenty of time to find
a place and get in some provisions.  Unless you want to watch the game
at a bar.  You know, a sports bar, with a big screen."

"Who do you want?"

"The Steelers, and all the points I can get.  Or, we could leave
tonight, stop early in the morning someplace in Georgia, sleep a few
hours, have a good breakfast .. . You like grits?"

"I love grits."

"Biscuits and redeye gravy?"

They were turning in at the Shalamar now, following the drive that went
down to the building's underground parking area.  Foley saying, "I
don't care for the gravy.  What I like to do is crumble up my bacon in
the grits."  He said, "It's up to you, whenever you want to get
going."

Buddy said, "We don't want to be too leisurely about it, like we got
all the time in the world."  He nosed the Olds into a space near the
elevator.

"What do you think, leave our new duds in the car?  We may as well."

An old gent in a golf cap asked Karen if she wanted to play gin-Several
ladies, stopping by on their way to the elevator, asked if she was a
new resident.

Another, a frail little gray mouse of a woman in her eighties, leaning
on a malacca cane, asked if she was visiting her mother.

Karen made the mistake of saying no, her mother had passed away.  Then
had to gather up the radio and copy of the National Enquirer she'd
brought from Buddy's so the woman could sit down close to her on the
sofa.  She took Karen's hand and began to pat it saying something about
God's will, then asking what her mother had died of.  Karen said
non-Hodgkin's lymphoma, twelve years ago.  The mouse woman said oh,
gave Karen's hand a few more pats, looked around in a vague sort of way
and said it was time for her pills.

Karen watched her creep off toward the elevator, the little mouse woman
with her big black cane, and thought again of her mother, who would be
only fifty-seven, at home, not hobbling around in a place like this;
she would be outside in her straw hat and gloves, trimming, weeding,
and you'd be able to see the house from the street.  She told friends
that and remembered telling Ray Nicolet and thought of the task force
again and the SWAT team upstairs waiting and Burdon saying, "You let
them come up.  You don't try to make the collar yourself."

Karen looked off to the left, past a lamp next to the sofa and a giant
schefflera in a planter, to the lobby's street entrance.  The elevator
was directly in front of her, not much more than thirty feet away.

The little gray mouse woman was still waiting, leaning on her cane.

The elevator door opened and Karen was looking at two men inside, both
about the same height, facing this way.  One in a dark shirt and
trousers, the other .. .

The other in an orange and ocher beach outfit holding a straw bag.

Now the mouse woman was entering, feeling with her cane, one step at a
time.

The one in the dark shirt and trousers reached out to help her
aboard.

The one in the orange and ocher outfit continued to look straight ahead
at Karen on the sofa looking back at him in the elevator's fluorescent
glow lighting him and the other one like two suspects standing in a
lineup.  He didn't move.  Not until the elevator door began to close.
Then raised his hand.

He did-Karen positive now it was Foley-raised his hand to her as the
door closed.

The elevator stopped at three.  The old woman didn't move and Buddy
said to her, "Is this your floor, Mother?"

She looked up at the panel of numbers, the light indicating the floor.
She said, "Yes, it is."

Foley said, "It's ours, too," and turned his head to Buddy looking at
him.

"Karen Sisco's in the lobby.  I imagine there some fellas upstairs."

They had to wait for the woman to get off, poking the floor with her
cane, then eased past her, ran down the hall to the EXIT sign and took
the stairs to the garage.

Once they were in the car Buddy said, "I guess we're going tonight,
huh?"

Foley liked his tone.  He didn't have to tell Buddy to take it easy,
not be in so big a hurry to get out they'd bang into cars.

Buddy said, "She'll see the elevator's going up to seven-that ought to
give us some time."

They were leaving the building now, turning out into traffic.

"She saw us," Foley said, "so she'll know we got off."

Buddy said, "Well, if they know where I live, I guess they know what I
drive.  Should we pick up another car?  This one's still got California
plates on it.  Or take 'em off and pick us up a Florida plate.  I got a
screwdriver in the glove box.  They only use one license plate in
Florida.  I guess other states too.  Stop off and lift one before we
get on 95.  There's a Wal-Mart over on Hallandale Beach Boulevard, has
a big lot always full of cars.  What do you think?"

"She looked right at me," Foley said.

"She didn't yell or get excited.  She didn't move."

They were on A1A in northbound traffic, a two-lane street full of
headlights.

"We got one thing going for us," Buddy said, keeping an eye on his
rearview mirror, "it's dark out."

"She just sat there," Foley said, "looking right at me."

FIFTEEN

ER DAD SAID, "He waved to you?"

"I won't swear to it," Karen said, "but I'm pretty sure he did.  He
raised his hand about as high as his head and it looked like, just as
the elevator door closed, he waved."

It was Saturday now, seven in the evening.  They had both been away
from the house all day and were in the kitchen now, having a drink
before going out to dinner.

"Maybe he was scratching his head."

"He was looking right at me the whole time."

"He knew you recognized him?"

"I'm sure he did.  That's why I think he waved, he had nothing to lose.
You know what I mean?  He couldn't pretend to be someone else, I'd
already seen him in that dumb beach outfit."

Karen smiled just a little.

"He's a pretty cool guy.  You know it?"

Her dad had to be cool, too, when he was with her.

"You wave back?"

"I didn't have time.  The door closed."

"I imagine you would've though."  Saying it in a matter-of fact way,
going along straight-faced, not sure if he was serious or if Karen was,
his darling little girl who tracked fugitives and took them to federal
court.

"So what did you do next?"

"I used the radio to call Burdon.  I told him Foley saw me, so he and
Buddy were sure to get off the elevator.  Burdon left one guy in the
apartment and came down the stairs with the rest of his people to check
the floors."

"What did you do?"

"Burdon told me to stay where I was.  I radioed his guys outside and
told them to get to the garage entrance.  At that time, though, we
didn't know if Buddy had a car, or if he did, what land and where it
was registered."

"They might've still been in the building."

"It's possible, but they did get out and the chances are they made it
before the two outside guys got to the garage.  Burdon called the
Broward sheriff's office and they contacted I think Autotrak and they
made Buddy's car, an eight-nine Olds registered in California to Orren
Bragg.  It was too late by then to lay out a grid and have local police
cover it.  Burdon did send out an all-points, but was sure they'd
already switched plates or picked up another car."

"Burdon leave surveillance on the building?"

"Yeah, but took it off this afternoon.  I stopped by DEA to look at
Glenn Michaels' case file again.  They had him on possession with
intent but couldn't make it stick.  The interesting part of Glenn's
statement, he said he went up to Detroit to visit a friend and look
into job opportunities-if you can believe that.  They wanted to know
where he stayed and who the friend was.  Glenn said a guy named Maurice
Miller, also known as Snoopy, a former prizefighter.  I looked him up,
Maurice was at Lompoc the same time Glenn was.  In fact they walked out
of the prison camp together-for some reason I see them holding hands.
They were picked up and sent to USP Lompoc, the max prison, where Glenn
met Buddy and Jack Foley.  It ties in with Glenn telling me, when we
were in the car together, he had a big score lined up.  Then from
something else he said, it had to be in Detroit.  I called Burdon-you
know what he said?"

"You'll have to tell me."

"

"What's this have to do with our bank robbers?"  He says they're on
their way to California because 'they always run to familiar ground to
hide out."

" Her dad said, "They do, huh?"

"Buddy's phone bill was in the apartment.  It shows he called a number
in Los Angeles at least once a week.  Guess whose it is."

"His sister."

"How did you know?"

"You said guess, I guessed."

"His sister Regina Mary Bragg, the ex-nun who turned him in.  Burdon
called her this morning, five a.m. in Los Angeles.

She said her brother was in Florida visiting a friend, but didn't know
his name or have a phone number for Buddy.  What I want to know," Karen
said, "is why he calls his sister every week after she turned him
in."

Her dad said, "Well, he doesn't seem to hold a grudge."

"I think he's basically a nice guy, does it out of kindness."

"Or maybe," her dad said, "she has some kind of nervous disorder from
years of celibacy and his phone calls keep her stable."

"Foley said she drinks."

Her dad thought about it and said, "But not at five o'clock in the
morning, when you say Burdon called her.  If she's any kind of
alcoholic she'd have been hung over and trying to think straight,
careful about what she's saying."

"I guess the time to talk to her," Karen said, nodding, "is when she's
into the sauce."

Now her dad was nodding.

"Sometime in the evening, but not too late."

They went to Joe's Stone Crab for dinner.

When they got back Karen stayed in the kitchen to call Regina Mary
Bragg.  Eight p.m. in Los Angeles.

Her dad went to his chair in the screened-in room to watch television,
a cognac next to him on the lamp table.  He moved through channels with
the remote, looking, until he came to Robert Redford and Max von Sydow
in the library of someone's home, the man seated at the desk.  Redford
is pointing what looks like a Colt .45 at him.  But Max, with a
Walther

PPK, a much more intelligent gun, has the drop on Redford and tells him
to put his gun on the desk.  It reminded him of Karen having lost the
Sig Sauer he gave her three Christmases ago.  The day she spent in the
hospital he told her if she was a good girl she might get another one
for her birthday, in April.  She said, "I'll get my gun back when I
find Jack Foley.  What I need are shoes.  But don't get me anything,
okay?  Really."  Which was what she said every year.  And every year
she would be his little girl again unwrapping presents, eager, taking
great pleasure in it, while his pleasure was watching her.  Watching
Max von Sydow now walk over to the seated man and shoot him in the
right temple, to Redford's amazement, and place the Walther in the
man's hand.  Forty years as a private investigator Marshall Sisco had
never carried a gun or kept one in his office or home.  None of his
investigators did either, or Karen when she worked surveillance jobs
for him: the cute girl following slip-and-fall and whiplash cheaters
looking for insurance payoffs.  They had talked about those times at
dinner, Marshall trying to sell his little girl on the idea of
returning to private investigating, run the office, make some real
money representing big companies being sued-supermarkets and
restaurants, hospitals, bike and car manufacturers .. . She wouldn't
have to carry a gun or load her trunk with all that law enforcement
stuff.  She'd meet lawyers, doctors-nothing wrong with them necessarily
if they were divorced.  Why settle for some cowboy cop who drank too
much and cheated on his wife?  That's the way those hotshots were, all
of them.  Karen was a nice girl, well behaved in her own way;

she listened to him at dinner, nodding a few times while picking her
crab claws clean, and asked him if he thought Buddy and Foley would
stick together.

"Wouldn't they be better off if they split up?"  He thought, What're
you gonna do?  His little girl was preoccupied.  She'd mention Buddy,
but it was Foley she had on her mind.  He said to her yeah, they'd have
a better chance of making it if they split up.  But if Buddy had
something he wanted to do and needed Foley, and since Foley owed him ..
.

Max von Sydow and Bedford are coming out of the house now.

Max turns to Bedford, who has just watched him commit a murder, and
says, "Can I drop you?"

Coming into the room Karen said, "Three Days of the Condor, I love that
movie.  Do you know the title of the book it was based on?"

"Tell me."

"Six Days of the Condor.  I spoke to Begina Mary.  She has a very quiet
voice-like this, barely above a whisper.

"Yes?  May I help you?"  E-n'n-cia ting so I think she was definitely a
little ripped.  I took a shot, I said, "Begina, this is Karen, Buddy's
friend in Miami?"  I said, "He told me where he'll be staying and I
wrote down the address, but now I can't find it."  I think it confused
her.  She said, "Oh," in that voice, "I don't have any idea."  And I
thought, well, that's it.  But then she said-Karen dropped her voice,
getting a hushed tone-"He called just a while ago to let me know he's
all right."

I couldn't believe it.  I said he only left last night and he's there
already?  She said, "Oh, no, he's in Lexington, Kentucky."

" Karen said to her dad,

"Are you ready?  And then she said, "He won't be in Detroit till
tomorrow."

" Her dad was smiling at her.

"Beautiful."

"I said, "Buddy's awfully thoughtful, isn't he, to call you."  And you
know what she said?

"He'd better, if he wants to save his immortal soul."  What do you
suppose that means?"

"Like she's his ticket to heaven," her dad said, "so he'd better keep
in touch.  Regina may be out of the habit, but still has a lot of
old-time nun left in her.  What else did she say?"

"That was about it.  I asked if the next time Buddy calls she could
find out where he's staying, maybe get the phone number.

She said it wasn't necessary for her to know that, he was on his honor
to report to her."

"Well, nuns weren't all sweethearts," her dad said.

"Regina sounds like the kind, they'd make you hold your hand out and
then whack it with a ruler.  Hurt like hell."

Karen sipped her drink, quiet for several moments.

"You have to tell Burdon," her dad said, "and you'd rather not.  Am I
right?"

Karen looked up.  She said, "The FBI has warrants right now for over
six thousand fugitives.  What do they need two more for?"

Her dad said, "You're kidding."

Karen sipped her drink.

Her dad said, "Aren't you?"

Sunday, it was halftime at the Super Bowl by the time Karen got home.
She saw her dad trying to act like it didn't bother him.

"I'm sorry I'm late.  What's the score?"

Her dad, with his beer and a bowl of peanuts, said, "Thirteen to seven,
Dallas.  It's still a game, but not as close as it looks.  The Cowboys
had to lack a couple of field goals when they should've gone in."

"So they can't be acting too arrogant."

"Give 'em time."

Karen said, "I went to see Burdon."

Her dad turned his head to look at her now.

"He wasn't watching the game?"

"He wanted to, but had to get rid of me first."  Karen started out of
the room and stopped.

"Thirteen to seven, that's a total of only twenty so far.  What's your
bet, sixty?"

"Sixty-one, based on a final score of forty-four to seventeen, the
Cowboys in control all the way."

"So they'll have to score thirty-one points for you in the second
half."

"I'm not worried," her dad said.

"Last year, the 49ers and the San Diego Chargers scored a total of
seventy-five points.

The year before, Dallas over Buffalo, they scored a total of
sixty-nine.  Where you going?"

"Get a beer.  I'll be right back."

It gave her dad time to think about their bet.  The sports book money
line had the Dallas Cowboys favored over the Pittsburgh Steelers by
13V2.  They both wanted the Steelers to win, so they were betting on
the total number of points scored,

whoever came closer, Karen with 45-she had to be dreaming-her dad 61.
If Karen won, she could pick out a pair of shoes at Joan & David.  If
her dad won, she had to come here for a week and cook dinner, all his
favorites-pot roast, Swiss steak, chicken paprikash.  Her dad told
everybody he knew Karen cooked like a grandmother.

She came back with a long-neck Bud.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing, it's still the half.  The experts are telling, us what we
just saw."  He waited for Karen to sit down on the sofa and then
offered the peanuts.

"So you broke down and told Burdon they're in Detroit."

"Yeah, and he said, "You mean it's possible Buddy is."  He's sure
they've split up.  Burdon's theory, Buddy knows Detroit, he used to
live there, so he could've gone back to hide out.  But look at Foley's
record, the banks he's robbed by his own admission are all in the
South, the Southwest and California."

"Burdon," her dad said, "is trying to watch the game while you're
talking?"

"Standing at the door, he wouldn't let me in the house.  We could hear
the game ... I asked if he'd send me to Detroit.

Absolutely not.  Out of the question.  For what?  He's already put out
an all-points, the Detroit office knows who to look for.  I said all I
want to do is give them a hand.  I know the guys we're looking for
better than anyone on the investigation.  You could pass them on the
street and not know them, but I would.

All you have to do is tell your office I'm coming."

"Meanwhile," her dad said, "dying to get back to the game"

"Right, he said okay to get rid of me.  I leave in the morning,
probably stay at the Westin."

Her dad was frowning a little, shaking his head.

"You report to the FBI office up there, you know how they'll treat you.
A girl walks in-she's gonna tell them how to find a couple of
fugitives?"

"If I walk in," Karen said.

"I've been there, remember?

Twice I had to pick up prisoners."

"So they know you."

"Not the Bureau guys," Karen said, "the Detroit cops.  I have a friend
now in Major Crimes, an inspector, I know will help me out."

"Married?"

"They're all married."

They watched most of the Super Bowl at Galligan's, a bar on Jefferson
that was a block from the Omni, where they were staying.

Foley had turned the game on in his room, Buddy brought a bottle of Jim
Beam and they watched the first quarter from the chair and the bed
until Foley said they should go to a bar, see the game with a crowd of
people making some noise.  So they walked to Galligan's, Foley hunching
his shoulders in his new overcoat, and joined four other guys from out
of town, stuck here over the weekend, and a woman who said she lived in
Greektown but didn't look at all Greek.  Blond, somewhere in her
fifties.  She said her name but Foley forgot it right away and she left
at the half saying she had an appointment.

The only reason Foley and Buddy liked the Steelers was that they didn't
like the show boating Cowboys, though they had little to strut about
today.  It wasn't much of a game.  Final score, 27-17, Dallas.

Foley left the table to talk to the bartender.

Buddy ordered a couple more Jim Beams with a splash, for the road.

Foley came back and sat down.

"They have fights at Cobo Hall sometimes, the Palace, he says where the
Pistons play, and the State Theater on Woodward Avenue.  He says you
can walk from here.  He's never heard of Maurice Snoopy Miller.  I
asked him how come they don't have fights at Joe Louis Arena.  He said
they do, it's where the Wings play hockey.  Then he said yeah, they've
had title fights at the Joe, but no regular program.  That's what they
call it, the Joe."

"You know Louis is from here," Buddy said, "the old Brown Bomber.  They
have like a statue-it's just his right arm and the fist-out there on
Jefferson."

"The Brown Bomber," Foley said, "it sounds racist.  You have to be
careful these days, you can sound like a racist without even trying.
Anyway, the guy said if Snoopy Miller's in the fight game we might find
him at the Kronk gym, it's where Thomas Hearns trained.  I saw the Hit
Man get the decision over Benitez in New Orleans, I happened to be
home.  I asked him where the Kronk gym was, he said he didn't know.
Somewhere on the west side."

"I was an east sider Buddy said, turning to the window.

"Look out there.  You ever see so much glass in your life?  All those
buildings over there, like giant tubes of glass.  The tallest one's the
hotel, the Westin.  There's a restaurant and cocktail lounge on top,
something like seventy floors up, turns around real slow-you don't even
feel it.  You're looking out at the Motor City, have another drink,
you're looking across the river at Canada.  You want, we could go up
there, get a good look at the city."

"From what I've seen," Foley said, "it looks deserted, like everybody
left town."

"It's Sunday, Jack, everybody's home watching the game.

You want to go over to the Westin, see what's there?  Maybe go up to
the top?"

"If we didn't have to go outside."

"It's not that cold.  You know what you do?  Relax your body.

Don't hunch up, swing your arms, keep your blood moving and it doesn't
seem as cold."

"Who told you that?"

"I think it was my sister.  She knows things like that."

"Living in sunny California.  That's where we oughta be, 'stead of here
at the fucking North Pole."

"Wait a minute," Buddy said, "we don't have to go outside.

That glass thing that goes across Jefferson, it's like a bridge you
walk across from our hotel to the RenCen."

"What's the RenCen?"

"The Renaissance Center, those glass tubes over there.  Tell me what
you want to do."

"I don't know," Foley said.

"What do you do in Detroit on a

Sunday when you can't think of anything and the banks are closed?"
Foley sipped his drink.

"I know where I want to go tomorrow."

"Yeah, where?"

"The Kronk gym."

SIXTEEN

HE FIRST THING Maurice said to Glenn was, "Uh-unh, you don't call me
Snoopy.  I don't answer to that Snoopy shit no more."  Later on in the
car he said, "I let White Boy call me Maury sometime if I'm in the
mood.  White Boy Bob's my all-around man, my bodyguard when I feel I
need one, and my driver."

Right now he was driving the '94 Lincoln Town Car Glenn had brought
from Florida and Maurice had fixed up with a Michigan license plate and
what he said were clean papers, Glenn not sure now if it was his car or
belonged to this dude wearing a lavender do-rag bandanna, this ex-con
who used to be known as Snoopy.

White Boy didn't seem to pay any attention to Maurice and Glenn in the
backseat talking about him.  Driving out to the suburbs on a cold,
sunless afternoon, all the way out Woodward Avenue from downtown to
show Glenn Mr.  Ripley's house in Bloomfield Hills.

"White Boy," Maurice said, "never made it as a pro, even though he can
be a mean and vicious motherfucker.  See, but if a fighter works in and
gives him a good shot, White Boy's eyes cross and he don't know where
he's at.  I'm talking about in the ring, you understand, where you have
to go by the rules.  You mess with him on the street it's a whole
different situation.

Look at him, the shoulders, a size twenty neck on him.  White Boy Bob
stands six-four and goes two-fifty, can put his fist through a plaster
wall.  I've seen it."  Maurice said, "White Boy," raising his voice,
"tell Glenn the reason you went down on that burglary that time."

Glenn saw White Boy Bob look up at the mirror.

"I left my wallet in the house I robbed."

Glenn saw him grinning now in the mirror.

"Come out of his pocket," Maurice said, "as he's climbing through the
window.  Takes the TV, the VCR, some other shit and leaves his wallet
on the floor.  The police come by to see him.

