“McCorkle. The woman you met at Betty’s will be with him.”
“Uh-huh.”
“McCorkle will be parked a couple of blocks away from the mission on a side street. When that girl is brought out of the mission, both the pickup and the moving van will follow whatever car they take her in to wherever they take her. McCorkle will be following a block or two behind. You’ll be telling him where you’re going by means of the conference call.”
Padillo paused and lighted a cigarette and offered them around. Nobody took one. “When the car that has the girl arrives at wherever it’s going, you’ll wait until they take her in — I’m guessing it will be they — and come out and leave. Then McCorkle here and the woman will move up to the door—”
“You don’t know what kind of door yet?” Tulip asked.
“We don’t even know what section of town it’ll be in,” Padillo said. “But the woman and McCorkle will move up to the door of whatever it is. They’ll be looking as much as possible like new tenants who are accompanied by their movers — you four.”
“Uh-huh,” Hardman said.
“The woman will ring the bell or knock on the door or whatever. When it’s opened, you move up behind them fast because that’s when you go in.”
“They gonna let us in like that?” Nineball asked. “Just cause she asks them to?”
“She’s not gonna ask them, baby,” Hardman said. “You ain’t seen this little old gal. She’s gonna have a gun aimed right at that mother’s belly. Right, Mac?”
“Right,” I said.
“When you’re inside,” Padillo went on, “your main job will be to get Mrs. McCorkle and the girl out safely and fast.”
“You talking about that little old gal we followed there now,” Hardman said. “You ain’t talking about the one who’s handling the gun.”
“No. Mrs. McCorkle and Sylvia Underhill are the ones who have to get out fast. The other one can usually take care of herself.”
“And in this house, that we don’t know where it is, will be where the trouble is?” Johnny Jay said.
“That’s right. That’ll be the trouble.”
“Whatta we do with the women after it’s over?” Nineball asked.
“Take ’em to Betty’s,” Hardman said. “Then you hang around a while outside, make sure nobody’s comin in after em.”
Hardman looked around the room. “You got any questions, you better ask them now.” They looked back at him, their faces impassive. Hardman rose. “O.K., I’ll be in touch with you later this afternoon,” he told them. “You got things to do so you might as well get doing them.”
They got up and nodded at us as they filed out of the room. Hardman watched them leave, then turned to Padillo and me.
“They O.K.?” he asked.
“They look fine,” I said.
Padillo nodded.
“Where you gonna be, baby, while all this fun’s going on?”
“At the hotel,” Padillo said.
“You mentioned Mush yesterday.”
“He’s going to be with me — if that’s O.K.”
“Sure,” Hardman said. “I told him to expect something. You know exactly what you gonna need him for yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Uh-huh. Mush come pretty high.”
“If he’s as good as he thinks he is, I’ll pay it.”
“You wanta make your own deal with him?”
“It’s up to you. What’s your cut?”
Hardman studied the floor for a moment. “Just make the whole package fifteen thousand. I’ll take whatever’s left over.”
“Then I’ll make my own deal with Mush. I’d like to see him tonight.”
“Where at?” Hardman said.
“My hotel — he’s been there before.”
“What time about?”
“About nine.”
“He be there.”
Hardman rose from his chair and moved to the door. “You reckon this’ll about do it?”
Padillo nodded. “Keep in touch.”
“I aim to.”
“The money will be ready in the morning,” I said.
He waved his huge hand. “I’ll pick it up around noon and come by for lunch.”
“It’ll be on the house.”
Hardman laughed. “I was countin on that.” He waved goodbye and left and his 240-odd pounds seemed to shake the building as he bounded down the steps.
Padillo stared at the desk blotter until Hardman’s footsteps couldn’t be heard any more and then he said: “You trust him, huh?”
“What am I supposed to say: ‘With my life?’”
“I don’t know. We’ve been talking some awfully big money and he’s putting in an awfully small chit.”
“Maybe he’s got something else in mind.”
Padillo quit staring at the desk blotter and looked at me. “Maybe,” he said. “If he does, you’re going to have fun on Tuesday when you have to decide whether you like the way his mind works.”
Twenty-One
We drove back through the slow Sunday afternoon traffic to my apartment, where we put the car into the basement garage and took the elevator up to the floor where I lived. I rang the chimes and when there was no response I unlocked the door and opened it as far as the chain would permit.
“It’s all right, Sylvia,” I said. “You can let us in.”
I closed the door so she could take the chain off and we went in. She had cleaned things up: The pillows were fluffed, the ashtrays were empty, the dirty dishes and cups were out of sight, presumably in the dishwasher. I didn’t look, but I was sure that the beds had been made. She was earning her keep.
“How did your meetings go?” she asked.
“All right,” Padillo said. “They understand what they have to do.”
“Is it the same as we talked about?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“I would,” I said. Padillo said he would, too.
She brought two cups in and we sat in the livingroom and drank them. I had always liked Sundays in that apartment with Fredl. They were quiet, lazy days littered with The New York Times, The Washington Post, and The Washington Star and built around long, large breakfasts with endless cups of coffee. If we got up early enough, I would turn on the radio to a semi-country music station that played a full hour of uninterrupted fundamentalist hymns. Fredl got so that she could harmonize fairly well with “Farther Along” and “Wreck on the Highway.” Later, I would switch to WGMS and she would read me the cattier comments from the Washington papers’ society columns and add her own observations about those whose names were making news. On fine afternoons she sometimes would drag me out for a good German walk or, if it were raining, we might go to the Circle Theater and watch a double feature of bad old movies and eat a half-gallon of buttered popcorn. There were other variations of Sunday, equally prosaic, equally unplanned. Sometimes we just read or wandered around the National Gallery. Once in a while we would take the air-shuttle up to New York and walk around Manhattan, have a couple of drinks and early dinner, and fly back. Sundays were ours, unshared, and we had grown fond of them. I found myself not caring much for this particular Sunday. I found myself missing my wife and worrying about where she was and what she was doing and how she felt. I found myself feeling useless and futile and not overly bright.
“When do I get to hit somebody?” I asked Padillo.
“Edgy?”
“It’s growing. Maybe I should bite on a bullet.”
“There’s no cure,” he said.
“What do you do?”
“To keep from screaming?”
“Yes.”
“I make silent yells.”
“Does it help?”
“Not much.”
“It doesn’t sound as if it would.”
“But it takes a while to figure out how to do it.”