"You lose this, Bob?"  White Boy goes, "Yeah, I guess I did," not
thinking where he might've left it.  Got sent to Huron Valley." Maurice
raised his voice again.

"What was it, two years you done that time?"

"Twenty-two months."

Glenn watched him looking at the mirror and Maurice said, "Watch the
road, Boy."  He said to Glenn, "I like this Town Car.  We can cruise
the man's neighborhood without getting the police or the private
security people on our ass.  Understand what I'm saying?"

Glenn said, "Sure, right, they see Bigfoot driving around a black guy
wearing shades and a lavender fucking bandanna, no, they won't think
anything of it."

Maurice said, "It's lilac, man, the color, and the style's made known
by Deion and other defensive backs in the pros.  I could be one of them
living out here with doctors of my race and basketball players.  Man,
all you need is money.  Here, this road we coming to ... What is it,
White Boy?"

"Big Beaver," White Boy said, grinning at the mirror.

"White Boy can't get over a road name Big Beaver.  Okay, we come about
fifteen miles from that whorehouse motel you staying at downtown.  Now
we in Bloomfield Hills.  We go left a ways and then right.  They no
hills to speak of, huh, but lots of trees.

Remember Lompoc, we had that nice view of trees and the warden had 'em
all cut down?"

"Eucalyptus," Glenn said.

"New warden," Maurice said.

"Cut down the trees and kept the yard closed till noon every day.  I
worked nights, see, in the bakery?  Use to come off and do my training.
So I couldn't do it no more, work on my legs.  You don't have legs, you
got no business in the ring."

White Boy said, "I let Maury hit me in the gut as hard as he can."

Maurice said, "Watch the road, Boy.  Slow down, I think it's the next
street .. . Yeah, Vaughan Road, nothing but money.

Here come Mr.  Ripley's house up on the left.  Yeah, the brick wall ..
. There's his drive, right there."

Glenn turned his head to look out the back window and caught sight of a
slate roof, glimpses of a Tudor-style country house through the trees,
a huge place, Glenn saying, "He went by too fast."

Maurice told White Boy to turn around, in that drive there, and go slow
so Glenn could see the house.

"Okay, now creep.

Big place, huh?  We come by and see people trimming, cutting the lawn,
so I send White Boy to go find the boss of the crew, ask was there any
work for him.  The boss say no, so White Boy goes around to where this
houseman is washing a car, in back, and ask can he have a drink of
water from the hose.  The houseman's white too, see.  They get talking,
White Boy ask him they any trouble with prowlers around here, car
thieves and such.  The houseman say they got a system, the man's
sleeping and hears a sound he don't like?  He press a button and every
light inside and outside the house comes on.  He wants to, he can press
the button again, all the lights outside the house start flashing, a
siren goes off and the police get a call, like a signal.

The man has everything but U.S. Marines run out the garage at you.  I'm
thinking, we don't need none of that shit.  I make up my mind, if this
Ripley place is worth going into, they's only one way to do it.  Which
I believed from the time you first told me about Ripley was how to do
it anyway."

"How?"  Glenn said.

"I'll show you, soon as I get two more people I'm gonna need.  Couple
of young gym rats I know, hang out at the Kronk.

Give 'em a hundred each they go anywhere I say."

"Wait just a fucking minute," Glenn said.

"I'm letting you in on this, not all your friends."

"You let me in on what?"  Maurice said.

"You come this time and tell me, finally, the whole story, how this man
has all kind of money in there, stones, gold; but that was five years
ago the man told you.  What's he got in there now?  You tell me you
gonna bring some people, couple old cons know what they doing.

Then you say you change your mind, you ain't bringing these people."

"And you told me," Glenn said, "you know how to break and enter, only
your expert here leaves his fucking wallet in the house."

"You learn from doing," Maurice said.

"You learn where the money's at, then you do it.  You don't go in a
house and toss it looking for valuables, slit open the mattress, that
kind of shit.

They young fellas do that call the Head Bangers, go in and beat up on
old ladies for money they save in a coffee can.  No-the way to do it,
you go in where you know they's money from illegal trade and the man
ain't gonna tell on you.  Like Mr.

Ripley, you say made his from illegal trade.  But what he told you, not
only was it some time ago, it might've been bullshit.

Understand?  The one thing visible this Ripley deal has going for it, I
mean we're sure of, is that big fucking house you have to be rich to
live in."

"He's got it," Glenn said, "don't worry."

"Man, the only thing I'm worried about is you, if you can step up and
do it.  Understand?

"Stead of just talking the talk."

"Can I do what?"

"Walk in a house with me I got picked out.  Man that lives there, a
white guy, I used to sell to when I was in Young Boys, Incorporated."

"Excuse me," Glenn said, "but I don't know what the fuck you're talking
about."

"Quit looking out the window and listen, you find out.  Young Boys,
man, we had the whole west side.  This man I'm talking about would
drive down to the projects, stop by my corner and I'd fix him up. Okay,
now later on when I was doing business for the Chambers brothers-the
ones had the crack factory?"

Glenn shook his head.

"Had girls working there cooked the rocks they called the Rockettes."

"I thought you were into credit cards."

"That was like on the side, use 'em to buy clothes, things for my
house.  See, but when I got ratted on and the feds wanted me for
product, I had the credit cards to plead down to.  Understand?

They saw it as better than nothing, sent me to Lompoc and I let you
talk me into escaping.  Only stupid thing I ever done in my life. Okay,
now this man I'm talking about .. . You know the one I mean?"

"The guy who used to buy coke off you."

"Was scag he bought off me.  After while kicked it and found his
happiness with crack, what I started dealing him when I worked for the
Chambers brothers.  But, see, the man turned around and got into
dealing himself, selling to white people out this way.  You with me?"

"This is a long fucking story," Glenn said, looking out the window
again at shrubs, stone walls, driveways, trying to be cool, but feeling
his control of the situation slipping away as Maurice took over the car
and now, it seemed, was taking over the whole fucking deal, the con
named Snoopy nowhere in sight.

"Look," Maurice said, "I know you cool, but don't give me no tone of
voice, okay?  You don't like what I'm saving, you can get out anywhere
along here you want."

There it was.  Still, Glenn felt he should call him on it.  He said, "I
think you're forgetting, this is my car.  I drove it up here."

Maurice said, "Hey, shit, come on.  I say I want this car, man, it's
mine.  You go get yourself another one.  Now you gonna listen to me?"

They weren't having a discussion, Glenn realized for sure now, they
were arm wrestling, Maurice showing him who was boss.  Glenn, sitting
there bundled up in his new wool-lined raincoat, his wool gloves and
scarf, acted surprised, for what it was worth, saying, "What's all this
fucking hostility about?  I thought we had an understanding."

"I said you gonna listen to me or not?"

So much for the understanding.

Glenn took his time, making Maurice wait, before he said, "This guy who
used to be your customer is dealing now, selling to white folks. You're
thinking of a way to rip him off, knowing he won't call the cops 'cause
it's money, as you say, from illegal trade," Glenn getting just a hint
of a bored tone in there.  He glanced at Maurice in his silk bandanna,
sitting there like some fucking African prince.

"What else?"

"You either stupid or you showing me some nerve," Maurice said.

"Okay, we gonna find out how much you actually have."

A young woman named Marcie Nolan, the police beat reporter for the Free
Press, spotted Karen Sisco going into 1300 Beaubien, Detroit Police
headquarters.  Marcie was coming back from lunch at a Greektown
restaurant, two blocks away, approaching 1300 when she saw Karen.  But
by the time Marcie got to the lobby and through the metal detector,
Karen was in an elevator on her way up to ... Well, she could be seeing
one of the brass on the third floor, or someone in the Homicide section
on five or Major Crimes on seven.  If Karen was picking up a prisoner
she'd eventually end up on nine, where the holding cells were located.
Unless her prisoner was across the street, in the Wayne County jail.
Marcie Nolan went up to her office on the second floor, a partitioned
room she shared with the News beat reporter, and called an assistant
editor at the Free Press.

She said, "Hi, it's Marcie," eager to tell about Karen Sisco, the
federal marshal she got to know in Miami when she was at the Herald,
but had to answer questions first.  No, they still weren't giving out
information.  All they seemed to have was the witness report of four
guys in a blue van.  Two of the women were here this morning for
show-ups.  She said they had to release the suspect they'd brought
in.

"But listen, there's a U.S. marshal here from Miami, Karen Sisco ... I
don't know yet, I have to find her.  She's probably picking up some guy
they have on a detainer .  That's what I'm gonna find out.  In the
meantime the Herald has a terrific shot of her taken in front of the
federal courthouse .  No, in Miami It wouldn't matter, it's a really
terrific shot.  Karen has style, and she's a knockout .. . You'll see.
It's the land of shot, if what she's doing here isn't a story, you
could run it in "Names & Faces' instead of whatever Madonna's up to ...
It'll have a cut line with it we can revise, add that she's picking up
a prisoner, or whatever she's doing here .. . That's fine with me. 
Once you see the picture I know you'll use it."

Karen phoned her dad late Monday afternoon from her room in the Westin.
He asked about her flight, hoping, he said, Northwest wasn't still
serving that scrambled egg sandwich with the banana and yogurt, and the
bagel if you got the sandwich down and were still hungry.  A cold
bagel, for Christ sake.  He didn't wait to hear what she did have or
ask about the weather.

"So what're you doing?"

"Right now?"  Karen said, standing at her window.

"I'm looking at Windsor, Ontario.  You remember that movie Stranger
Than Paradise?"

"No-who was in it?"

"Nobody.  It doesn't matter," Karen said.

"I went to see Raymond Cruz."

"The Homicide guy."

"He was.  He's crimes against persons and property now, also sex crimes
and child abuse."

"Detroit, he must be pretty busy."

"Home invasions are big, sexual assaults .. . They're after a gang that
cruises around in a van raping women, four guys.

They pick up a woman off the street or pull her out of her car,
gang-bang her in the van and throw her out.  Raymond says they're close
to nailing these guys so he's staying on top of it.

But, he knows who Maurice Miller is, the guy Glenn Michaels stayed with
when he was here in November?  Or said he did.

They even had Maurice's case file out, looking at it-his priors, a lot
of credit card stuff.  They're checking him out to see if he's into
home invasions.  They had a wiretap on some guys who were hitting dope
houses and heard Maurice's name mentioned as someone, it sounded like,
they wanted to bring in."

"The bad guys."

"Yeah, to work with them."

"Has Maurice been picked up?"

"They haven't looked for him yet.  I told Raymond maybe I could save
him the trouble.  He gave me Maurice's last known address, but doesn't
want me to go after him alone.  I said, "Raymond, I'm a federal
officer, I'm armed .. ."  What it is, he wants to go with me, but he's
tied up."

"Would this be like a date?"

Some of the things her dad said she ignored.

"I noticed in Maurice's case file," Karen said, "something that might
interest you.  He gave his occupation as prizefighter and his employer,
the Kronk Recreation Center.  You've heard of it, haven't you?"

"The Kronk?  Sure, all the good Detroit fighters the last twenty years
came out of there.  Emanuel Steward's program, the guy who trained
those fighters, Tommy Hearns .. ."

Her dad paused.

"McCrory," Karen said.

"Yeah, Milton McCrory."

"There was a lightweight, Kenty?"

"Hilmer Kenty.  You remember those guys?  You were a little girl.  Your
friends are at the mall, you're home watching the fights."

"Well, once in a while I did.  And soaps," Karen said.

"General Hospital, I almost became a nurse."

"What're you doing tonight?"

"Nothing.  Watch TV if there's anything on."

"Monday night, Poirot's on followed by Miss Marple.  You thinking of
going to the Kronk?"

"I might, just to see what it's like."

"A place like that," her dad said, "the fighters are okay, they're in
there working their tail off.  Then there're the guys who want you to
think they're fighters, they might even shuffle around like they're
doing their footwork, hit the bags, but they never go in the ring.  And
you got the ones who hang out there 'cause it makes them feel like
they're tough guys.  You know, the atmosphere.  But you can take care
of yourself, right?"

"I'll call you tomorrow, let you know how I'm doing."

"I forgot to ask you," her dad said, "what's the weather like?"

"Was a time," Maurice said, "you see a gold Mercedes over in the
parking lot has a license plate on it say HITMAN?  You know Tommy
Hearns is inside.  Seeing the car would get our juices flowing."

Glenn said he thought there'd be guys hanging around outside or
running, doing their roadwork.  Man, it was a bleak, depressing
neighborhood, trash blowing in the street .. .

Maurice said it was too cold to be outside, the dude in his lilac
do-rag and tailored black pea jacket, enough shoulders in the coat for
White Boy Bob-White Boy wearing a wool shirt hanging out over his
T-shirt-coming behind them up the ramp to the front door of the Kronk
Recreation Center at McGraw and Junction, a two-story red-brick
building that looked to Glenn like a public library no one used in a
poor section of town.  The streets around here were a clutter of up
and-down two-family flats with porches, dingy cars out front narrowing
the streets.

Inside at a table they signed their names, the time, and wrote "boxing"
in the last column.  Glenn could hear kids' voices, basketballs beating
on a wood floor, in there where auditorium doors were closed, as they
walked past to a stairway, went down to the basement and along a
hallway that brought them to KRONK BOXING, lettered on a door painted
yellow across the top and the rest of it a bright red, with more words
on it that said THIS DOOR HAS LED MANY TO PAIN & FAME.

"More the one than the other," Maurice said, waiting for White Boy to
edge past them and open the door.  Going in, Maurice said to Glenn,
"You feel the heat, uh?  Hits you smack in the face."  Maurice slipping
off his pea jacket now, getting down to his black silk shirt and
pleated trousers a shade of taupe.

"Even how much they sweat in here, it don't smell bad,

does it?  Go sit over there on those benches.  I be with you in a few
minutes."

Some were like park benches, along the near wall facing the ring, a big
one flat on the floor, its size taking up most of the gym.  Four young
guys, three black and one who looked to Glenn like an Arab, were in
there shadowboxing, weaving, ducking, throwing jabs with their taped
hands.  Glenn had noticed a body bag over where they came in, pictures
of fighters all over the walls, a sign above the ring on the other side
that said TURN UP THE HEAT.  Another one, THE BIGGER THE REWARD THE
BIGGER THE SACRIFICE.  Glenn stared at it a few moments thinking it
should be turned around, lead with The bigger the sacrifice ... In the
space to the left of the ring were workout machines, a speed bag, a
training table, athletic bags in jazzy colors on the floor.

There were old black guys over there in yellow T-shirts with KRONK in
red, the trainers, talking to kids working out, watching the ones
shuffling around in the ring.  Maurice and White Boy were over there
now, Maurice approaching the trainers one at a time, faking jabs,
rolling his bony shoulders, jiving with them, but not getting any kind
of cordial response, no smiles; a trainer would shake his head and
Maurice would move on to the next one.  White Boy was on a workout
machine now, shirts off, popping his muscles.

Glenn brought a cigarette out of his shirt, looking at another one of
the signs.  NO PAIN NO GAIN.  No shit.  He reached in for his lighter,
the cigarette in his mouth, as one of the trainers, a big heavyset guy,
came along from the other side of the gym where the door was-shaking
his head at him and pointing to a NO SMOKING sign.  Glenn held his
raincoat open to slip the cigar

rette back into the pack, chin on his chest to see what he was doing.
When he raised his head again he was looking at two white guys in
overcoats coming this way, the two guys looking right back at him.

Christ.  Jack Foley and Buddy.

Buddy the one saying, "Hey, Studs, how you doing?"  as they walked up,
Foley with kind of a mild expression, neither one acting like a
hard-on, except they sat down on either side of him, close.  It gave
Glenn only a few moments to deal with his nerves.

He said, "Jesus Christ, what're you guys doing here?"  and it didn't
sound too bad.  Surprised, but not overdoing it, almost like he was
glad to see them.

Foley said, "Weren't you expecting us?"

Getting to it right away.  Glenn said, "Listen, I'll tell you what
happened."  It was awkward the way they were sitting, the three of them
facing the ring, only two guys in there now.  He said to Foley, on his
right, "That broad you picked up-did you know she was a U.S. marshal,
for Christ sake?"  He turned to Buddy as Buddy stood up, took off his
overcoat and sat down again.

"She knew me, from that bullshit dope bust.  She drove me to court.
Twice.  You know what she said, we're in the car on the turnpike?

"I never forget anybody I've cuffed and shackled."" Foley said, "Yeah?
She said that to you?"

Glenn turned to see Foley, still with a mild expression, almost
smiling.  Glenn said, "She asked me if I had a gun," and saw a little
more of the smile, not much, just a hint, but like

Foley thought it was funny.

"She told me to drive, leave you there, or I was going down for the
rest of my life."

Foley said, "Then what happened?"

"I drove.  What would you do?"

Foley didn't answer, his face close, deadpan now.  Glenn turned his
head and was looking at the two guys in the ring sparring, dancing
around each other, ducking, throwing jabs, smacking each other's
gloves.

"What happened after that?"

"She wanted me to get off the turnpike so she could take me in.  No
thank you, I had it on the floor.  The next thing I know she wigged on
me, grabbed the wheel and we spun out and piled up."

"What'd you do then?"

"Got out of the car and ran."

"She try to stop you?"

"She was out cold."

"How do you know she wasn't dead?"

"She was breathing."

"But she could've been hurt."

"What was I supposed to do, get help?  She wakes up, she's gonna
fucking put me away.  I got out of there, man, I ran.  I picked up a
ride, drove to Orlando and hung around Disney World, in crowds, man, I
hid in crowds of people till I figured out what to do."

Foley said, "You hid out with Mickey Mouse, huh?"

"Yeah, Mickey and Minnie, that whole crowd.  I thought about it and
decided I could kill two birds, hide out up here and do the job I told
you about at Lompoc.  You know the one I mean?"

Foley nodded.

"So I called Maurice."

"Who's Maurice?"

"Snoopy," Buddy said, leaning over now to get his suitcoat off.

"Snoopy Miller."

Glenn-it was weird-felt a sense of relief come over him hearing the
name Snoopy.  For some reason he thought of Snoopy the dog, saw him in
his mind the way Snoopy appeared in the comic strip, before thinking of
the other Snoopy who wasn't Snoopy anymore-the one over there with the
trainers;

no, talking to White Boy now and they were coming this way, White Boy
carrying his shirts.  Glenn had to wonder why only a few moments ago
he'd felt cornered.

Leaning against Foley he said, "Here comes Snoopy now.

You recognize him?"

Foley wasn't sure.  He had seen him fight only a couple of times at
Lompoc, about the same time they began calling him Snoopy instead of
Mad Dog and he quit the ring; and had seen him once in a while with
Glenn, in the yard.  Glenn got up and Foley looked over at Buddy.

"The guy in the do-rag."

"Yeah?"

"That's Snoopy."

"Little squirt," Buddy said.

"What's he do now, tell fortunes?"

He was walking up to Glenn when Foley said, "Hey, Snoopy, how you
doing?"  and he stopped and looked over.

Standing at the edge of the ring apron, he looked from Foley to Buddy
and back again, pretty serious about it.  He said to Foley, "I'm
suppose to know you?"

"Lompoc," Foley said, and waited for Glenn to say something, it was his
party.  But he didn't.

"Yeah, Lompoc," Maurice said, like he was remembering it now, picturing
some part of it.

Now the big guy with him moved in closer saying, "We have a problem
here?"

It took Foley back to the yard, guys sizing each other up, making
judgments that could mean somebody's life.  Foley didn't look at the
big white guy, but kept staring at the Snoop he remembered as all show,
had the moves, the weaves, the head fakes when he wasn't even near his
opponent, doing that little jive skip and touching a glove to his head.
He stared at the Snoop till he saw the man's face begin to relax and
now he was smiling.

"Jack Foley.  Am I right?"

Foley nodded.

"And Buddy.  Yeah, I can see you two now in the yard, sure.

Jack Foley, famous bank robber.  It seem to me I been reading about you
in the newspaper.  Busted out of some joint in Florida, huh?"

"Low class of people there, Snoop.  I got out with a little help from
my friends."  He saw Glenn about to speak.

But the big guy cut him off saying, "You call him that again I'll put
your head through the wall."

Buddy said, "What?  You mean Snoop?"

Foley watched the Snoop raise his hand to the guy as if to hold him
off.

"Nobody calls me Snoop no more or Snoopy, is what White Boy's trying to
say.  He's a little crude, you understand.  No, I left that Snoopy shit
behind me."

Buddy said, "What do they call you now?"

"My name, Maurice.  Nothing fancy."

Buddy said, "And you call this bozo White Boy?"

"White Boy Bob," Glenn said, putting his two cents in, and it sounded
innocent enough, though not to Foley.  Glenn telling them now, "White
Boy used to be a fighter."  Giving Buddy the bait.

Buddy said, "What's he do now outside of shoot his mouth off?"

Foley said to Maurice, "Like being back in the yard, huh?"

Maurice grinned at him.

"Just like it.  Nobody backing down.

You back down you pussy.  Tell me what you and Buddy doing up here in
the cold."

"They think they're getting in on our gig," Glenn said, "but no one
told me they were coming.  I told you I had two guys and then told you
I didn't?  These are the two."

Maurice said, "Let's go outside to talk."

"What's the matter with right here?"  Foley said.

"It's nice and warm."

"Warm?  Man, it's ninety-five degrees in here, sometime a hundred-the
way Emanuel always kep' it so his boys'd sweat,

get lean and mean like Tommy Hearns.  No, I ain't talking any business
in here.  To me this is like holy ground, man.  You understand?  I got
to be someplace anyway.  Y'all want to talk, come to the fights
Wednesday night, we'll sit down and look at it good."

Foley turned to Buddy.  Buddy shrugged and Foley said, "Where?"

Outside, walking to the car, Foley said, "You notice, it's supposed to
be Glenn's deal, but now it looks like he's working for the Snoop."

"Call him that again," Buddy said, "you heard that musclebound asshole,
what he'll do to you."

"He was telling us who he is, that's all, making himself known."

"Yeah?  Who is he?"

"A musclebound asshole.  You know the thing that bothers me?"

"If the Snoop's been reading about you," Buddy said, "he knows you're
worth ten gees."

"You recall did it say dead or alive?"

"I think it's for information leading to your being apprehended.  They
might pay off on your being dead, but I don't see how the Snoop'd work
it.  You know what I mean?  It wouldn't be the same kind of deal as
that bum giving up the Cuban."

"Lulu," Foley said.

"I wonder if they got Chino."

"They might have.  We been out of touch."

Crossing the street now, approaching the car, Foley said, "I kind of
like that do-rag the Snoop had on.  You know it?  It looked cool on
him."

"I ever catch you wearing one," Buddy said, "I'll turn you in for the
ten gees."

Glenn was trying to get some answers while Maurice watched the two guys
sparring, poking at each other, and it was like talking to the wall.

"You said you could get a couple of guys for a hundred bucks each.
Right?"

Maurice would yell at the one with RICARDO OWEN on the tank top he wore
over his yellow T-shirt, telling him to jab, jab, telling him it was
what he had the gloves on for.  Keep 'em up and jab.

"If you can get the two guys, what do we need Foley and Buddy for?"

"My guys ain't here no more."

"Where are they?  Did you find out?"

Maurice said, "Ricky, stick and move, man.  Stick and move."

And to Glenn, "They ain't allowed in here no more."

"What do you mean, they aren't allowed in here?"

"Stay tight on him, Ricky.  Don't give him room.  They fucked up their
privilege, trainer caught 'em selling weed outside the front door.
Ricky, you got to crowd him he does that."

The bell rang and the fighters moved away from each other to walk
around on the canvas, their arms hanging.

Maurice said, "Come on," and brought Glenn away from the ring, away
from the trainers looking over, to sit down on the bench nearest the
door.  White Boy went over and began hitting the heavy bag.

"You tell me you bringing these people," Maurice said, "then you ain't
bringing the people, but the people show up anyway."

"I told you I didn't know they were coming."

"But they here, they know about the deal and want to discuss it.  Fine.
Meantime the two I thought of getting I don't want now, they dirty. You
understand?  So what's wrong with using the bank robbers?  We know they
cool-go in as many banks as those two have?"

"You know," Glenn said, "you'll have to offer them a split, not any
hundred bucks."

"Was that your deal with them?"

"We never got that far."

"Well, what we offer and what they get," Maurice said, "could be two
entirely different things."

SEVENTEEN

AREN'S PHONE RANG at half-past eight.  As soon as she heard "Karen,
it's Marcie Nolan" she knew how her picture got in the paper, on the
back page of the food section under "Names & Faces."

In the two-column photo Karen, in a tailored black suit, straight
skirt, black bag hanging from her left shoulder, is holding a Remington
pump-action shotgun, the butt of the stock resting on her cocked hip,
the barrel extending above her on an angle, her right hand gripping the
gun just above the trigger guard.  Karen wears dark glasses and is
looking past the camera, her lips slightly parted.  The cut line
reads:

LA FEMME KAREN

U.S. Marshal Karen Sisco guards the entrance to the federal courthouse
in Miami during recent drug trials of Colombian nationals.  Other
assignments involve transporting offenders to prison and defendants to
court for trial.  Investigative work means tracking criminal offenders.
Assigned to the Miami office of the Marshals Service, Karen was in town
yesterday to meet with Detroit Police personnel on a special
assignment.

"It was a mistake," Marcie said.

"I mean they jumped the gun, they were supposed to wait till I
interviewed you, see if there was a story."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"I saw you going into 1300 yesterday.  I didn't know who you were
seeing, but I thought I'd catch up with you sooner or later, so to save
time ..."

"That picture," Karen said, "was in the Herald."

"Yeah, I asked my editor to get it.  Both papers are Knight Ridder-tell
them what you need and a few minutes later it's on your computer.  I
mentioned to my editor, if there isn't a story it might work in "Names
& Faces' and he put a note on it to that effect.  But then when I
couldn't find you, I got on another story and didn't get back to my
editor.  What happened then, the "Names & Faces' guy saw the note,
revised the caption in kind of a generic way and ran with it.  Karen,
I'm awfully sorry I wasn't able to talk to you first."

"It's okay.  Don't worry about it."

"I was afraid you might be furious."

"I get pissed off sometimes," Karen said, "but I'm rarely furious.  The
FBI office and the marshal's might wonder what I'm doing here."

Marcie said, "They don't know?"

"I mean they might think I'm a publicity nut, that I called you.  But I
can't see them making an issue out of it."

"You didn't want them to know you're here," Marcie said, "and I blew
your cover.  I'm sorry, Karen, really."  She paused.

"Can you tell me what you're on?"

"

"Meeting with Detroit Police personnel on a special assignment." What's
wrong with that?"

"It doesn't say anything, though, really."

"I think more than enough," Karen said, wanting to get off the phone,
but had to ask, "How did you know I'm at the Westin?"

"Inspector Cruz.  I asked around till I found out he's the one you saw.
Can't you tell me anyhing?  Even off the record?"

"Let's see what happens," Karen said.

"How do you like Detroit?"

"Compared to what, the North Pole?"

"It's not as cold as I thought it would be."

"Just wait.  I'd kill to get back to Miami."

"Well, if you do, I'll take you," Karen said.

"And if I have any free time I'll call you.  Okay?"

She phoned Raymond Cruz and had to wait almost two hours for him to get
back to her, to learn that he was awfully sorry but would be tied up
most of the day.  She said, "Raymond, are you trying to avoid me?"  And
he got a little flustered because he was a nice guy, telling her no,
never, he really wanted to see her, but ... It made her feel a little
better, even though now she had nothing to do all day.  She could call
Marcie Nolan back, make a lunch date or meet her for a drink after
five.  Or, she could forget about waiting for Raymond.  She could quit
wasting any more time and check out Maurice Snoopy Miller's last known
address.

Foley read the sports and entertainment pages, glanced through the food
section and came to the back page .. . After he read the caption and
stared at the photo for a while he called Buddy's room.

"You have the paper?"

"I saw it.  What do you think?"

"It's a terrific shot of her."

"Outside of that."

"I don't know," Foley said, staring at the photo.

"But I don't think her being here has anything to do with us."

"She came up here on her vacation," Buddy said, " 'cause she likes
shitty weather."

"I think she's after Glenn."

"How'd she find out he's here?"

"You know Glenn, he probably told her he was coming.  Can you think of
a way she'd know we're here?"

There was a silence before Buddy said, "No, but if they're on his ass
and we're seen with him .. . She wouldn't be up here by herself,
working alone."

"The girl still with you?"

"They don't stay the night, Jack, 'less you pay for it."

"Let me give it some thought," Foley said, still looking at Karen Sisco
holding die shotgun.

"I'll call you back."

Even if Karen suspected they were here and checked the hotels .. . They
had registered as George R. Kelly and Charles A. Floyd-making the names
up on the spot-and paid cash for a week in advance, telling the
reception clerk they'd just as soon not have a hotel showing on credit
card bills that came to the house.

"If you get my drift," Foley said to the clerk and almost winked, but
the guy's bored expression stopped him.

He called Buddy's room and Buddy said right away, "If they got a tail
on Glenn we're fucked.  Tomorrow night at the fights we all get picked
up."

"I understand that," Foley said.

"I'm thinking maybe we can finesse around it, find out if they're on
him or not before we go in."

"How do we do that?"

"I don't know yet.  Let's drive by where they have the fights and look
it over, the State Theater."

"That's what it is, a theater, a movie house."

"Yeah, but what's around it?  We'd check it out anyway.  How about
later on we go for a ride.  You can show me where you used to work."

"Did you see in the paper," Buddy said, and paused.

"Here it is.

"Fight over tuna casserole may have spurred slaying."  This woman's
live-in boyfriend, seventy years old, complained about her tuna noodle
casserole and she shot him in the face with a twelve-gauge."

"I never cared for it either," Foley said.

"Or macaroni and cheese.  Jesus."

"It says police found noodles in the woman's hair and beV

lie ve the guy dumped the casserole dish on her.  They'd been together
ten years."

"Love is funny," Foley said.

He hung up, looked at the photo as he thought about what he was going
to do now and rang the hotel operator.

"Ms.  Sisco's room, please."  He waited.  The operator came back on to
tell him there was no one by that name registered.  Foley got out the
Yellow Pages and opened the book to Hotels.  He tried the Atheneum, a
couple of Best Westerns, the Pontchartrain, skipped to a couple of
Hiltons, looked at a list of five Holiday Inns, said "Shit," looked out
the window at those giant glass tubes across the street and had to
think for a minute.

The Westin, that was it.

He found the number and called it.

"Ms.  Karen Sisco, please."

After a moment the operator said, "I'm ringing."

Foley waited.  He had no idea what he would say, but he stayed on the
line.

The operator's voice came on again.  She said, "I'm sorry, but Ms.
Sisco's room doesn't answer.  Would you care to leave a message?"

Karen rang the doorbell and waited, hands shoved into the pockets of
her dark-navy coat, a long one, double-breasted with a belt in back.

The house on Parkside was in the first block off McNichols, a street
the Westin doorman said everybody called Six Mile

Road 'cause it was six miles from the river and the next roads after
were named Seven Mile, Eight Mile and so on.  Take the Lodge, get off
at Livernois, go on up past the U of D and Parkside was a few blocks
over to the right.  Big homes in there, old but they're nice.

One right after another, most of them red brick and showing their age
in the bleak cold, the street lined with bare trees.

Karen had asked the doorman if it ever snowed and he said, "Mmmm, it
should be starting pretty soon."

The door opened.

Karen said, "Moselle Miller?"

The woman, about thirty, light-skinned, sleepy-eyed, said, "What you
want?"  She wore a green silk robe and was holding her arms close
against the cold.

"I'm looking for Maurice."

"You find him, tell him the dog got run over and I'm out of grocery
money."

A male voice from inside said, "Moselle.  Who you talking to?"

"Lady looking for Maurice."

"What's she want?"

"Hasn't said."

Karen said, "That's not Maurice?"

"That's Kenneth, my brother.  He's talking on the phone."

The voice said, "Ask what she want with him."

"You ask her.  Maurice's business," Moselle said, "is none of my
business," sounding tired or bored.  She turned from the door and
walked into the living room.

Karen stepped inside, pushed the door closed and moved into the foyer.
She heard Kenneth's voice and saw him now- in the study, a small room
with empty bookcases-black male about six-one, medium build,
twenty-five to thirty, wearing a yellow T-shirt and red baseball cap
backward, talking on a cordless phone.  She saw him standing in profile
and heard him say, "How do I know?"  Now he was listening, nodding.

"Yeah, I can make it.  The State, huh.  Who's fighting?"  He listened,
nodding again, said, "What's this other deal?"  turning to the foyer,
and Karen walked into the living room.

Moselle was on the sofa lighting a cigarette.  She said to Karen, "You
like to sit down?"

Karen said thanks and took a chair and looked around the room: dismal,
gray daylight in the windows, dark wood and white stucco, the fireplace
full of trash, plastic cups, wrappers, a pizza box.

Moselle said, "What you want Maurice for?"

"I'm looking for a friend of mine I think Maurice knows."

"You not with probation, one of those?"

Karen shook her head.

"No."

"You a lawyer?"

Karen smiled.

"No, I'm not."  She said, "Maybe you know him.  Glenn Michaels?"

Moselle drew on her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke.

"Glenn?  No, I don't know any Glenn."

"He wasn't here last November?"

"He might've been, I don't know."

"He said he stayed here."

"Here?  In this house?"

"He said he stayed with Maurice."

"Well, he ain't even here that much."  Moselle drew on her cigarette,
let the smoke drift from her mouth and waved at it in a lazy gesture.

"I like to know where he goes, but at the same time I don't want to
know.  You understand?  I was with a man before Maurice, I knew his
business, I knew everything he did, a beautiful young man, and it was
like looking in the future, seeing how it would come to an end and,
sure enough, it did.  He got blown up."

Karen waited.

"He sat down in a chair this time ... I spoke to him on the phone.  He
sat down in the chair and when he went to get up, he got blown to
pieces."

Karen said, "You knew it was going to happen?"

"I knew too much," Moselle said.

"I knew waaay too much.

It's why I don't know nothing now.  I don't know any Glenn, I don't
know nothing what's going on.  Understand?"

Karen watched her, Moselle's arms hugging the green robe closed.

"Your dog was killed?"

"Got run over by a car."

"What did you call it?"

"Was a she, name Tuffy."

"Where do you think I might find Maurice?"

"I don't know-the gym, the fights.  He thinks he still in that
business.  I know he don't miss the fights.  Having some tomorrow night
at the State.  He use to take me."

Kenneth stood in the arched entrance from the foyer.  He said to Karen,
"What you want with Maurice?"

Moselle said, "She looking for a man name of Glenn."

Kenneth said, "Did I ask you?  Go on out of here.  Do something with
yourself."  He waited until Moselle got up, not saying a word, and
walked away from them through the dining room.  Karen watched him
coming toward her now in kind of an easy strut, the backward baseball
cap low on his forehead, letting her know he was cool, he was fly, by
the way he moved.

She saw the scar tissue over his eyes and said, "You're a fighter?"

"How you know that?"

"I can tell."

"I was," Kenneth said, moving his head in what might be a feint, "till
I got my retina detached two times."  He was standing in front of her
now, so close Karen had to look up at him.

"What'd you fight, middleweight?"

"Light to super-middleweight, as my body developed.  You go about what,
bantam?"

"Flyweight," Karen said, and saw him grin.

"You know your divisions.  You like the fights?  Like the rough stuff?
Yeah, I bet you do.  Like to get down and tussle a little bit?

Like me and Tuffy, before she got run over, we use to get down on the
floor and tussle.  I say to her, "You a good dog, Tuffy, here's a treat
for you."  And I give Tuffy what every dog love best.  You know what
that is?  A bone.  I can give you a bone, too, girl.  You want to see
it?  You close enough, you can put your hand out and touch it."

Karen shook her head.

"You're not my type."

"Don't matter," Kenneth said, moving his hand across his leg to his
fly.

"I let the monster out, you gonna do what it wants."

"Just a minute," Karen said.  Her hand went into her bag, next to her
on the chair.

Kenneth said, "Bring your own rubbers with you?"

Her hand came out of the bag holding what looked like the grip on a
golf club and Kenneth grinned at her.

"What else you have in there, Mace?  Have a whistle, different kinds of
female protection shit?  Telling me you ain't a skeezer, or you don't
feel like it right now?"

Karen pushed out of the chair to stand with him face-to-face.

She said, "I have to go, Kenneth," and gave him a friendly poke with
the black vinyl baton that was like a golf club grip.

"Maybe we'll see each other again, okay?"  She stepped aside and
brushed past him, knowing he was going to try to stop her.

And when he did, grabbing her left wrist, saying, "We gonna tussle
first."

Karen flicked the baton and sixteen inches of chrome steel shot out of
the grip.  She pulled an arm's length away from him and chopped the
rigid shaft at his head, Kenneth hunching, ducking away, yelling "God
damn," letting go of her and Karen got the room she needed, a couple of
steps away from him, and when he came at her she whipped the shaft
across the side of his head and he howled and stopped dead, pressing a
hand over his ear.

"What's wrong with you?"

Scowling at her, looking at his hand and pressing it to his ear again,
Karen not sure if he meant because she hit him or because she turned
him down.

"You wanted to tussle," Karen said, "we tussled."  And walked out.

Moselle came out of the dining room holding her robe together, shaking
her head to show her brother some sympathy.

She said, "Baby, don't you know what that girl is?"

Kenneth turned to her frowning, showing how dumb he was from getting
his head pounded in the ring.

"She some land of police, precious.  But nice, wasn't she?"

"You gonna tell Maurice?"

"You the one she beat on, not me."

"Maurice is coming by later.  We gonna do a job."

"If I'm upstairs, tell him I need grocery money."

The phone rang.  Kenneth went into the den to answer.

The doorbell rang.  Moselle opened the door and there was Karen again,
handing her a business card.  Moselle looked at it as Karen said, "I
wrote the hotel number on there-in case you run into Glenn."

Moselle slipped the card into the pocket of her robe.

Kenneth didn't ask who it was at the door and she didn't tell him.

What Foley couldn't understand, for a big industrial city like Detroit
there were so few people on the streets.  Sunday, Buddy said it was
because it was Sunday and everybody was home watching the game.  Today
was Tuesday, there still weren't many people walking around downtown.
You could count them, Foley said.  Buddy said he didn't know, maybe
they built the freeways and everybody left town.  They were on their
way out East Jefferson in the Olds, a Michigan plate on it now, Buddy
the tour guide pointing out the bridge to Belle Isle, the old Naval
Armory, the Seven Sisters-those smokestacks over there on the Detroit
Edison power plant, they were called the Seven Sisters.  There's
Waterworks Park.  Buddy said, "You know Pontiac?  Not the car, the
Indian chief?  Somewhere right around here he wiped out a column of
British soldiers, redcoats, and they called the place Bloody Run."

Foley was half listening, looking around but seeing Karen, Karen's
picture in the paper, Karen in real life coming out of the trunk
saying, "You win, Jack," his favorite picture of her in his mind.

It was snowing now, pretty hard.

"We're coming to it," Buddy said, "there's the fire station."

Now he was frowning, sitting up straight behind the wheel, windshield
wipers going, Buddy squinting, trying to see through the snow coming
down.  He said, "Where's the plant?  It use to come all the way out to
the street, with a bridge across to the offices, the administration
building; it's gone.  There's something way over there.  Jefferson
North.  You see the sign?  Yeah, way over there, some stacks.  It must
be the new one.  I mean this was a big fucking plant, took up blocks
around here, six thousand hourly, and it's gone.  You want to see where
I lived?"

"That's okay," Foley said.

"We may as well turn around," Buddy said, guided the Olds into a gas
station and came out again to go back toward downtown.

"It keeps coming down they'll get the salt trucks out.

The job I had in the old plant, I hooked up transmissions to the
engines."

Foley had torn the picture out of the paper, Karen with her shotgun in
the black outfit that looked familiar.  He had it in the inside pocket
of his suitcoat.  He was imagining what would happen if he phoned her.
She says hello and he says .. .

"The engine comes down the line, let's say it's for an automatic. Okay,
I take this brace in my left hand-it's hanging from a track-work the
hoist button with my right hand, get it in position so the pins in the
brace line up with the holes they have to fit into in the transmission,
jockey it around ."

He'd say his name.  Hi, this is Jack Foley, how you doing?

Like that, keep it simple.  She'd ask where he was or how he knew she
was here.  No, she'd say she was surprised, or she'd say something he
wouldn't expect.  Either way he'd listen to her tone of voice.

"Then you hit the button on the hoist again and swing the transmission
over to the line, rock it, get it in position with the engine.  You let
go of the hoist then and pick up your air gun and run four bolts into
the top of the housing-tsung tsung tsung, fire 'em in."

Or go over to the Westin and call her room.  She's not there, watch for
her to come in the lobby.  She had to come back sometime from whatever
she was doing here.  Unless she was through and she'd already left.

"But let's say you have the transmission on the hoist and the engine
has moved past and it's already out of reach.  You had to pick the
transmission up in your two hands-honest to God, you pick up this
fucker weighing close to two hundred pounds-hump it over to the engine
and run it on to the shaft."

Foley saw her crossing the lobby, coming toward him.  She looks up. She
sees him and stops and they stare at each other and it would be up to
her if there was such a thing in this kind of situation as taking time
to talk, taking a time-out, and he thought of making the sign for it,
one hand flat on top of the raised fingers of the other hand, whether
it made sense or not, letting it happen.

"While I was working there the one-millionth car rolled off the line, a
Chrysler Newport, buy one for forty-one hundred.  It sounds like a
deal, but that was a lot of dough then."

Foley listened to the wipers whacking back and forth.

"Man, it's coming down," Buddy said.

"You can barely see the RenCen, just the lower part."

"There stores in there, shops?"

"Yeah, different ones."

"I think I'll go over and look around, maybe get a pair of shoes for
this weather, some high-tops."

"It's easy to get lost in there.  You have to watch or you're walking
around in circles without knowing it."

"The hotel's right in the middle, huh?"

"Yeah, the tallest one there.  The cocktail lounge I told you about's
on top.  Revolves around.  You can eat up there.  Or there're fast-food
joints all around inside.  You hungry?"

"I may just get a drink."

"I got to call Regina," Buddy said.

"She's not praying for the Poor Souls since you don't hear that much
about Purgatory anymore.  She's still saying rosary novenas I don't
fuck up.

Twenty-seven days petition, what you're saying the beads for, and
twenty-seven days thanksgiving, whether you got what you're praying for
or not.  I call, it means I haven't been arrested.  I called her one
time on the twenty-seventh day, she goes, "See?"  Regina's way of
thinking, if I haven't been busted I must not've done any banks.  In
other words her prayers have been answered and I'm not going to hell.
So, as long as she knows I'm out it gives her something to do.  Hey,
but who knows?  Maybe what she's doing is saving my ass, or I should
say my soul.  Even though I'm not sure if there's a hell anymore or
not.  You think there is?"

"Just the one out in Palm Beach County that I know of," Foley said.

"I doubt anybody's saying novenas for me, but I'm sure as hell not
going back there."

"You can't be that sure," Buddy said.

"Yeah, well, that's the one thing I've made up my mind about."

"They put a gun on you you'll go back."

"They put a gun on you," Foley said, "you still have a choice, don't
you?"

EIGHTEEN

HREE IN THE afternoon, a snowstorm blowing outside, the restaurant on
top the hotel was nearly empty, only one waitress, it looked like, on
duty.  Karen was ready to bet anything the waitress would seat her at a
table near the three men in business suits having lunch, and she did:
the young executive-looking guys talking away, laughing at something
one of them said until Karen walked past, and then silence.  Karen
glanced over as she sat down next to the outside window wall of glass;
for a moment she thought of asking for another table, not so close. But
they were finishing with coffee and cognac, or something like it, and
she was only going to have one drink.

"Jack Daniel's, please, water on the side."  She turned to see her
reflection in the glass against an overcast sky, snow swirling, blowing
in gusts, seven hundred feet above the city,

down there somewhere.  She heard one of them say, "Why not," and then
to the waitress, "Celeste, do us again, please, and put the young
lady's drink on our bill."

Karen remembered her dad reading a book, years ago, called Celeste, the
Gold Coast Virgin.  She turned to see them raising snifter glasses to
her, smiling, pleasant-looking guys thirty-five to forty in dark
business suits, two white shirts, the third one blue, as deep blue as
his suit.  She said, "Thanks anyway," and shook her head.

The waitress drifted back to Karen's table.

"They want to buy you a drink."

"I got that.  Tell them I'd rather pay for my own."

"They're okay," the waitress said, getting girl-to-girl on her,
"they're celebrating a business deal."

"I'm not," Karen said.

"But listen, make it a double while you're at it, Celeste.  Water on
the side."

She watched the three guys looking up at the waitress delivering the
message.  Now they were looking this way.

Karen gave them a shrug and turned to watch the snow, thinking it was
like the snow in a globe you shake and it swirls around, except that
here you're in the globe looking out.  Ten minutes passed before her
drink arrived.  She splashed it with water from a small carafe, took a
good sip and the one with the shirt as dark as his suit and a pale,
rust-colored tie was standing at her table.

He said, "Excuse me."

She liked his tie.

"My associates and I made a bet on what you do for a living."  He
smiled.

Not his friends or his buddies, his associates.

"And I won.  Hi, I'm Philip."

Not Phil, Philip.  Karen said, "If it's okay with you, Philip, I'd like
to just have a quiet drink and leave.  Okay?"

"Don't you want to know what I guessed?  How I know what you do for a
living?"

"To tell you the truth," Karen said, "I'm not even mildly curious.
Really, I don't want to be rude, Philip, I'd just like to be left
alone."  She turned again to the snowstorm.

"You're having a bad day, aren't you?  I understand," Philip said, "and
I'm sorry."

She watched his reflection turn and leave.  The gentleman, polite,
concerned, understanding-all she'd have to say is let's go and they'd
be out of here.

The next one said, "I think I know why you're depressed-if I may offer
an observation."

So fucking sure of themselves.

"You called on an account today, asked for the order and they said
well, they were going to have to think about it."

It was her black suit; she had to be here on business, but didn't look
too happy about it.

"I have a hunch you're the new rep and your customer isn't exactly
knocked out by the idea of a young lady, even one as stunning as you,
handling the account."

Yeah, it was the black suit.

"Am I close?"  Smiling.

"Hi, I'm Andy."

Like that commercial on TV.  Do you suffer the embarrassment of wetting
your pants a lot?  Hi, I'm June Allyson.

"By the way, we're simple ad guys.  We flew in from New

York this morning to pitch a major account."  Andy hunched over to look
out at the storm, maybe to get closer, be able to see through it.

"Hiram Walker Distillery, it's right across the river, if Canada's in
that direction.  There's no way to tell, is there?  Anyway, we
presented a test-market campaign for their new margarita mix.  We show
this guy who looks like a Mexican ban dido the big Chihuahua hat,
crossed bullet belts, and the headline says, "You don't need no
stinkin' bartender."  The client flipped.  So, we're having a little
celebration here before going back tomorrow."

Karen listened.  She said, "Andy?  Really.  Who gives a shit?"

He frowned, and it was kind of a sympathetic expression, as he asked,
"Why are you on the muscle?  Want to tell me what happened?"

With these guys it had to be about business.

Karen said, "Beat it, will you?"  and stared at Andy until he turned
away.  All she had to do was give in and they'd ask her to join them
and she wasn't in the mood.  Sit there and smile.

Okay, what do you do if you aren't in sales?  I'm a deputy U.S.

marshal and you assholes are under arrest.  No, they'd like that, so
she'd have to keep it simple: tell them she was in law enforcement, a
federal marshal, and they'd say wow, no kidding, and act sincere,
interested-You're packing?-until they began to play off whatever she
said, show her how clever and entertaining ad guys were, finally
getting to: Are you staying at the hotel?

She was pretty sure the third guy would feel he had to make a pitch, or
the other two would egg him into it.  Sooner or later he'd be along.

Karen drank with friends.  Alone, she might once in a while accept a
drink from a guy she didn't know if he wasn't an obvious geek.  She had
met Carl Tillman that way.  He bought her a drink and turned out to be
a bank robber: the one she told her dad about-after Burdon let her know
they had Tillman under surveillance-asking her dad what she should do,
and he said get a new boyfriend.  She would have learned soon enough,
though, Tillman wasn't her type-even if he didn't rob banks.  It was
the little annoying things about him, like saying "ciao" instead of so
long or see you later, or the way he called her "lady" and it made her
think of Kenny Rogers.

If they'd leave her alone this wouldn't be bad, a new experience, to
sit warm in the middle of a snowstorm, a blizzard, sipping sour mash.
But as she thought this, and felt it, slipping into a relaxed mood,
another dark suit appeared, reflected in the window wall, the third guy
here to try his line.  Karen waited for his opener.  Finally he said:

"Can I buy you a drink?"

Without turning to look she knew who it was.

Even her insides knew, a muscle or something in the middle of her body
had grabbed hold and wouldn't let go.  What she had imagined and played
with in her mind was happening, and she was afraid if she turned her
head he wouldn't be there or it would be one of those guys.  She stared
at his reflection until she had to find out and turned her head.  Karen
looked up at Jack Foley in his neat navy-blue suit, his hair not quite
combed but looking great.  She said, "Yeah, I'd love one," and it was
done, that easily.

"Would you like to sit down?"

He pulled the chair out looking at her.  Now he was across from her,
close, his arms resting on the edge of the table, neither of them
saying anything, not even about the weather, the three ad guys
watching-Karen knew it without looking at them-wondering what was going
on here.  They see a man walk in: white male, forty-seven, six-one,
one-seventy, hair light brown, eyes blue, no visible scars .. . No,
they didn't, they saw a guy who looked a lot like them.  Only
different.

Something about him .. . She had to try not to think of him with any
reference to the past if this-whatever they were doing- was going to
work.  Not the past or anything happening beyond right now.  But it was
a fact, whether learned from reading his sheet or looking right at him,
his eyes were a vivid blue.  His teeth were white, white enough .. .

He offered his hand saying, "I'm Gary," and smiled.

She hesitated for a moment and then went along, said, "I'm Celeste,"
and had to smile with him, their smiles coming easily, in the mood to
smile, sharing a secret no one else in the world knew.

When she lowered her hand to the table, his hand came down to cover
hers.  She watched his expression as she brought her hand out slowly,
his eyes not leaving hers, and laid her hand on his.  The tips of her
fingers brushed his knuckles, lightly back and forth.  She said, "It
takes hours to get a drink around here.  There's only one waitress."

He looked away for a moment and started to get up.

"I can go to the bar."

"Don't leave me," Karen said.

He eased back in the chair.

"Those guys bother you?"

"No, they're all right.  I meant, you just got here."  She picked up
her drink and placed it in front of him.

"Help yourself."  She watched him take a sip.

He smacked his lips.

"Bourbon."

"You're close."

He said, "You mean Jack Daniel's isn't a bourbon?"  She smiled at him
and he said, "No, I guess it isn't.  You like Jim Beam, Early Times?"

"They're okay."

"Wild Turkey?"

"Love it."

He said, "Well, we got that out of the way."

She watched him take another sip and place the glass in front of her.

"Did you ever see Stranger Than Paradise?"

He looked out at the snow and she knew he had.

"The two guys take the girl who just arrived from Czechoslovakia,
someplace like that, to Cleveland to see Lake Erie?  And there's so
much snow you can't see the lake?  That one?"

She was smiling at him.

He said, "Was that some land of test question?"

"One of the guys gives her a dress," Karen said.

"She takes it off, throws it in a trash bin and goes, That dress bugged
me."

" He said, "You like to act goofy, don't you?"

"When I have time."

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a sales rep.  I came here to call on a customer and they gave me a
hard time because I'm a girl."

"Is that how you think of yourself?"

"What, as a sales rep?"

"A girl."

"I don't have a problem with it."

"I like your hair.  And that suit."

"I had one just like it-well, it was the same idea, but I had to get
rid of it."

"You did?"

"It smelled."

"Having it cleaned didn't help, huh?"

She said no.  She asked him, "What do you do for a living, Gary?"  and
saw his eyes change, become almost solemn.

He said, "How far do we go with this?"

It stopped her, threw her off balance.  Karen said, "Not yet.

Don't say anything yet.  Okay?"

He said, "I don't think it works if we're somebody else.  You know what
I mean?  Gary and Celeste, Jesus, what do they know about anything?"

She knew he was right, but had to take a moment before saying, "If
we're not someone else then we're ourselves.  But don't ask me where
we're going with it or how it ends, okay?

Because I haven't a fucking clue.  I've never played this before."

The way he said, "It's not a game," she knew he meant it.

"Well, does it make sense to you?"

He said, "It doesn't have to, it's something that happens.  It's like
seeing a person you never saw before-you could be passing on the
street-and you look at each other .. ."

Karen was nodding.

"You make eye contact without meaning to."

"And for a few moments," Foley said, "there's a kind of recognition."
You look at each other and you know something."

"That no one else knows," Karen said.

"You see it in their eyes."

"And the next moment the person's gone," Foley said, "and it's too late
to do anything about it, but you remember it because it was right there
and you let it go, and you think, What if I had stopped and said
something?  It might happen only a few times in your life."

"Or once," Karen said.

"Why don't we get out of here."

"Where do you want to go?"

Karen looked up.  The advertising guys were getting ready to leave,
dropping napkins, pushing their chairs back, taking forever.  Philip
looked over, and then Andy.  Andy waved.  Karen watched them leave the
table finally and make their way out.

It was quiet.  She looked at Foley in the slim-cut navy-blue suit, his
white shirt with its button-down collar, his burgundy and blue rep
tie-the conservative business executive-looked in his eyes and said,
"Let's go to my place."

"Your room?"

"My suite.  I showed my credentials and they upgraded me."

"You must do pretty well, in your business."

"I don't know, Jack.  The way things are going I may be looking for
work."

NINETEEN

HERE WAS MAURICE, White Boy Bob, Kenneth and the new one, Glenn, in the
living room getting ready, guns and boxes of bullets on the coffee
table.  Moselle stood watching them from the foyer.

She got to meet this Glenn, but didn't mention anybody looking for
him.

When he came, Maurice told him he was late and Glenn said, "Oh, is that
right?"  and told Maurice to look out the fucking window he'd know why.
Glenn saying his hands ached from gripping the fucking wheel, hanging
on, man, trying to stay in the fucking tracks.  A car'd go by and all
the slop and shit from the road would hit the windshield.  Maurice
saying, "You suppose to be the ace driver, you pass the cars, they
don't pass you."  Glenn saying, "Oh, is that right?"  Snippy, Moselle
thought, for a man.

He told how he came up behind a salt truck and got blasted with it,
like shrapnel hitting the car.  He told how a woman pulled out in front
of him and when he braked did a three-sixty, spun all the way around.
He said you couldn't see anything and said driving in that ice and snow
was fucking work, man, it wore you out.

"You done?"  Maurice said.

"If you done we can get on with business."

"I'm not driving," Glenn said, "so forget it."

"I hope to tell you you not driving," Maurice said, and looked over.

"Moselle, you want something?"

"My grocery money."

"That's what we going to get.  Put our mittens on, our masks, case we
want to do some siding .. . There.  I look like a Ninja?"

"You going to see Curtis, aren't you?"

"We be back, oh, 'bout two hours," Maurice said.

"Where's my little Tuffy dog?  I want to kiss her good-bye."

"You going to see Curtis," Moselle said.

Maurice wigged hearing about his dog and Glenn thought for a minute
he'd call off the gig, Jesus, ranting and raving.  They got in the van
Kenneth had picked up and Maurice sat in front with him, saying once he
found out who it was ran over little Tuffy that man's ass was his. He'd
set fire to the man's house with the man in it.  Kenneth was wired on
crystal meth, talkative, asking Maurice how he was going to find the
man in the first place.

Maurice said don't worry, he'd find him, but never said how.  He
punched the dashboard with his fist a few times keeping himself primed,
Glenn believed, for whatever was coming up.  Kenneth would brake hard
and as the van slid sideways would go "Yeaaaaah," and lift his hands
from the wheel.  Maurice didn't say anything to him until a couple of
miles down Woodward Avenue-the streetlights making it weird looking
with the snow coming down-they turned on to Boston Boulevard, a street
of homes bigger than Maurice's, the van sideswiped a parked car,
bounced off it, and Maurice said, "What's wrong with you?"  That's all,
until they came to the house, a big dark place showing only a few
lights, dim ones, and Maurice said, "Leave it on the street.  We don't
want to come out find we stuck."  Kenneth said, "We shoveling away,
here come the police," sounding as if he thought that would be pretty
funny.

Jesus, these guys.  Maurice said, "We ready?  Check your weapons."
Glenn had a little snub-nosed .38 they'd given him.

Kenneth had a shotgun.  White Boy Bob had some kind of pistol and a
fire ax.  Maurice had a .45 because Huey P. Newton had said one time,
"An Army .45 will stop all jive," and Maurice had been told about Huey
P. and the Black Panthers when he was a kid.  He said to Glenn, "You
and Kenneth gonna come with me around back.  White Boy goes in the
front.  We hear him busting in, we go in."  Looking at the house he
said, "Man, this is when to do it.  They don't even see you coming."

Glenn said, "How many are they?"

"The man, Frankie, his wife Inez and a nigga works for them name
Cedric," Maurice said.  "

"Less they have company, huh?"

As soon as they were out of the van they moved in a hurry, went past
the side of the house single file, Kenneth making a path through the
deep snow squeaking under their tennis shoes, all three pulling their
ski masks down as they reached the back of the house.  Right away they
heard glass breaking, White Boy Bob smashing his way into the house,
sounding like he was tearing it apart with his fire ax.  They heard his
voice, far away but clear, yell, "Police!  Don't move!"  Maurice said,
"Go ahead," and Kenneth used the butt end of the shotgun to bust a pane
in the French door, reached through to unlock it and Glenn followed
them into the house and around a dining room table in the dark as a
door swung in and Glenn saw a black guy with a gun, a shotgun, lights
on in the kitchen behind him.  They surprised him being so close.  He
tried to get back in the kitchen, but Maurice put the .45 in his face
and told Glenn to take his shotgun.

Maurice said, "Cedric, my man.  You thought I forgot about you, huh?"
He pulled Cedric out of the doorway to walk in front of them to the
living room, telling Glenn, "This the nigga ratted me out the time I
went down."  Cedric said something over his shoulder Glenn didn't hear
and Maurice whacked him across the head with the .45, like slapping him
with the barrel.  Cedric hunched his shoulders and put his hand up to
his head.

White Boy was in the living room turning a lamp on, cold air coming in
from a big front window smashed to pieces.  He said, "They went
upstairs."  Maurice said, "White Boy, take Cedric here and put him in
front of you."  They went up a stairway that turned once to reach the
second floor and now they were in a wide hallway of doors, all closed.
Maurice poked Cedric with the .45 saying, "Take us to your leader."
Cedric didn't say anything this time.  He took them to the door at the
end of the hall where Maurice called out, "Police!  Y'all come out with
your hands up!"  But didn't wait to see if they would.  He said, "White
Boy," and White Boy swung his ax at the door to smash the lock and the
force of it swung the door in.  Maurice pushed Cedric into the room and
with his .45 waved White Boy and Kenneth in after him.

Glenn followed Maurice expecting to see a bedroom, but it was like an
office, an office, say, in a factory or a warehouse, old desks and file
cabinets, cardboard boxes piled up, vodka bottles, ashtrays full of
butts, a scale, a calculator.  A white guy in shirtsleeves stood by an
open window.  A woman was coming out of the bathroom with the sound of
the toilet flushing.  Skanky, stringy-haired junkies was the way Glenn
saw them, both holding their arms to their bodies now, rubbing
themselves.

The man said, "Police, shit," sounding drunk or sleepy, in a nod.

"Maurice, is that you, dude?"

Maurice lifted his ski mask.  So did White Boy and Kenneth.

Glenn left his covering his face.

"If it wasn't me, Frankie, it'd be somebody else."

The man said, "I'll tell you right now you won't find any product."

"You flush it down the toilet, we won't.  No, I don't imagine.

Inez, how you doing, girl?  Not too good, huh?  Man, you look like you
been chewed up and spit out.  Frankie, you gonna catch cold with that
window open."  Maurice turned his head to Glenn.

"This is the gentleman I was telling you about use to be a customer,
use to wear a suit and comb his hair; hell, use to be Frank, this
scarecrow, Frankie and his lovely wife Inez.  See what scag can do to a
person?  Now then, so we don't have to tear up your nice home," Maurice
said, "get out the green from where you hid it.  I'm gonna say forty
fifty thousand and it's in this room.  Frankie?  Pay attention.  You're
gonna have to tell me where it is before I count to three.  You ready?
.. . One two three."  Maurice raised the .45, put it on Cedric and shot
him in the head.  The impact sent him against the file cabinets and he
seemed to hold on before sliding to the floor.  Maurice stepped over to
him and Glenn thought he was going to shoot him again, but all he did
was stare at him-until Frankie spoke and Maurice looked up.

"You've been wanting to do him, haven't you?  Shit, you came to do
him."

"You think so, let's try Inez," Maurice said, turning to her as he
raised the .45.  "Ready for the count?"

Inez was looking right at him, all eyes, shoulders hunched, her hands
tightened into fists.  She said, "Give it to him!"  raising her voice,
the words sounding hoarse and scratchy and she began to cough saying,
"Give him what he wants."

"He's gonna shoot you anyway," Frankie said, "he's gonna shoot us
both," and looked at Maurice.

"Aren't you?"

"Right this second," Maurice said, "you don't tell me where your
money's at."

"It's different places in that file cabinet," Frankie said, "the one by
Cedric."

Kenneth said, "You don't need Inez no more.  Can I have her?"

"Go on," Maurice said, "but be quick."  Kenneth took Inez by the arm
and she went with him, eyes glued wide-open,

tripping over her own feet, out of the room.  Maurice, making a face,
said to Glenn, "Would you fuck that woman?  Kenneth, he don't pass up
nothing has a pussy and it's free."

White Bo'y said, "Man, I wouldn't fuck her with your dick."

"All right," Maurice said, pulling the file cabinet open, "let's see
what's in here."  He poked through the files, finding currency he
handed to Glenn who counted it, all small bills, and dropped the money
in a cardboard box.  It amounted to a few bucks over twenty-eight
hundred.  That was it.  Maurice said to Frankie, "You gonna make us
work, huh?  You sure you want to?"

"Fuck you," Frankie said, "you're gonna kill me anyway."

Maurice didn't say if he would or not.  He didn't say anything at all
until they'd dumped all the files from the cabinets, looked in the
boxes-some with little crack bottles in them-looked in the desk
drawers, looked in the toilet tank, looked everywhere they could look,
and when they were done Maurice said to Frankie, "You're right," and
shot him twice in the chest-like that, bang, bang, nothing to it-Glenn
watching Frankie almost go out the window, hit the sill and fall dead.
Maurice said, "I guess we through here."

Glenn, with the money, followed Maurice along the hall wanting to get
out of here, man, right now, run down the stairs and out.  They came to
a bedroom with the door open and there was Kenneth by the bed pulling
up his pants, Inez lying on the bed with her knees still raised, her
legs apart and Glenn said, "Jesus," the sight repulsive to him, this
worn-out junkie showing herself, that dark wedge deep between her pure
white thighs, it was ugly, and yet he felt himself becoming aroused.

Kenneth said, "Who wants a piece of this?"

Glenn stood there holding the carton of money; he was one of them,
wasn't he?  He said, "You leave any for us?"  Like he was kidding.

Maurice said, "Look out," moving into the doorway and raised his big
army pistol.

Kenneth saw him and held up his hand as if to hold him off.

"Wait.  What you doing?"  Hurrying then to get his belt fastened.

Maurice extended his .45 into the room and fired and the white stick
figure on the bed jumped and its legs came straight out stiff and hit
the bed.  Maurice fired again and the body jumped again, though not as
much this time.  Maurice paused.

"She dead?"

Kenneth looked down at Inez, Glenn watching, waiting to hear.

"If she ain't, she ought to be.  Man, I never been this close."

"Make sure," Maurice said.

Glenn followed him down the stairs and out the front door once they got
it unlocked, down the walk through a foot of snow to breathe in the
cold air, breathe it in and let it out slow, seeing his breath.  Man oh
man, these guys.  He got in the van with Maurice, who sat looking at
the house saying, "Come on, come on."  They waited.  When Kenneth got
in behind the wheel Maurice said, "She dead?"

"She is now."

Glenn wanted to know what he did to her, but Maurice didn't ask so he
kept quiet.

They waited, the engine running now but it was still cold,

their breath coming out like smoke.  Finally Glenn said, "Where in the
hell's White Boy?"

"In there leaving his calling card," Maurice said, and Kenneth
laughed.

"White Boy's a shitter."

Kenneth kept laughing till Maurice told him to be quiet.

Glenn sat there in the dark, cold in his wool-lined raincoat, wondering
what he was doing here.

When they got home Maurice peeled off some bills for Moselle.  She
looked at the money saying, "This is it, huh?  I can do better with the
police.  Was on the radio, they give you a hundred dollars for every
gun you turn in, no questions asked."

"You believe that?"  Maurice said.

"You believe they don't check the serial numbers, see was any stole?"

"Was on JZZ just now.  They wouldn't say it it wasn't true."

"Touch my weapons," Maurice said, "I'll trade you in."  He turned to
Glenn.

"You gonna stay with me now, I can keep an eye on you."

Glenn frowned, squinting at him.

"The fuck're you talking about?"

"So you don't disappear on me."

Glenn kept squinting, trying hard to show surprise.

"Why would I do that?"

"Like he has the gift," Moselle said to Glenn, "can read your mind.  I
wasn't even there and I know what you're thinking.  Was worse than you
imagined, wasn't it?  Baby, you with the bad boys now."

TWENTY

HE WAS QUIET in the elevator, quiet once they were in the suite and
Foley had called room service and learned it would take about fifteen
minutes.  When he told her she said, "Oh," and looked around the room
as if wondering where they would sit.  He watched her turn on lamps and
go to the window to tell him it was still snowing.  He watched her
cross to the bedroom saying she'd be right back, but knew room service
would arrive before she came out.

The waiter delivered a fifth of Wild Turkey, a bucket of ice, a pitcher
of water, two glasses and a dish of peanuts, placing the tray on the
coffee table.  Foley paid him.  He was sitting on the sofa pouring
drinks when Karen came out of the bedroom with a cigarette, still
wearing the black suit.  She said, "Oh, it's here.  I hope you signed
for it."  He didn't say if he did or not.  He was eating peanuts.  He
got up with a drink in each hand, walked over to her and she said, "Oh,
thanks," taking the drink.  He watched her sip from the glass and then
raise her eyebrows to say, "Mmmm," as if she'd never tasted bourbon
before.

"You're having second thoughts," Foley said.

She raised her cigarette and looked at it.

"I know what's bothering you and I can understand how you feel."

He waited while she took a deep drag on the cigarette and turned her
head to blow the smoke away from them.  When she was looking at him
again he said, "You think I'm too old for you."

He waited again.

This time while she seemed a little surprised.

He waited with no expression.

She began to smile.  Good.  Not giving it much, but looking right at
him and it was the right kind of smile, conspiring with him again,
knowing something no one else did.  She put on a serious look and
nodded.  She said, "Or I'm too young for you.

Do you think we can work it out?"

They were on the sofa now with whiskey and peanuts, no plan, letting it
happen, gradually feeling a glow.  Karen's shoes were off, her legs
tucked under her.  Foley took off his jacket but not his tie; he felt
good in the tie.  He remembered the clipping, Karen's picture with the
shotgun, and laid it on the coffee table.

She said, "So it wasn't by chance.  You found out I

was here."  He told her he'd called her room from downstairs.  She
said, "If I had answered, what were you gonna say?"  He told her, well,
he'd say who he was and did she remember him and ask if she'd like to
meet for a drink.

"If I remembered you," Karen said, "I came looking for you.  I would've
said sure, let's do it.  But for all you knew I could show up with a
SWAT team.  Why would you trust me?"  He said because it would be worth
the risk.  She said, "You like taking risks," touching his face with
her hand, then kissed him, very gently, and said, "So do I, peanut
breath."

He felt her fingers brush through his hair as she kissed him again,
still gently, and it was hard-aware of her scent, remembering it-it was
hard to keep from eating her up.  He put his arms around her, feeling
her slim body in his hands, and she brushed his mouth with hers,
saying, "What's the hurry, Jack?

You have to be somewhere?"

T V

She knew his voice from the trunk of the Chevy and the look in his eyes
from before that, in a glare of headlights, the quiet look in his eyes
as he said, "Why, you're just a girl."  As he said, "I bet I smell,
don't I?"  Conversational, covered with muck from a prison escape.  If
there was a moment, the kind of moment they'd talked about, that
would've been it, in the headlights.  Now he was clean, his face smooth
and hard, her fingers touching his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, a
tiny scar across the bridge of his nose.  She said, "Sooner or later ..
."  She stopped and he looked at her over the rim of his glass, about
to take a drink.  She loved his eyes.  She said, "You have a land look,
trusting."

"That's not what you were about to say."

She shrugged, letting it go.  But sooner or later she would ask him ..
. Sooner or later she would begin saying things to him and not be able
to stop.  She said, "Remember how talkative you were?"

He said, "I was nervous," lighting her cigarette and then his own.

"Yeah, but you didn't show it.  You were a pretty cool guy.

But then when you got in the trunk ..."

"What?"

"I thought you'd try to tear my clothes off."

"It never entered my mind.  Well, not until-remember we were talking
about Faye Dunaway?"

"I know what you're gonna say."

"I told you I liked that movie, Three Days of the Condor, and you said
yeah, you loved the lines?  Like the next morning, after they'd slept
together, he says he'll need her help and she says"

"

"Have I ever denied you anything?"

" "I thought for a couple of seconds there, the way you said it, you
were coming on to me."

"Maybe I was and didn't know it.  Redford tells her she doesn't have to
help him and she says .. . You remember?"

"No, tell me."

"She said, "You can always depend on the old spy-fucker."

" "Why'd she say 'old'?"

"She was putting herself down."

"Would you call yourself that, a spy-fucker?"

"I think she was still scared to death, trying to keep it light but
hip.  Before they ever go to bed she accused him of getting rough.  He
says, "What?  Have I raped you?"  And she says, The night is young."  I
thought, Come on-what is she doing, giving him ideas?  No, I wouldn't
say that, definitely, or call myself a spy-fucker.  Or any other kind."
She said, "You know you kept touching me, feeling my thigh."

"Yeah, but in a nice way."

"You called me your zoo-zoo."

"That's candy, inside, something sweet.  You don't hear it much
anymore."  He smiled and touched her hand.

"You were my treat."

His sheet said no visible scars, but there was a white gash across
three of the knuckles on his right hand and half the third finger was
missing.

"You asked me if I was afraid.  I said of course, but I wasn't really;
it surprised me."

"I might've smelled like a sewer, but you could tell I was a gentleman.
They say John Dillinger was a pretty nice guy."

"He killed a police officer."

"I hear he didn't mean to.  The cop fell as Dillinger was aiming at his
leg and got him through the heart."

"You believe that?"

"Why not."

"You said you wondered what would happen if we'd met a different
way."

"And you lied to me, didn't you?  You said nothing would've
happened."

"Maybe that's when I started thinking about it.  What if we did?"

"Then how come you tried to kill me?"

"What did you expect?  You could've been dumping the car for all I
know, hiding it somewhere, and I'm locked in the fucking trunk.  I
warned you first, didn't I?  I told you to put your hands up."

"Yeah, after I said come on out.  You knew I wasn't gonna leave you in
there.  You start shooting at us."

She thought of the gun and said, "That Sig .38 was my favorite."  She
watched him fixing up their drinks, the cigarette in the corner of his
mouth.  In that moment he seemed from another time.

"I've wondered about that," Karen said, "what you were gonna do with
me."

"I don't know, I hadn't worked that part out yet.  All I knew was I
liked you, and I didn't want to leave you there, never see you
again."

"You waved to me in the elevator."

"I wasn't sure if you caught that."

"I couldn't believe it.  I was thinking of you by then, a lot,
wondering what it would be like if we did meet.  Like if we could take
a time-out ..."

He said, "Really?"  He said, "I was thinking the same thing.  If we
could call time and get together for a while."

She wanted to ask, yeah, but for how long?  Then what?  But she said,
"That day we met on the street, did you know it was me?"

"You kidding?  I almost stopped."

"You didn't."

"I wanted to, but I was embarrassed wearing that tourist outfit.  I
didn't want you to think I dressed like that."

"The black socks with the sandals."

"Part of the disguise."

"I watched you all the way down the street."

"I could feel it."

"You were going to see Adele, weren't you?"

"I don't think we should get into that."

"No, you're right.  Or Buddy.  I won't ask if he's with you or what
you're doing here.  Or if you've run into Glenn Michaels yet."

He said, "Don't talk like that, okay?  You scare me."  He said, "I was
trying to remember-Faye Dunaway and Robert Red-ford start kissing ..
."

Karen nodded.

"As he's untying her."

"How did they get from there into bed?"

Foley watched her get up from the sofa and hold out her hand to him.
She said, "Come on, I'll show you," and took him into the bedroom.  He
sat on the bed to take off his shoes, stood up to take off his pants.
Got his socks off.  She said, "Are you gonna leave your tie on?"
Watching her undress, Karen getting down to a black bra and panties, he
said he wasn't sure if the old ticker would be able to take this.  When
she got out of her undies and came over to him, standing close to help
him with the tie, he was thinking he might Ve died already and gone to
heaven.  When his clothes were off he looped the tie around his neck
again.  Seeing her in lamplight before she turned it off he said, "My
God, look at you."  He had never seen a woman's body like hers naked.
In magazines maybe, but not in real life.  In the next few minutes he
realized he had never met anyone under the covers like she was: man,
all over him with her scent, touching, kissing, saying his name, saying
"Oh, Jack," in a whisper that sounded sad.  He asked her if she was
having fun and saw her face in the light from the sitting room that
filtered the dark, saw her smile, but even her smile was sad.  They
made love and she didn't speak or make a sound until she began to say
his name again, "Jack?"  He asked her what.  But that's all she was
doing, saying his name, saying it over and over until she was saying it
pretty loud and then stopped saying it.  No woman had ever said his
name like that before.

"What am I now?"

Lying in his arms in the king-size bed, light from the sitting room
almost reaching them.

"You're still my zoo-zoo."

She moved away from him to sit up and swing her legs off the bed.

"Are you coming back?"

She said, "You can always depend on the old bank-robber fucker."

He reached her before she could leave the bed, and sat up,

getting close behind her, his hand touching her breasts as his arm came
around to hold her against him.

"Are you being funny?"

"I have ta go to the bathroom."

"Are you?"

She said, "I don't know."

He let go of her, watched her get up and go into the bathroom.  The
door closed.  He felt they were coming to the end of the time-out and
he'd hear a whistle blow the way hacks blew whistles to tell you to
stop doing something and start doing something else.  He didn't know
what to say to her now to get her back; he wasn't sure if he could put
himself in her place to know what she was thinking.  He did know how to
listen and how to wait; he was good at waiting.  If he couldn't get her
back, at least for a while-there was no time limit-then he would become
serious, not wanting to but knew he would, and they'd play it out.

But when she came back to the bed and stood naked looking down at him,
he believed he could get her back.

She said, "I want you to know something.  I wasn't looking for just a
fuck, if that's what you're thinking?"

"Why are you mad?"

"Or I did it for some kind of kinky thrill.  Score with a bank robber
the way some women go for rough trade."

"What about my motive?"  Foley said.

"Now I can say I fucked a U.S. marshal.  You think I will?"

She hesitated.

"I don't know."

"Come to bed."

He raised the covers and she stood there making up her

mind before finally slipping into bed and his arms took her in.

He said, "I know of a guy-his wife held him down, wouldn't let him go
out with the guys, wouldn't give him any money-he was a drunk.  So he
robbed a bank to get back at her, a bank where he was known and he'd be
sure to get caught.  The wife was humiliated and the guy was happy.  He
did fifty-four months, came out, patched things up with his wife and
robbed the same bank all over again.  Another guy, he goes in the bank
holding a bottle he says is nitroglycerin.  He scores some cash off a
teller, he's on his way out when he drops the bottle.  It shatters on
the tile floor, he slips in the stuff, cracks his head and they've got
him.  The nitro was canola oil.  I know more fucked-up bank robbers
than ones that know what they're doing.  I doubt one in ten can tell a
dye pack when he sees one.  Guys like-remember that movie, Woody Alien
robs the bank?"

"Take the Money and Run."

"He hands the teller the note, she looks at it and says, "You have a
gub?  What's a gub?"  That's par, because most bank robbers are fucking
morons.  You've heard some of the nicknames they get?  The B.O. bandit,
the Chubby Cheeks bandit, Mumbles, the Laurel and Hardy bandits?  A guy
they call Mr.  Pleats?  Another one, the Sheik, guy wears something
that looks like a turban?  The Vaulter?  Guy always jumped the counter
for no reason.  Robby Hood?"

She said, "What were you known as?"

"I don't think I had a nickname.  But the point I'm making: to go to
bed with a bank robber so you can say you did, you'd have to be as dumb
as they are.  I know you're not dumb, I

know you're not looking for lanky thrills, as you say.  So why would I
think that?  Why would you think I might think that?"

She said, "You're not dumb."

"You can't do three falls," Foley said, "and think you have much of a
brain."  He waited a few moments, lying there holding her, before he
said, "If you get serious on me, it's over.  You have to stop
thinking."

Now Karen took time, holding on to him.  She said, "I don't want to
lose you."

"That's part of the feeling we both have.  It's how we got here.

But there's nothing we can do-you know that.  You're not gonna give up
the life you have and it's way too late for me.  I couldn't if I wanted
to.  Change my name and look for work?  You say 'work' to a con he'll
go out the window, not even bothering to see what floor he's on.  Look,
we knew going in," Foley said, "when the time's up, it's up.  I say
that knowing I love you with all my heart, I sincerely do."

Her face came up to his; they began to kiss and touch again, Foley with
a tender feeling he had never experienced before.

Looking at her eyes he thought maybe she was crying or was about to.
She said, "I can't go with you."  She kissed him again, and in a voice
so quiet he could barely hear her she said, "I want to know what's
gonna happen."

"You know," Foley said.

When Karen woke up, lying on her side facing the bathroom, she didn't
open her eyes right away.  She wanted to; she wanted to look at the
radio clock next to the bed and she wanted to turn her body enough to
reach with her hand and, if he was there, touch him.  As long as she
didn't open her eyes or move he was still there.  She could take her
time, creep up on him and they'd make love again and she would hear his
name coming out of her in the dark.  So she lay there with the stale
taste of whiskey in her mouth.  All that was left.  Until she said, Oh,
for Christ sake, grow up.

And opened her eyes.

It was ten-fifteen.  The bathroom door was open, the light off.

She rolled to her back and turned her head.  His side of the bed was
empty; the room silent, the windows dark.  She remembered looking at
herself in the bathroom mirror and coming out to say things that were
so fucking stupid now, hearing herself, her tone, and remembered him
saying, "Why are you mad?"  And later saying, "If you get serious on
me, it's over."  And that's what she did, became emotional and blew it
because she was thinking too much, wanting to know how it would end.
She thought, Well, now you know.  And got out of bed.

Karen walked out to the sitting room with a sense of expectation. Foley
was gone, but maybe he'd left a note.  She looked around, at the desk,
the coffee table.  The newspaper photo he'd laid there was gone. But
something wrapped in a napkin was lying by the half-empty bottle and
the ice bucket.

She picked it up and knew what it was as she unfolded the napkin.

Her Sig Sauer .38.

TWENTY-ONE

DROP YOU off," Buddy said, "give the valet guy the car, Glenn and a
black kid by the name of Kenneth are waiting in the lobby.  This is
three o'clock in the afternoon, the snow's coming down, they want us to
take a ride with them.  I said you were buying a pair of shoes, and if
they want to go look for you over there, good luck.  We come out, White
Boy's waiting in the car.

What time did you get back?"

"About ten."

"It took you, what, seven hours to buy a pair of shoes?"

Wednesday morning now, Buddy had come to Foley's room frowning,
wondering where he'd been.

"I saw Karen Sisco," Foley said.

"She's staying at the Westin."

Buddy didn't say anything right away.  First he sat down at the table
to look at Foley across his room service tray, Foley having the
Continental breakfast in his socks and underwear, a bottle of Jim Beam
close by.

"And she saw you?"

"Yes, she did."

Buddy said, "Oh, my," and watched Foley pour a shot of Beam into his
coffee.

"Well, we're sure casual about it, aren't we?  You talk to her?"

Foley nodded.

"Buy her a drink?"

"We had a few."

"She knew who you were."

Foley nodded again, sipped his coffee and raised the cup.

"You want some?  You can use the glass in the bathroom."

Buddy shook his head.

"Have a nice visit and then you left?"

Buddy waited but didn't get an answer, Foley biting into some land of
Danish.

"How's that work, a wanted felon socializing with a U.S. marshal?"

Foley said, "You know how I felt about her."  He put his cup down.

"The night I came out, we're in the trees by the highway, she's in
Glenn's car?  You kept asking why I wanted to bring her along.  I said
I just wanted to talk to her.  Well, it turns out she wanted to talk to
me, too, and that's what we did."

Buddy said, "Did you give her a jump?  If you did I might begin to
understand where your head's at.  I know the attraction pussy can hold
for a man.  What I can't imagine is risking your life over it, though I
know it's done."

"It wasn't about getting laid," Foley said.

"You told me out on the highway it was too late, you know, to have a
regular life.

I knew that.  I still wanted to know what might Ve happened if things
were different."

"You find out?"

Foley said" Yeah I did," not sounding too happy about it.

But what did that mean?  He was disappointed by what he found?  Or was
sorry now he'd robbed all those banks?

Don't ask, Buddy thought.  He said, "What happens now?"

"We're back where we were."

"You don't want to move on?"

Foley sipped his laced coffee.  He said, "If you want to, I'll
understand, but I'm staying."

"Well, shit," Buddy said, "if you aren't worried-a big sensible fella
like you ... I think we ought to move to a different hotel, though, not
be so close."

"It's all right with me."

"She know Glenn's here?"

"I think so, but I doubt she's located him."

"Glenn's nervous, being with those guys.  White Boy and this Kenneth,
they're the kind probably can't write their own names but know
everything.  They took me by the State, it's a regular movie house on
Woodward Avenue.  If the snow wasn't up to our ass we could walk. Those
salt trucks, they pile the snow up down the middle of the street and
then haul it away, I believe dump it in the river."

"What time are the fights?"

"They start at eight."

"Let's go about ten.  They say why Snoopy wasn't there?"

"Said he was busy.  I'd call him Snoopy talking to Glenn?

Glenn'd look at White Boy and I'd see White Boy in the mirror giving me
the evil eye.  We work with those assholes one time only, that'll be
enough for me."

"We've come this far," Foley said.

"They took me past the Detroit Athletic Club, said Ripley goes there
for lunch almost every day, comes out about midafternoon and goes home,
takes the Chrysler Freeway.  Glenn said they've been checking Ripley
out since November.  See, but Glenn wouldn't tell the Snoop what the
score would be till he came back to Detroit this time."

"What do they need Glenn for?"

"That's a good question."

"What do they need us for?"

"That's even a better question."

"We watch each other's back," Foley said.

They'd been doing that for years.  Buddy looked at the rolls in the
Continental basket.

"You gonna eat those?"

"Help yourself."

"I got your girlfriend's shotgun, but the only way I can get it out of
the hotel's in a suitcase.  Your Sig Sauer's no problem."

"I don't have it," Foley said.

Buddy was spreading butter on a croissant.  He said, "What'd you do
with it?"  and bit off half the roll.

"I gave it back to her."

Buddy had to chew a few seconds before he said, still with a mouthful,
"You want to forget the whole thing and go to California, I'll drive
us."

Burden's voice, sounding patient, said, "Karen, I just spoke to our
people up there, they tell me they haven't heard a word from you."
Patient and then adding a note of surprise to the lilt in his voice.

"Now how could that be?"

"I've been busy," Karen said.  She held the phone between her shoulder
and jaw, picked up the paper and turned to the Local News section.

"Daniel?  Three shot to death in home invasion."  Last night, during a
snowstorm.  Detroit Police think one of the invaders may be a guy I was
over there asking about the other day, Maurice Snoopy Miller.  The
victims ran a dope house and this guy used to do business with them."

"Snoopy," Burdon said.

"Yeah, he's a friend of Glenn Michaels.  They met at Lompoc and Glenn
told DEA he stayed with Maurice last November when he was up here."

"Karen, you're ducking my question.  How come you haven't been to see
our people?"

"I don't have anything to give them.  I walk in empty-handed saying I
want to help, they'll say, good, why don't you put the coffee on."

"I told them you were coming."

"Yeah, and what'd they say?"

"They thought with something like two hundred agents in the state of
Michigan and a bunch of marshals they had enough help."

"See?  I don't want to go in until I can give them something, like pay
my way, and I know I'm close to locating Glenn.  In fact, I'm going to
the fights this evening, and I have every reason to believe he's gonna
be there."

"

"Every reason to believe' is like telling me you think he'll be there.
All I have to say, Karen, you spot Glenn I want you to call for backup.
You don't spot him, you come home and we'll find something for you to
do.  You took advantage of me, girl, caught me in a weak moment."

"How'd you do with the Super Bowl?"

"The point spread I had, I was doing fine till you came along."

"I won a new pair of shoes, off my dad."

"What about Foley?  You hear anything?"

"I'm after Glenn, he's the key."

"Karen, you fuck up and I get sent to White Fang, Alaska as resident
agent .. ."

"I'll go with you," Karen said.

"You bet your skinny ass you will."

Karen said, "Okay, then .. ."

T Y

She should have said, "You're hoping I do fuck up, aren't you?"  She
didn't believe she had, yet; because she didn't think of the time spent
with Foley as morally wrong, and if it wasn't, and if she wasn't
technically aiding or abetting but only violating a code of conduct,
she could live with it and not feel guilty.  When she was much younger
she would go to confession and say, "Bless me, Father, for I have
sinned.  I stole a lipstick from Burdine's and I let a boy touch my
breast but we didn't do anything."  If she felt a need to tell more,
she might add that she had smoked cigarettes after promising her mother
she wouldn't.  The priest would give her ten Our Fathers and ten Hail
Marys, absolve her, she would be sorry for her sins, sort of, and
whatever degree of guilt she had felt would be gone.  Since then, for
the past fifteen or so years, Karen hadn't been to confession because
she seldom felt guilty about anything.  If she had doubts, she would
talk to her dad about it.  Or, she would imagine talking to her dad,
which to Karen was much the same thing.

Karen: I spent about seven hours with Foley.

Her Dad: Don't tell me everything.

Karen: Don't worry.  Do you understand our taking a timeout?

Her Dad: The way you tell it, yeah.

Karen: There was no time limit specified.

Her Dad: But now you're back in play, out of time-outs.

Karen: I guess so.

Her Dad: You have to do better than that.  You have to accept the
fact.

Karen: Okay.

Her Dad: What are your options?

Karen: If I find him?  Place him under arrest.

Her Dad: What else?  What if he tries to get away?  What if he pulls a
gun on you?

Karen: He doesn't have a gun.

Her Dad: You want to do this or not?

Karen: I'm sorry.

Her Dad: What if he resists arrest, tries to get away, puts you in a
position where you're trained to use your gun?  Could you doit?

Karen: I don't think so.

Her Dad: What if he wants you to take off with him?

Karen: I wouldn't go.  I told him that.

Her Dad: Would you let him get away?

Karen: No.

Her Dad: Then you'd have to shoot him, wouldn't you?

Karen: I don't know.

Her Dad: Would he shoot you, if he had to?

Karen: I don't know.

Her Dad: He told you he's not going back.

Karen: Yes.

Her Dad: So whose choice is it, really, if you have to shoot him?

Karen: Is that supposed to make it easier?

Her Dad: Why did you join the marshals?

Karen: Not to shoot people.

Her Dad: No, but the possibility is a fact you have to abide by.  Can
you do it?

During the afternoon Karen stayed in and watched a movie on television
she had seen at least a couple of times before, Repo Man, because Harry
Dean Stanton was in it and he reminded her of Foley.  Not his
looks-they didn't look anything alike-his manner: both real guys who
seemed tired of who they were, but couldn't do anything about it.
Stuck, putting up with their lives the way people find themselves in
jobs they care nothing about, but in time have nowhere else to go.  She
wondered if Foley ever had goals.  Or if his idea of living was
anything more than lying around the house, watching movies.

Buddy said he was going out, see if there were any whores around, maybe
bring one up to his room.  Foley imagined some poor girl standing in
the snow in her white boots, bare thighs and a ratty fur jacket,
shivering, getting hit by slush as cars went by; but doubted she'd be
there in real life.  He wished Buddy luck and pressed buttons on the TV
remote until he found a movie.  Repo Man, a winner he'd seen a few
times before.  Old Harry Dean Stanton getting the short end as usual.
Fun to watch, though.  This was the one, they open the trunk of the car
and you see a strange glow.  Like in Kiss Me Deadly, the strange glow
in the case inside the locker, and they used it again in Pulp
Fiction.

Mysterious glow movies-some kind of radioactive material, but what it's
doing there is never explained; if it was, Foley missed it.  He liked
this kind of movie.  You could think about it after, when you had
nothing to do, try to figure out what the movie was about.

TWENTY-TWO

AURICE WOULD GET up from the table and walk along the apron of the
stage yelling at one of the fighters, telling him, "Stick and jab,
stick and jab."  Not in the way of the audience, the ring up on the
stage, but it was annoying and Glenn wished he'd shut the fuck up.
Maurice would come back to the table and Kenneth would leave, go up on
the side of the stage where guys were hanging out, big black guys, and
Kenneth would hang with them between bouts, Kenneth dosed on speed and
doing all the talking.  Glenn had never seen so many big black guys in
one place who weren't wearing football or basketball uniforms.  Outside
of him and White Boy Bob there were maybe five or six other white
people in the whole theater.  The waitress would bring a round and
White Boy would throw his beer down in three or four swigs, give
Glenn's shoulder a jab and tell him to come on, drink up, "You drink
like a girl," and look to see if there were any other morons around
thought he was funny.  The black guys and their women at tables close
by only stared, tolerating him because of Maurice.

Where movie seats used to be were rows of round nightclub tables: a row
of them on each of four levels rising a step at a time up through the
theater to the bar: a long one, and dark up there away from the ring
lights.  People hung out in the open spaces at both ends of the bar.
Behind the bar was the aisle that crossed the theater from side to
side, a stairway at one end that went down to the rest rooms.  Beyond
this area was the outer lobby with a small bar over to one side.

A fighter from one of the Kronk boxing clubs was announced, rap music
came booming out of speakers and a procession of handlers and
hangers-on appeared out of a door on the side aisle.  Now women crowded
in from the audience, jiving, waving as the fighter finally appeared to
mount the stage and climb into the ring in red and gold to fight four
rounds for two hundred bucks, the gold tassels on his high red shoes
jumping now as the fighter worked his shoulders with quick jabs,
shuffling around his side of the ring.  Watching from the other side a
white kid from out of town or some Mexican lad trying to look cool,
unimpressed, would weave and do some footwork in his plain black shoes
to be doing something, waiting for the rap show to end and the ref in
his bow tie and latex gloves to motion them to the center of the
ring.

Ever since they got here Glenn had been trying to think of a way to get
the car keys from White Boy-Glenn listening to him and Kenneth talking
about last night, grinning at each other, saying tomorrow, man,
tomorrow was payday, talking about hitting Ripley's house.  Glenn would
listen to the two morons and watch Maurice bopping around from table to
table giving brothers the brother handshake, touch fists in their
ritual ways, Maurice the hipster, a dude black felt cap set on his head
just right, and shades.

"Maintaining a low profile," Maurice told him.

"No do-rag.  The fights, I'm all the way low profile."

They had come here in the Lincoln Town Car, White Boy driving, so White
Boy had the keys.

Glenn had gone downstairs to the men's and neither of the morons was
sent along to keep an eye on him; so he was pretty sure he could slip
out of here, cross Woodward Avenue to where the Town Car was parked and
if he had the keys, shit, he'd be out of here, on his way to
California.  He had boosted the car off a lot in West Palm: decided on
the Lincoln-parked right in front, ready to go-and while the parking
attendant was busy moving cars around, Glenn ducked in the shack and
got the Lincoln keys off the board-he knew keys-then waited for the
right moment to slip in behind the wheel and take off.  He'd brought
his tools along that day, not sure what method he'd use to pick up a
car, and the tools were now in the trunk of the Lincoln, the car
waiting for him right across the street.  But White Boy had the fucking
keys in his pocket.

Getting in the car wasn't the problem, it was unlocked.  When they got
here White Boy didn't know where the button was to lock the doors, so
Glenn said, "Here, I'll do it," standing outside the car, the
driver-side door open.  White Boy walked away and Glenn reached in as
though to press the lock button,

saw the three of them already crossing the street to the theater, and
all he did was close the door.  He hoped to God if the doors were
unlocked the glove compartment would be too, so he could get in there
and pop the switch to open the trunk.  Get out his tools, use the slap
hammer to yank the ignition and he was off!  White Boy could keep the
keys.  But if the glove box was locked, he was fucked.  He'd have to
find something to pry it open.  But if he took too long-even if he
could pop the trunk-Maurice would send the morons looking for him.

The glove box had to be unlocked.  It would be his only chance of
getting away from these people.

He'd wait .. . No, he'd better go right now.  There was the bell, a
bout over with and Maurice was getting up, heading for the stage.

Glenn did wait a few moments before saying, "Man, that beer goes right
through me.  I got to go take a piss."  He hesitated because he
expected White Boy or Kenneth to look at him funny or one of them would
say he had to go, too.

All White Boy said was, "What're you telling us for?  You want somebody
to hold your pecker?"

Glenn was glad to laugh.  He said, "I have to use both hands, but I can
manage."

As he walked away the moron said, "Hey, Glenn?  Shake it easy."

Glenn had his back to White Boy by now and didn't have to laugh or even
smile.  He had to get out of here, fast, away from these morons.  And
if he couldn't pop the trunk and start the car, fuck it, he'd run to
California.

Two young men in red-and-gold Kronk jackets were working security in
the outer lobby.  Karen came along in her navy cashmere coat, a navy
wool cloche covering her hair, jeans and hiking boots, and the security
guys smiled and asked how she was doing.  She said fine.  They asked to
look in her bag.  She showed her ID and star and said, "This is all you
need to know, right?"

They said hey and seemed pleased to see her, grinning, looking her up
and down in the long coat, as she walked off through the lighted outer
lobby and into the darkened theater.  From the bar she scanned the
descending row of tables and the stage, the ring empty, looking for
white people, rap music coming out of speakers somewhere, a few women
rising from their tables to make funky moves with the music.  Karen saw
a white couple off to the side and two guys down front, in the first
row of tables.

The bartender asked what she'd like and Karen said, "Just a minute."
The smaller of the two guys at the table was getting up, the other one
laughing.  The smaller one turned, not laughing-it was Glenn-and
started this way through the tables.  Karen turned and looked at the
bartender waiting for her.  She said, "Not right now," and turned her
head enough to see Glenn pause at the end of the bar and look back
toward the fables, taking his time, before he moved off and was out of
view.  Going to the men's room-Karen was pretty sure-wearing a sweater,
no coat.  She was surprised then, once she came around the bar, to see
him heading out through the lobby, hurrying.  He couldn't have spotted
her; there had to be another reason.  She waited until Glenn was out
the door and then went after him.  Said, "I forgot something," going by
the two security guys.  Outside, she saw Glenn running across the wide
avenue of packed, dirty snow, past car headlights creeping along, and
into the parking lot, disappearing into the row of cars facing the
street.  Karen followed, reached the lot but didn't see him now.  She
put her gloves on moving in among the cars, stopping to listen, waiting
to hear an engine start.  The only sounds came from the street.  She
reached an aisle through the rows of cars and caught a glimpse of a car
interior, almost right in front of her, the light on, and then off as
she heard a car door slam closed.

Karen walked up to the front passenger side of the car.  She saw his
shape in the dark: Glenn behind the wheel half lying on his right side,
his hair hanging ... It looked like he was trying to claw open the
glove compartment.  His head jerked around as Karen opened the door and
she saw the whites of Glenn's eyes, big saucer eyes looking at her in
the light that came on, Glenn pushing himself up straight as she got in
with him.  The door closed and it was dark again.

"Glenn, are you trying to steal this car?"

He said, "Jesus.  I don't believe it."

Pitiful.  She almost felt sorry for him.

"I'm ruining your life," Karen said, "aren't I?"

He raised empty hands.

"I don't have the keys."

"I see that."

"I mean I'm not stealing the fucking car."

"You're not?"

"I already stole it.  Last week or whenever it was, in West

Palm.  I can't be stealing it again, can I?  I can't even get my tools
out of the fucking trunk."

"Let me see if I understand," Karen said.

"You want to take off, get away from those guys.  Is that it?"

"You see me in there?"

"And one of them has the keys."

He said, "Yeah," nodding, and said, "Listen, I have to take a leak
pretty bad."

"The two guys you were with-that one, that isn't Maurice Miller, is it?
I've seen Snoopy's mug shot and it didn't look like him."

"How could you know about him?"

The poor guy, bewildered; desperate, too, looking toward the theater.
Karen glanced that way.  All they could see from here, over the tops of
cars, was the marquee and the name STATE in lights.  Karen said,
"Another one of those days, huh, nothing seems to go right?  Glenn, I
know your life history, who your friends are, where you've been and
now, it looks like, where you're going," "You're gonna bust me for
picking up a car?"

"For the car, for aiding and abetting a prison escape, and conspiring
to do whatever you came here for.  Tell me, Glenn, are you getting into
home invasions now?"

He said, "Jesus," shaking his head.

"Like the one last night," Karen said.

"You were there, weren't you?"

"I'm not saying another fucking word, and I mean it.  Jesus Christ, I
don't even know what you're talking about."

"Put your hands on the top of the steering wheel."

"What for?"

"So I can cuff you."

"You serious?  Listen, these guys, they're gonna be out here any minute
looking for me.  They're fucking animals, they're vicious.  I'm not
kidding.  I was taking off and that's all I want to do, get as far away
from those guys as I can."

"They scare you?"

"They scare the shit out of me, and I'm not afraid to admit it."

"Was Foley with you?"

"When?"

"Last night.  About what time was it you hit the dope house?"

"I said I'm not talking to you.  I'm not involved in whatever they're
doing, the same as I didn't help Foley escape.  You said so
yourself."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong about that.  Where do you suppose Foley is
right now?"

"How do I know."

"You're telling me you haven't seen him?"

"What I'm telling you is I have to piss.  I mean it, bad."

"What time was it you hit the dope house?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Glenn, tell me what those guys are up to and I'll make you a deal."

"Like what?"

"I'll let you take a leak."

"That's some deal."

"Anywhere you want."

He hesitated.

"You mean it?"

"Anywhere," Karen said.

"Glenn, what time did those guys hit the dope house?"

He hesitated again.

"It was early in the evening.  I don't know, about seven."

Karen got a cigarette from her bag and lit it with hotel matches.  She
took a deep drag and blew the smoke out in a slow stream.  At seven,
and for at least the next couple of hours, Foley was with her at the
hotel.

"Can I go piss?  Please?"

The way Karen worked it, she let him urinate against the side of the
car, the window down, while he told about Richard Ripley, the Wall
Street crook, where they were going to pick him up and take him out to
his home in Bloomfield Hills, late tomorrow afternoon.  Karen nodded as
she listened.  She had heard of Ripley and knew he'd served time at
Lompoc.  She wanted to know exactly where he lived and then asked:
"What about Foley?"

"He's supposed to go with them," Glenn said, his shoulders hunched in
the window.

"But I don't know, he didn't show up tonight."

"You know where he's staying?"

"No idea."

"Where do you meet tomorrow?"

"Listen, I'm fucking freezing out here."

"Where're you meeting?"

"They haven't decided."  He straightened to look toward the theater,
then hunched over to look in the window again.

"You might have something in your car to pop the trunk with.  You know,
with the jack?"

"You think Foley backed out?"

"I don't know-he doesn't exactly confide in me."  Glenn straightened
again, hugging himself.

"I'm freezing my ass off."

"You want to get out of here," Karen said, "run, it'll warm you up. But
listen, Glenn?"

"What?"

"If you're lying to me .. ."

"I know, you'll find me.  Jesus, I believe it.  I keep thinking, if you
hadn't driven me to federal court last summer .. ."

"We wouldn't keep running into each other?"

"You wouldn't even know who I am."

Karen said, "If I didn't know you, Glenn, by tomorrow you'd be in jail
or dead.  Look at it that way."

People were leaving as Foley and Buddy arrived.  They found the table,
White Boy and a black guy sitting there.  Maurice came down from the
stage.  He said, "Where you been?"  an edge to his tone.

"You miss the big boys, come in time for the walkout fights.  Well,
shit, you may as well pull up a chair."  He said to the black guy,
"Kenneth, this is Mr.  Jack Foley and this is Mr.  Buddy, famous bank
robbers and jailbirds, say they want to help us out."

Foley put his hand on a raincoat draped over the back of a chair at the
table.

"Who's sitting here?"

"Your homie, Glenn," Maurice said.

"Only thing, he went to the men's about an hour ago and never came
back."

Foley gave Buddy a look.

White Boy, grinning at them, said, "I think he must've fell in."

"I sent these two looking for him," Maurice said.

"They come back shaking their heads."

"Glenn have a car?"

"One he brought from Florida.  We all come here in it this evening."

"Well, if he left his coat," Foley said, "and he's been gone an hour ..
."

"Hey, I know what you're saying.  Glenn didn't want nobody to know he
was leaving.  Man, I know that.  I sent White Boy back out again, see
was the car still there, check it out.  White Boy had the keys, but
knowing Glenn's habits I thought it good to check.  You understand? The
car's still there and Glenn ain't nowhere to be found."

Foley said, "Everybody's somewhere, Snoop.  Where's Glenn staying?"

"My house."  Maurice turned his head toward the ring, watched a few
moments and yelled, "Reggie, push off and hit, man.  Push him off."  He
turned back to Foley.

"Why don't you and Buddy sit down and have a drink with me.  What you
want?"

"We're leaving," Foley said.

"The fuck you talking about?"

"Snoop, if you don't know where Glenn is .. ."

"The man changed his mind, that's all, so he left.  Decided he can't
take the heat."

"Glenn's pussy," White Boy said.

"He never done shit last night but watch."

Buddy said, "Where was this?"

A waitress came as he said it and asked if they'd like something. Foley
shook his head; Buddy did too.  The waitress dumped the little tin
ashtray in a napkin and left and White Boy said, "You read the paper
you'd have seen it."

Maurice said, "White Boy, that's another business.  You understand? Has
got nothing to do with us here."

"He keeps looking at me," White Boy said, nodding at Buddy.

"I can't help it," Buddy said.

"I hear the Snoop call you White Boy, I'm trying to figure out why you
let him."

"It's what they call me at Kronk, from when I trained there."

"You used to fight, huh?"

"Right here and out at the Palace."

"You any good?"

"You want to find out?"

Buddy said, "You ever done time?"

"He's asking do you gouge eyes," Maurice said.

"Do you bite off ears.  White Boy's got his own moves.  But that's
enough of that shit.  Look," Maurice said, taking Foley by the arm and
moving off a few steps to stand with their backs to the table.

"What you worried about Glenn for?  What's he know?"

"I thought everything," Foley said, watching the fighters jabbing and
juking each other, one of them patient the way he moved in, the other
taking wild swings and missing.

"Glenn knows everything we suppose to do tomorrow," Maurice said.

"Snatch the man he comes out of his club, drive home with him.  Glenn
could tell somebody that, yeah, but it don't mean shit.  You
understand?  I changed the plan.  Glenn don't know it, 'cause while we
waiting for you he left.  For whatever reason it don't matter.  It
ain't happening tomorrow."

Foley, watching the fighter, said, "This fight isn't going four
rounds."

Maurice glanced over.

"Ain't even going two."

"You're not saying it's fixed."

"Don't have to fix nothing to know who's gonna win.  It's in the
matchmaking, how you match 'em up, who you bring in to fight the home
boy.  You understand?"

Foley kept his gaze on the ring.

"If it isn't happening tomorrow, when is it?"

"Tonight," Maurice said.

"Soon as we leave here.  Stop home to pick up what we need and go do
it."

Foley said, "Give me a minute," and motioned to Buddy as he turned to
the table.  Behind him, he heard Maurice say:

"You got two minutes, that's all.  Make up your mind."

Foley turned back to him to stand in close.

"I wasn't asking permission.  Buddy and Fre going up to the bar.  We're
gonna take however long it takes.  We may keep walking.  We do come
back, it's understood this deal cuts fifty fifty half for us.  How you
cut your half is up to you."

"We can talk about it," Maurice said.

"No, that's the way it's gonna be, Snoop."

Foley walked away and Buddy followed him to the bar, this dark area
away from the ring lights.

"He wants to do it tonight."

"What's the difference, tonight or tomorrow?"

"Glenn.  He could be setting us up."

"Glenn's always a risk," Buddy said.

"We've come this far."

TWENTY-THREE.

AREN TOLD HER dad she couldn't sleep.  He said, "Is that right?  I was
doing pretty good myself, till the phone rang.  There was nothing on
the news about my little girl, so I guess I dozed off.

Now I see I've missed Letterman.  What's going on?"

She told about tracking down Glenn Michaels and getting him to tell
what he was up to, her dad saying, "That's some deal you offered him.
You let him go?"

"I bring Glenn to the First Precinct for stealing a car in Florida,"
Karen said, "have to explain to a lieutenant or a sergeant what I'm
doing here?  He could look at me and think-I don't know what, but
probably think he should take over.  You know what I mean?  Not only
he's never seen me before, I'm a girl waving a marshal's star at him, a
fed trying to tell a street cop about a planned home invasion.  He'd
have to check me out.  There'd be nothing to charge the other guys
with; all I've got is a stolen car.  So I let him go and called Raymond
Cruz."

"The one you saw the other day."

"Yeah, and told him the whole story.  I was concerned with
jurisdiction.  If these guys are breaking into a home in Bloomfield
Hills, Oakland County, should I get in touch with the police out there,
the sheriff's department or what?  I didn't see anything federal about
it, so why would I call the FBI.  Right?"

"Sounds logical."

"I told you Raymond's an inspector, he's over crimes persons, crimes
property and sex crimes."

"I recall that."

"He also heads the Violent Crimes Task Force and they're hooked into
all the local police around, the county sheriffs and the Bureau.  The
Bureau's involved, also aTF., because in almost all of the home
invasions they're busting into dope houses after cash and guns.  That's
all, in and out."

"But this one's different," her dad said.

"As far as we know or can assume, yeah.  This guy Ripley's home in
Bloomfield Hills isn't likely to be a dope house, even if he has done
time.  You remember Ripley?"

"Dick the Ripper, the inside trader.  Yeah, I think he's the land would
have cash in his house."

"Anyway, Raymond said it wouldn't matter where the home was, the crime
would come under the jurisdiction of the task force, and the feds would
be involved because of the kidnapping in the plan."

"What kidnapping?"

"They pick up Ripley tomorrow coming out of the Detroit

Athletic Club-it's downtown, right around here.  One of them gets in
the car with him and the rest of the guys follow.  That's
kidnapping."

"Would the cops alert Ripley?  Tell him it's gonna happen?"

"Raymond said no, it could blow their surveillance.  He said something
like this, you had to make a judgment call.  The ideal way, let the
guys pick up Ripley and go through with the robbery, and then take them
coming out of the house.  But if you have reason to believe Ripley's
life might be in danger, you'd have to move before that.  I told
Raymond it looked like these were the same guys who hit a house last
night and killed three people.  He said then they'd have to take them
before they got to Ripley's home and he's brought inside."

"But get them for the kidnapping," her dad said, "as soon as Ripley's
abducted."

"Right, and they can take them state or federal, either way.

But this involves another judgment call.  If these guys are too
dangerous to let one of them get in the car with Ripley, then you don't
have a kidnapping case.  All you've got are some guys in probably a
stolen car and probably with guns.  But to get them even two years on a
gun charge it has to be during the commission of a felony.  So, do you
let them go through with the kidnapping or not?"

Her dad said, "What if Ripley, for some reason, doesn't go to the club
tomorrow?  Or these guys decide to go directly to the house?"

"Tomorrow morning they'll scout the house, the neighborhood, and set up
a surveillance, be ready for a change in the plan."

"And what will you be doing?"

"Raymond said I can ride with him tomorrow if I want.  Be on the
scene."

"But stay in the background?"

"Why do you say that?"

"When they're putting the cuffs on Olufsson, you want him to see
you?"

"You're a riot."

"I mean Foley.  I get him mixed up with that guy in Stockholm."

"Foley might not be involved."

"You hope."

"No, Glenn said Foley didn't show up for the meeting tonight, at the
fights."

"How were they?"

"I didn't stay.  I went back in to get a look at Snoopy Miller, so I
could ID him, and left."

"Foley could still be there tomorrow."

"I don't know," Karen said, "he might."

"But you don't have to be there."

Karen said, "No," and paused.

"What would you do?"

"It wouldn't bother me any to see him busted.  I look at his picture in
the paper, I can't say I'm impressed."

"Yeah, but he doesn't look like that.  It's an old mug shot."

"Well, does seeing, him cleaned up wearing a suit," her dad said,
"change the fact he's a loser?  A guy who's wasted his entire life?
Yeah, I'd be there.  I'd personally cuff his hands behind his back. And
I'd make sure he hit his head getting in the police car."

"Thanks a lot.

"You asked."

Moselle watched from an upstairs window.  She saw the Lincoln Town Car
turn into the drive and pull up far enough for another car-an Olds, it
looked like-to pull in behind it.  The street had been plowed and cars
left at the curb were buried in snow.  She saw Maurice and White Boy
come out of the Lincoln, and two white guys who looked like cops come
out of the Olds.  Where was Kenneth?  Where was this Glenn?

Maurice came upstairs and turned the light on in the bedroom, acting
like she wasn't there till he got down and pulled the suitcase out from
under the double bed, where he kept his guns.  Without looking at her
he said, "The one in the dark overcoat's the jailbird with the ten gees
on his head.  I don't know it's gonna work or not, but I been thinking
about a way to collect."

"Where's my brother?"

"Getting us a ride."

"Where's Glenn at?"

"Decide he don't want to go."

"You hide the body good?"

"Shame on you."  Maurice brought pistols out of the suitcase, Moselle
watching him, and laid them on the bed, the pistols and a box of
9-millimeter hollow points, "Glenn decide he don't want any parts of
this business, so he left."

"And you let him?"

Maurice shoved the suitcase under the bed and stood up saying, "You
keep talking you gonna risk getting hit in the mouth.  Keep asking me
questions.  The one in the dark overcoat, has all that reward on his
head and still talks like a con in the yard.  You know what I'm saying?
Like he's a man you don't mess with.  Yeah, well, what I say to Jack
Foley is buuull shit.

What I'm thinking is you gonna call the police.  Say you heard him
talking to his friend at the fights, sound like they going out to rob a
man's house."

"How would I hear that?"

"You did, don't matter how.  You say you believe it's the jailbird
escaped from the place in Florida you read about and you want the
reward."

"Where they gonna find him?"

"At the man's house he robbed."

"Dead," Moselle said, "from gunshot."

"It would look like it, yeah."

"What about his friend?"

"Same thing."

"Who killed them?"

"Nobody knows.  Maybe the man from the house they tried to rob.  Or the
man's butler.  Yeah, maybe the butler done it."

"They dead, too?"

"Imagine it looks like Jack Foley shot them the same time they shot him
and his friend, Mr.  Buddy.  Something like that.  I get back I'll tell
you how it took place."

"I have to say who I am," Moselle said, "to collect any reward.  I do,
it's like giving them your name, too.  Don't you know that?"

"You like your grocery money, you like to weed out on that polio pot
and become paralyzed, but you don't like to work for it."  Maurice came
over to the window to stand there looking out.

"I thought I heard him.  Yeah, there's Kenneth.  Got a plumbing and
heating truck.  Look like we going out on this emergency call.  Man's
furnace quit on him."

Moselle watched him move back to the bed and pick up two of the guns.
She said, "They three white men in the house.  I try to collect this
reward you talking about, they gonna be more white men in this house'n
you ever saw before."

Maurice turned to her with a .38 Smith snub-nose and a Beretta nine. He
said, "This one's for Jack Foley," handing her the Beretta.

"And this one's for his friend Mr.  Buddy.  I like you to see they get
them while I change my clothes.  Would you do that for me?"

"I ain't calling any police," Moselle said.

"We talk about it when I get back."

"I don't care you beat me up, I ain't doing it."

"Honey," Maurice said, "getting beat up would be nothing."

Moselle had her hands in the pockets of her green silk robe, one of her
hands holding the card Karen Sisco had given her, the hotel phone
number written on it.

When Kenneth came in, not paying any attention to them in the living
room, White Boy got up and followed him through the foyer to the back
part of the house, maybe the kitchen.  Right after that the woman
appeared, handed them each a gun and left.  Foley said, "How come
nobody wants to sit and chat with us?"

Buddy checked the .38, stood up from the sofa to stick it in his waist,
and looked down at Foley holding the Beretta.

"You know how to work it?"

"I ought to, I've seen it used in enough movies."

Buddy took the pistol from Foley, checked the magazine, racked the
slide to load the chamber and handed it back to him.

"It holds fifteen rounds.  You have fourteen in there."

"You think that's enough?"

Buddy sat down again.

"These guys are wacko."

Foley nodded.

"I've noticed."

"They're gonna try to set us up."

"I believe it."

"Leave us dead at the scene.  Look at the shit in the fireplace."

"I saw it."

Maurice came in the living room wearing white coveralls that looked
custom tailored, a white sweatshirt showing at the neck.

Foley said, "That what they're wearing these days to break and
enter?"

"Take it and git, how it's done," Maurice said.

"Don't waste any time.  Stick a gun in the man's mouth and give him a
count of three.  Where's it at?"

Buddy said, "How's he gonna tell you with the piece in his mouth?"

"That's his problem," Maurice said.

"Y'all want a drink?

There ain't any hurry.  I'd as soon wait here a couple hours."

He looked at his watch.

"Half-past twelve already.  We wait and be sure the people snug in
their beds.  We come, they all sleepy-eyed.  You know what I'm
saying?"

Foley said, "You're not worried about Glenn?"

"If he told on us," Maurice said, "the police'd be here by now."

"Or they're waiting at the guy's house."

"Don't worry, we gonna check it out.  Look around good before we go
in."

Buddy said, "Maybe he's dead."

And Maurice said, "Yeah, got run over by a car.  Or slipped on the ice
and cracked his head.  Glenn's gone on his own, that's all I can tell
you."

Buddy said, "Well, we got to pick up another car.  That Olds is fairly
clean."

"No need," Maurice said.

"We all go in the truck Kenneth got us.  Man called us don't have any
heat in his house.  We come back, your car's here waiting."

Foley looked at Buddy.  Buddy shrugged.  Maurice watching.

He said, "Y'all have your ways of doing banks.  I have my ways of doing
this type of business.  We in the house, we go right upstairs. Anything
worth taking's gonna be in the man's bedroom, nine times out of ten.  I
tell you to do something, like check the other rooms first? See if they
any guests in the house?  It's on account I know my business. 
Understand?  It ain't 'cause I want to boss you around. See, my boys
know what to do, so I won't be telling them much.  But I may have to
tell you to go here, go there.  Understand?  What else? You say you
want the cut to be down the middle.  Well, even though we been doing
all the work so far, I'm gonna agree to that, so we don't sit around
here arguing about it.  We move fast, in and out, and it's done.  Y'all
have any questions?"

Buddy said, "Where your guys at?"

"Imagine they in the kitchen.  You want to stir up White Boy again? Try
to shame him and get him cross at you?  For what?  Think a minute. What
good would that do us?"

"I just wondered," Buddy said, "if they were shooting up or what."

"Yeah, well Kenneth has some meth to keep him all the way live.  Some
beer, that's all.  Anything else you want to know about?"

Foley looked at Buddy.  Buddy shrugged and Foley said to Maurice, "You
have any bourbon?"

Maurice smiled.

Moselle watched from the bedroom window: watched them get in the big
commercial van that had a company name on the side; watched until the
van's red taillights were way up the street and gone.  She went to the
phone looking at the card Karen had given her, the card saying Karen
Sisco, Deputy United States Marshal, sounding important, nice-looking
card with a silver star on it in a circle.  The clock by the bed was on
2:20.  They'd been down there almost two hours talking and having
drinks, Moselle waiting for them to leave.  She knew what she wanted to
ask this Karen Sisco, but didn't know what she'd say after, or how
she'd answer any questions, knowing she'd be asked some.  She had her
hand on the phone.  Then took it off, wanting to think about it some
more.  Get her words right in her mind.  Have some weed first.

TWENTY-FOUR

OLEY SAW HIMSELF playing out the end of his life and was quiet,
watching it happen scene by scene: in Maurice's living room, a
half-gallon jug of vodka on the coffee table, watching Maurice duck and
weave, telling how crafty he'd been in the ring;

listening to White Boy's dumb remarks and the annoying way he laughed;
listening to Kenneth speaking a language that seemed all hip-hop
sounds, rhythmic, but making hardly any sense;

Foley listening to sociopaths offering their credentials, misfits
trying not to sound like losers, Foley realizing, shit, here was just a
little more of what most of his life had been.  He would hear Buddy
make quiet comments that were meant to zing but fell flat, the same old
same old, that stand-up talk you heard in the yard, but nobody here
bothering to listen, busy thinking of what they'd say next.  All us
tough guys, Foley thought.

In the living room with the vodka, Maurice passing out knit ski masks
before they left.  Now in the back end of the big van full of plastic
pipe and equipment: Kenneth driving, flying up Woodward Avenue past
miles of dark storefronts and lit-up used-car lots, snow piled in the
median, the road wide-open to them this time of night.  Twice, Buddy
told Kenneth to slow down.  Kenneth grinned at the mirror.  Buddy got
out the .38 and touched the back of Kenneth's head with the stubby
barrel.

"Get ready to grab the wheel," Buddy said to Maurice, "when I shoot
this asshole."  Kenneth looked up at the mirror to find Buddy in there
as Maurice told him, "Do like he says, man; slow down."

They came to Long Lake Road, took it over to Vaughan and crept up and
down the road twice, looking for security service cars or any kind of
surveillance, before turning into Richard Ripley's circular drive.

All five of them were in the back end of the truck now, bumping into
each other until Maurice let White Boy out the rear end and left the
doors open enough so he and Foley could watch.

"He's ringing the bell," Maurice said.

"They open the door, we're in.  They don't open it but ask what he
wants, White Boy says he's the heating man come to fix the furnace went
out.  They say they didn't call any heating man, White Boy asks can he
use the phone, call his boss as he must've been given the wrong
address.

They look out the window, see the truck.  Yeah, he must be telling the
truth, he's a heating man, all right, and he's white."

They watched him ring the bell again.  This time not a half minute
passed before coach lights on either side of the entrance came on.

"Get ready to go skiing," Maurice said, pulling his mask down.  Now the
door was opening and he said, "Here we go."

Foley had time to see a young guy in the doorway, his shirt hanging
unbuttoned over jeans, in the moment before White Boy gave him a push
and stepped inside the house with him.

Maurice was out of the truck and Kenneth, with a shotgun, was
scrambling to be next.  Buddy caught him by his jacket collar and held
him squirming until Foley was out.  But then the moment Kenneth's feet
hit the driveway he turned the 12-gauge on Buddy, still in the truck.
Foley took the barrel in one hand and shoved it straight up in
Kenneth's face, seeing the guy's eyes freaked with speed.  Foley said,
"Go on in the house before you get hurt."  Kenneth had to put his face
up close to Foley's and stare at him good before going inside.

Buddy said, "What're we doing here?"

Maurice had the young guy backed against a table in the foyer the size
of a living room: good-looking young guy about eighteen with hair down
on his shoulders; the pants and shirt he must've thrown on hearing the
doorbell, but no shoes, barefoot on the marble floor.  He looked scared
and had to be, facing five guys in ski masks holding guns.  Foley saw
him trying to act natural, shaking his head.

"Honest to God, he isn't here."

Maurice said, "Out for the evening?"

Now the young guy looked surprised.

"He's in Florida, Palm Beach."

Maurice hesitated.

"When's he due back?"

Foley said, "Jesus Christ, what difference does it make?  You want to
wait for him?"

"Mr.  Ripley's down for the season," the young guy said, "Christmas to
Easter."

"Now tell me who you are," Maurice said.

"I'm Alexander."

Maurice said, "Boy, I don't care what your name is.  I want to know who
you are to the man, what you're doing here."

"I'm house-sitting."

"You by yourself?"

He seemed to hesitate before saying, "Yeah, just me."

Foley caught it and glanced at Buddy.

Maurice said, "What are you to the man, Mr.  Ripley?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"How'd he come to hire you, watch his place?"

"Oh, he's a friend of the family.  Him and my dad are old buddies."

"Your daddy a crook too?"

"No-I don't know what you mean."

"Where's Ripley's safe at, he keep his valuables in?"

"His safe?  I don't have any idea."

"Let's go upstairs," Maurice said, and nodded to the house sitter to
lead the way.

Alexander said, "You know what?  I think the safe's downstairs, in the
library."

Maurice pushed him toward the wide staircase that took one turn on the
way up to an open section of the hall with a railing.

"You just said you had no idea where it was."

"I mean I think that's where it would be."

"Yeah, and I think you don't want us to go upstairs.  Go on, take us to
the man's bedroom."  On the stairway Maurice said, "Alexander?"  and
the young guy paused and looked over his shoulder.

"You set off any kind of alarms, or how you turn on all the lights
outside?  You're a dead house-sitter.  Understand?"

He said, "Yes sir."

"They any guns in this house?"

"Not that I know of."

In the wide second-floor hallway-lined with paintings of horses and fox
hunts on dark oak paneling, upholstered chairs and lamps on bombe
chests-Maurice said to Foley, "All right now, you and Mr.  Buddy go on
check the other rooms.  Look at the wall behind any pictures hanging on
it.  Look at the wall in the closets, behind the clothes."

Foley said, "You check the walls, huh?"

"The man has a safe," Maurice said, "it's gonna be up here
somewhere."

"How about his place in Florida?"  Foley said.

"If you'd called we could've checked his walls down there before we
left.

This is if you'd checked to see where he was.  You follow me?"

Maurice took his time now.  He said, "Jack, don't fuck with me.
Understand?  I don't have time right now to be fucked with."  He turned
to Alexander.

"Where's the man's bedroom at?"

"This one," Alexander said.

"Yeah, it could be in here,"

sounding eager.  But just as Maurice gave him a shove toward the door,
Foley saw Alexander look right at him, scared, worried-wanting to say
something?  Foley waited while Maurice and his guys filed into the
bedroom.  A light went on in there and he heard Kenneth's voice,
Kenneth saying, "Hey, shit.

Man, look at this."

As soon as they were alone Foley rolled his mask up on his head.

"You ever wear one of these?"

"I don't ski," Buddy said.

"What do you bet," Foley said, "somebody else's up here?"

They opened the door to the next room, felt for a light switch and
turned it on.  A white satin spread covered the king-size bed.

Foley started for the next room and Buddy said, "You don't want to
check the walls?"

"You bet I do," Foley said.

"Nothing I like better than checking walls.  We'll come back.  First I
want to see where Alexander sleeps."

"He could be using Ripley's bedroom."

"I don't know, he could," Foley said.

"He seems like a nice kid, huh?  Trying like hell to act natural."

The beds were made in the next two rooms.

"Guy lives alone," Buddy said, "what's he need a house like this
for?"

In the first bedroom they came to on the other side of the hall, the
bed was turned down.

"But hasn't been slept in," Foley said.

They came to the next room, the door open, the light off.

Foley turned it on and saw stuffed animals on the dresser and a vanity,
all lands of little animals, birds, reptiles, and a bed that had been
slept in, covers hanging down on one side, rumpled pillows, a pillow on
the floor, a pair of sneakers .. . two pairs of sneakers, jeans and a
sweatshirt draped over the arm of a chair.

Foley picked it up, a dark blue one with UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
lettered on it in yellow.  He went to the bed, leaned in close to the
pillows and caught a soft powdery scent.  He heard Buddy, close by,
say, "You might've been a good cop."  Foley moved to the bathroom door,
a full-length mirror covering it, and tried to turn the knob.  The door
was locked from the inside.  Close to it, his cheek against the glass,
Foley said, "Honey, open the door.

It's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you.  I give you my word."

Silence.

He straightened and saw himself in the mirror wearing the overcoat, the
white shirt and tie and the knit cap.  He looked stupid.  He took the
cap off and shoved it in his overcoat pocket.

"Miss?  Did you hear me?"

A woman's voice inside, close to the door, said, "Where's Alexander?"
sounding fairly calm.

"He's okay."

"Tell him to say something."

"He isn't right here, but he's okay."

"What do you want?"

"Open the door, I'll tell you."

He waited.

"Miss, I can kick the door in.  I don't mean to scare you, but you know
I can do it."  He waited again, looking at Buddy and saw Buddy
straighten as they heard the lock click.  Foley turned the knob, gave
the door a push and let it swing into the bathroom.

The woman stood by the shower stall away from the door not the cute
little college girl Foley expected-no, this woman could be forty years
old with thick red hair hanging free: a big woman with full breasts
that were plain to see in her flimsy bra and low-cut panties, her navel
centered in a little pot belly.  She looked ready to take a swing at
Foley if he approached her.

He said, "You're Alexander's girlfriend?"  doubt in his voice, and she
confirmed it.

"I work here.  I'm the maid."

Buddy moved in closer.

"Is this your room?"

She said, "Does it look like Mr.  Ripley's?"

Buddy glanced at Foley.

Foley said, "How long've you worked for him?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"Tell us where the safe's at," Buddy said, "and we'll leave you
alone."

Foley said, "You and Alexander can get back to what you were doing.
What's your name, honI'm not your hon," the woman said.

Foley couldn't imagine her being tender, though she might be all a
young guy like Alexander could ask for.  He said, "I think you ought to
stay in there.  Get in the shower and don't make a sound."

She had her hands on her hips now, like no one was going to tell her
what to do, saying, "Who do you people think you are?"

Scowling at them.

"You see the others," Foley said, "you'll know we're the good guys.  I
mean it, hide in the shower, for your own good."

She was asking, "What'd you do with Alexander?  Where is he?"

When they heard Kenneth.

"Who's that?"

Before they knew he was in the room: Kenneth coming over to the
bathroom with his shotgun, eyes bright in the ski mask, his eyes
lighting up at the sight of the redhead in her underwear.

"Hey, shit," Kenneth said, "we gonna have a party."

TWEHTY-FlVE THE PHONE RANG as Karen, in bed, was staring at luminous
numbers in the dark: 3:45.  She was sure it was Foley.  In the moment
it took to get up on her elbow and reach for the phone, no other name
was in her mind.  She said hello and felt a letdown as the woman's
voice said, "I'm sorry if I woke you up."

"It's okay," Karen said, "you didn't."

"Reason I'm calling, I need to ask a question."

It was Moselle.

"Go ahead."

"If I know something's gonna happen-like a job is gonna be pulled and I
don't tell the police I know about it?  Am I, you know, could I be
charged for knowing?"

"When is it supposed to happen?"

"See, I knew something this other time when a man was killed and I
didn't say nothing?"

"You told me about it.  You said a man was blown up."

"That's the one.  They said if I told anybody I'd be dead, too.

So I didn't.  See, this time I been told the same thing.  Only there's
a reason I could get mixed up in it, too, and I don't want it to
happen."

"Who threatened you, Maurice?"  There was a silence.

"If you're withholding information about a crime, yeah, you're comp
licit participating in a wrongful act by association.  You don't have
to actually be there.  When is this taking place, tomorrow?"

"Before that.  Okay, I've told you and you know I'm not mixed up in
it."

"But when is it going to happen?"  Karen said, and waited.

"Is Maurice there?"

"He left."

"You're alone?"

"I don't want to say no more than I have."

"Moselle, I'll be there as soon as I can.  Will you wait for me, not go
anywhere?"

She had hung up.

Karen called Raymond Cruz at his home, woke him up and stared at the
clock while they spoke for a minute and a little more.  He told her a
car with a man from Robbery would be at the hotel by the time she was
dressed.

Kenneth walked up to the redheaded maid in the bathroom saying, "What's
your name, mama?"  She wouldn't tell him, wouldn't say a word till he
hooked a finger in the waist of her panties, pulled on the elastic as
he looked in there and said, "Hey, shit."

The redheaded maid said, "Get out of there, you creep," and slapped his
hand.

Kenneth, grinning at her, said, "Maurice got to see this," and took her
by the arm out of the bathroom, past Foley and Buddy like they weren't
even there.

"He's gonna jump her," Buddy said.

Foley kept quiet.  They followed behind, along the hall to the master
bedroom, Kenneth glancing around at them once; they didn't seem to
bother him.  He took the maid into Ripley's bedroom: the front part
like a sitting room, full of fat, cushy chairs and a sofa, all white,
everything white or black, a wet bar, a big TV, CD player, the man's
king-size bed in there through an archway where Maurice, out of his
coveralls, was taking suits and sport coats from the walk-in closet to
look them over, drop some on the floor, lay some over a chair.

Alexander was in the sitting room part with White Boy.  As Kenneth came
in with the maid, Alexander yelled out her name, "Midge!"  and started
for Kenneth, telling him to leave her alone.  Foley got to the doorway
in time to see White Boy take Alexander around the neck, rub the kid's
scalp with his knuckles until he screamed and throw him on the sofa.

Kenneth had a finger hooked in her panties again, Midge holding on to
his wrists, Kenneth saying, like he was making an announcement, "The
bitch has a red puss on her.  Y'all ever see a red one?"

Foley saw the maid let go of Kenneth's wrist and slap him across the
face.  Kenneth half turned from her, came back with his fist cocked and
threw a left at her, a hook that jarred against the side of her face.
She landed on the sofa, head bouncing against the cushion.  Right away,
as Foley watched, Alexander edged over to brush her hair from her cheek
and take her hand, the woman looking up at Kenneth, stunned.

"I've seen 'em dyed blond on sisters," Maurice said from the other part
of the room, "but I don't believe I ever seen a natural red one."

"This boy," Kenneth said, "been squirrelin' the maid, getting himself
some house-sitting pussy."

Maurice said to Alexander, "How is she, boy, pretty good?"

Kenneth said, "I think she like to tussle with a man for a change.  Get
boned a way she gonna remember."

"Not till you done looking," Maurice said.

"Will somebody please find the fucking safe?"

Out in the hall again Buddy said to Foley, "They're gonna gang-bang
her.  What're we supposed to do, watch?"

Moselle was on the sofa, cigarette in one hand, holding her robe closed
with the other.  Her gaze moved from the detective waiting in the foyer
with his phone to Karen Sisco standing over her.  More white people in
the house these days than when white people lived in the house.

"I tell him it's none of my business.  See, but he likes to brag on
what he's doing.  He knows I ain't gonna tell on him.  But now this
time he wants me to tell something.  And if I do, I know it will mess
me up good.  See, there's two white men with him .. ."

"Tonight?"  Karen said.

Moselle nodded and drew on her cigarette, wanting to tell it right, but
not tell too much.

"Right now, this minute.  They left with Maurice."  Moselle paused, her
gaze going to the foyer, then raising to Karen Sisco again.

"But they not coming back with him."  She watched Karen ease down to
sit on the edge of the sofa, close to her.

"He's leaving them there."

She understood.

"You could say that."

"You know their names?"

Moselle shook her head.

"Never was introduced."

This Karen said, "Are you playing with me?"  Sounding irritated, not
the nice person anymore.

"What's your game?

What're you telling me?"  Getting a fierce look in her eyes.

Moselle leaned away from her.

"I don't know the man's name till Maurice tells me.  See, then I'm
suppose to tell the police who this person is and where to find him,
out at this rich man's house.  Okay, if I do, it's gonna mess up my
life good and I'll prob'ly go to jail.  But if I don't, then I'm gonna
be gone from this world, honey.  That's what I'm telling you."

Karen seemed to ease back saying, "But why give up this particular
guy?"

"

"Cause Maurice wants the reward you get for turning him in.  Hoping,
you understand, they pay off if the man's dead."

Moselle stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray she held on the arm of
the sofa, feeling Karen Sisco staring at her.

"See, the man's an escaped convict from Florida."

Feeling her staring and then feeling her get up and when Moselle
looked, Karen in her long coat was across the room already, leaving.

They had their masks off and had torn up Ripley's bedroom:

drawers pulled out and dumped, pictures off the walls, bed covers
stripped, the mattress slashed.

Foley and Buddy, back from checking rooms, stood in the hall looking
in.  Foley said, "Would you hide walking-around money in a mattress?"

"I leave mine on the dresser," Buddy said.

"This is a bunch of shit.  These assholes are gonna end up with TV
sets."

"You want to leave?"

"I'm ready anytime," Buddy said, "but what about the maid, and the
kid?"

"I don't know," Foley said, looking at them now, on the sofa in the
sitting room area.  He did know, but didn't want to say.

They seemed rigid, holding each other's hands, afraid to move.

Kenneth, near them, was taking bottles of wine and booze from a cabinet
and lining them up on the wet bar.

Buddy said, "I can see you don't have your heart in this."

"I never did."

"Before we go," Buddy said, "I think we're gonna have to settle with
these assholes."

Foley nodded.

"Yeah, I guess."  He turned to Buddy then.

"Listen, why don't you leave and I'll clean up."

"What're you talking about?"  Buddy frowning.

Foley didn't answer because there was no way to explain what he felt,
that these were the final scenes of his life playing out, that pretty
soon it would be over and he was resigned to it happening.  Here, not
against the fence in some penitentiary.  It was like if Clyde Barrow,
driving along that county road in '34, knew he was going to run into
all those Texas Rangers and there was nothing he could do about it. How
did you explain that kind of feeling to anybody?  Even to Buddy. Buddy
was confused enough already and it made him appear restless. Foley
said, "Take the truck and get out of here."

Buddy, still frowning, said, "I don't know what you're thinking, but
we're going together, once I get the keys off a Kenneth."

They heard Maurice then, in there trying on clothes, say to Kenneth,
"Put some music on," and saw Kenneth at the wet bar going through a
rack of CDs.

"All he's got's Frank Sinatra," Kenneth said, "some others, little
Sammy Davis, all ofay jive."

"Put Frank Sinatra on," Maurice said, looking at himself in a
full-length mirror.

"I can go Frank Sinatra."

"Hey, shit, the man's got Esther Phillips."

"Now you talking.  Put Esther on."

"

"Confessin' the Blues."

" "See has it got "Long John Blues' on it."

Foley and Buddy, by the doorway, looked from Maurice to Kenneth.

"Yeah, number ten."

"Play it, man.  Woman goes to see Long John, this seven foot-tall
dentist," Maurice said, looking at himself turning this way and that in
the mirror, like the suitcoat might fit him if he caught it at a
certain angle, not hang on him like a sack, the tips of his fingers
showing.

"Yeah, that's it, Long John telling the woman her cavity needs
filling," Maurice watching himself, head bobbing slow motion, barely
moving but on the beat.  He caught Foley and Buddy in the mirror
watching him from the doorway.

"How y'all doing?  You find anything?"

Foley held up empty hands.  Then turned as White Boy brushed past them
into the room, White Boy holding up a wad of bills in a rubber band.

"Six hundred, found it in the kitchen."

"That's a start," Maurice said, as Alexander came off the sofa.

"It's mine.  Mr.  Ripley gave it to me."

Alexander made a grab for the money and White Boy held it at arm's
length above his head.

"Come on-I need it for school."

White Boy said, "Oh, okay, here," offering the wad of bills;

but when Alexander tried to take it, White Boy raised his arm straight
up in the air again, grinning at him, holding him off with his other
hand.

"You rob kids?"  Buddy said.

"How about old women?"

"Anybody we can," Kenneth said, his head bobbing to Esther Phillips.

"You a robber, it's what you do, man.  You rob people."

Buddy started into the room and Foley took hold of his arm to stop him.
They watched White Boy play with Alexander, waving the money at him,
then raising it out of reach when he made a grab for it.  They watched
Midge get up to help Alexander and Kenneth right away step in front of
her holding up his hands, feinting with them at her breasts.  They
watched White Boy drag Alexander by the hair to a closet, throw him
inside and lock the door.

Buddy pulled his arm free and Foley said, "Stay out of it."

"I can't."

"Let's go see the Snoop."

They walked through to where he stood looking at himself in the
mirror.

"There's no safe," Foley said.

"There's no cash or stones hidden anywhere."

Maurice studied his profile.

"You look good?"

"Glenn was dreaming."

"Fucking Glenn," Maurice said.

"Yeah, well, you take what you can get.  You want a suit?  You want a
sport coat?  The ones on the floor there, you can have any of those, I
can't use 'em.

You want shoes?  The man has, must be twenty pair of shoes in the
closet.  Too big for me."  He looked past their reflections and yelled,
"White Boy!  They's some cardboard boxes in the truck?  Dump out the
shit's in 'em and bring the boxes up here.

We'll take the wine and the booze .. . Hey, and look in the kitchen,
the freezer.  See what looks good to you."

They saw White Boy in the mirror start out and then stop and look
back.

"How about somebody helping me?"  Maurice said, "Y'all want to give him
a hand?"

"We're leaving," Foley said.

"We all are, pretty soon now."  Maurice turned and yelled at White Boy,
"Get Kenneth!"

"He ain't here."

"Well, where's he at?"

"He took the redhead down the hall," White Boy said.

And Foley thought, Here it comes.

Township and sheriff's radio cars stood along Vaughan Road, dull metal
shapes in the dark, the sky overcast, unmarked cars against the
snowbank, by the wall in front of the residence and blocking both ends
of the circular drive.  The detective from Robbery said, "Let me find
out what's going on," and got out of the car.  On the way here he had
asked about the GCI prison break and that was pretty much what they'd
talked about.  The Robbery detective said he'd never heard of Jack
Foley.

Karen was out of the car when he came back from the group standing by
one of the sheriff's cars.  He told her they were waiting for Inspector
Cruz, he hadn't arrived yet.  They walked to the nearer end of the
circular drive and the Robbery detective pointed out the truck parked
at the front entrance.  He said they'd contacted the company and found
out a truck was missing from their property and must have been stolen
that evening.

Karen said, "It looks like the front door's open."

"It is," the detective said.

"A guy came out just a minute ago.

Got some boxes from the truck, went inside with them and kicked the
door shut, but it didn't close all the way."  Karen stared at the front
entrance.  The detective said, "Raymond should be here soon."  He said,
"You want to smoke?  It's okay here by the wall."  Karen shook her
head.  He had trouble with his lighter, getting it to flame.  He lit
his cigarette finally, looked up and said, "Hey, where you going?"

Karen walked up the drive to the front entrance, right hand in her coat
pocket gripping the Sig Sauer .38.

Foley saw it happening as he looked in the mirror and in a way it was
like watching a movie:

"Kenneth's like a bullfrog: it moves, fuck it," Maurice said, turning
this way and that to study his image, taking on a dead serious look
then as he stopped and said to Buddy, "Man, what are you doing with
that?"

Now Foley was looking at the snub-nose .38 in Buddy's hand, holding it
on Maurice, Buddy saying, "You guys are bad, Snoop."

And Maurice saying, "You know bad these days, man, is good," as Buddy
stepped in and hit him in the mouth with his left hand and Maurice
stumbled against the mirror and stood there with his hand to his face,
his eyes taking on a shrewd kind of look.

"Watch the Snoop," Buddy said, "while I go find Kenneth."

Foley brought the Beretta out of his overcoat, saw Maurice's gaze
follow Buddy for a moment and come back to him, Maurice touching his
bloody mouth as he looked at the gun.  Taking off the suitcoat he said,
"Jack, you don't use a gun, do you?"

"Hardly ever."

"You nervous?"

"A little."

Maurice dropped the suitcoat on the floor and walked past Foley to the
bed.  Picking up his white coveralls he said, "This kind of setup, you
don't have any idea what the fuck you're doing.  Be honest with me-do
you?"

"You're right," Foley said, extended the Beretta and shot him through
the coveralls he was holding in front of him.

"So I thought, why take a chance," Foley said, and shot him again and
saw the Snoop's bloody mouth and his eyes staring, glazing over, saw
him drop the coveralls and heard them hit the carpeted floor, something
heavy in one of the pockets, and saw the blood in the center of the
Snoop's white sweatshirt.  He watched him sit down on the bed, then
fall back with his eyes open and stay that way.  Foley got the Snoop's
piece, another Beretta, from the coveralls and ran out of the room.

He saw Buddy near the end of the hall looking back this way, his arm
raised now, waiting for him.  He said, "Two-gun Foley.

What'd the Snoop do, pull on you?"

"He had it in mind," Foley said.

"Listen, Kenneth's gonna be ready if he isn't deaf."

"I'm gonna bang in there and shoot him," Buddy said.

"Something I've never done before, shoot anybody."

"You know he's got that shotgun."

"If you stand against the wall next to the door, reach over and turn
the knob .. . You know what I mean?"

Foley slipped the pistol in his left hand into his coat pocket, put his
back against the wall and looked at Buddy, standing now in front of the
door.  Foley's left hand reached for the knob.

He turned it.  Buddy kicked the door, going in with it, and the shotgun
blast blew him back into the hall-past Foley already moving into the
doorway.  He saw them bare, both sitting up in bed, Kenneth racking the
pump gun, Midge turned away from him, gathering up the covers hanging
off her side of the bed, and coming around to throw them like a net at
Kenneth as the shotgun went off and the covers caught fire and Foley
was pumping one two three shots into Kenneth somewhere under there.
Foley watched Midge, bare naked, jump up and drag the burning covers
from the bed and saw Kenneth now, the bullet holes in his chest.

Foley knelt over Buddy in the hall, felt his throat for a pulse and
said, "Shit."  He looked up to see Midge-the woman not caring she was
still naked, or maybe not even conscious of it standing over him.

"He's dead," Foley said.

She gave that a moment before asking, "Where's Alexander?"

"In the closet," Foley said, getting up.

"But stay here.  One of them's still around."

Karen stood inside the open front door.  She saw cardboard boxes lying
in the foyer and a man on the staircase, a big guy with a gun in his
hand.  At the sound of the shots from upstairs he had stopped and now
didn't seem to know what to do.

Karen kept her eyes on him, both of them waiting, listening.

She heard movement outside, hurried footsteps in the packed snow, and
then silence, and then a voice calling to her, "Karen?"

She saw the guy on the staircase turn at the sound and saw Foley, in
that moment, in the open part of the upstairs hallway, looking over the
railing at her.  She moved then, fast, to the foot of the stairs, put
her Sig Sauer on the guy turned to her and said, "Police.  Drop it or
you're dead.  Right now, drop it."  She watched the guy stoop in a land
of awkward way to lay his gun on the stairs.  He looked scared to
death.  She said, "Now come down," and saw Foley, at the top of the
stairs now, watching her.

He said, "That's White Boy Bob.  Honest, that's what they call him. The
other two are dead."  He paused.

"So is Buddy."

Karen said, "Don't move."

She brought White Boy across the foyer to the open door, to the
uniforms and detectives standing in the drive.  She saw Raymond Cruz in
the light from the coach lamps and said, "There's one more.  Will you
let me bring him out?"

Raymond hesitated.

"Why?"

"I know him."

"He's a friend?"  Sounding surprised now.

"I know him," Karen said.

Foley had come down to stand where the staircase made its turn.  As
Karen crossed the foyer to the foot of the stairs she saw him pull his
knit cap down over his face and now he was wearing a ski mask.

She said, "Come on, Jack-don't."

"Pretend I'm somebody else."

"You think I'd shoot you?"

Foley brought the pistols out of his pocket.

"If you don't, one of those guys will.  I told you, I'm not going
back."

They were in the foyer now, behind her, Raymond Cruz and a half-dozen
others lined up, watching.

"What're you now," Karen said, "a desperado?  Put the guns down."

He raised them hip-high and she heard sounds behind her and was quick
to raise her hand, though she didn't turn or look around.  Karen took
her time now.  She said, "Okay, Jack," with almost a sigh, brought up
the Sig Sauer in one hand and fired and he fell to the staircase,
dropping the guns, grabbing hold of his right thigh.  She turned to
Raymond saying, "Wait, okay?"

and went up the staircase to where Foley was lying.  She sat on a step
and carefully, gently lifted the ski mask and looked at his sad eyes.

"I'm sorry, Jack, but I can't shoot you."

"You just did, for Christ sake."

"You know what I mean."  She said, "I want you to know I think you're a
cool guy.  I never for a minute felt you were too old for me."  She
said, "I'm afraid, though, thirty years from now I'll feel different
about it.  I'm sorry, Jack, I really am."

The poor guy, he looked like he was in pain.

Eight in the morning talking to her dad, Karen said, "They don't know
yet if they want to bring him up on the homicides.  I doubt if they
will.  The Bureau's put a detainer on him, so when they're through with
him here he'll go back to Florida."

"Wouldn't it be something if they sent you to get him."

"It's possible."

"Have a nice time with him on the plane-like picking up where your
interlude, or whatever you call it, left off.  And then throw him in
the can."

"He knew what he was doing," Karen said.

"Nobody forced him to rob banks.  You know the old saying, don't commit
the crime if you can't do the time."

"My little girl," her dad said, "the tough babe."