The techies had the laptop up and running, the cursor blinking on a line that awaited the necessary password. Daphne rushed up to Boldt. "You're doing great," she said. "Tell him to write down exactly what steps to take and that Deloris will try to get it running. You're going to have to convince him that under no conditions will you allow him or any client to work the machine. No exceptions."
"No exceptions," Bolt repeated, his system feeling overloaded. "Now I know why people smoke," Boldt said, looking over at the nervous owner. He walked back into the main room.
One of the guys working undercover shouted, "You guys all on fucking vacation or what? I want some fucking service."
Maria turned to him, "I got some friends who are in the fucking service, honey, if you're serious. But they ain't cheap."
"Up yours," he said. "That's the general idea, in case you're new to it. She returned her attention to Lamoia and went through the act of selling him her "stones."
Boldt was so entertained by this-so surprised at how convincing his people were-that the suspect had to shout over at him to get his attention. "So?" it worked in Boldt's favor.
Meyers launched into a dreadful rendition of "Purple Haze," badly out of tune. A woman with kitchen brooms for eyelashes entered through the front door . inspecting her nails. Her facial skin looked like old boot leather.
Boldt worried about her. He didn't want any civilians in here just now. She might realize that he and Lamoia were new faces. Boldt went into the back room again and told the owner to put one of his people out front. The owner agreed. The new person handled the woman.
Boldt hurried back to the suspect who was clearly losing patience. To Meyers, the would-be jim! Hendrix, he shouted, "You gonna buy that thing? This ain't rehearsal space!" To the suspect he said impatiently, "I gotta have two forms of picture I.D. from you, and you gotta write down how I do this password thing."
"I can do it for you."
"No fuckin' way. Do you read?
Do you listen? We got state rules, and we got our own rules here, you understand? And I don't got all day, neither, so move it or lose it." He pushed a piece of paper in front of him. To one of the undercovers he shouted, "How can I help you?" in no mood to wait around for the suspect. As he stepped over to help this "customer," the suspect said, "I'm with you!" He fished for his wallet. "But I only have one picture I.D."
Boldt wanted that wallet so badly, wanted this man's name so badly that he felt like diving across the counter to get at it. Instead he had to sound uninterested. "I'm not gonna do this computer shit twice, pal, so make the directions simple. Understand? Far as I'm concerned, you can come back after the grace period. Guys like you are a real pain in the ass."
The suspect slid him his open wallet. Boldt hadn't realized how hard it would be to suppress his exhilaration. He felt high. Donald Maybeck, he scribbled out, taking down the name, address and pertinent data. This had to be the rush that poker players felt. "I gotta have a second I.D. of some sort, Mr. Maybeck," he said. "You got a credit card ... something like that?" Boldt had to bite his lip so he wouldn't smile. By the end of the day, he felt like telling the man, I'll know more about you than your mother does.
He owned a Shell Oil credit card. Name: Donald Monroe Maybeck.
I'll have your full credit history taxes, debts, income. You just became public property
It took everything in his cop's brain to slide the wallet back across the counter without searching the rest of its contents. He couldn't allow even the slightest indication of pleasure to cross his face. He drummed up annoyance-this asshole was keeping him from his wife and kid-and moved down the counter to the waiting "customer" while Maybeck wrote out the computer instructions. The temptation to burst into a victory smile proved incredibly difficult to resist. Finally, he faked a sneeze in order to look away. He took a deep breath, regained some composure, and returned his attention to the undercover cop.
Meyers shouted from the floor: "Hey, fatman, I'll give you two bills for the guitar and the amp."
Boldt shouted back, "Wait your turn." Lamoia called out, "Hey, dick-for-brains, watch who you're calling fat. Put the guitar down and get the fuck out of this store. Now!"
"Eat shit!" Meyers called back. He turned the thing up loud and hit an ear-blistering chord.
Maria marched over to him. He stood up bravely. She planted her hand into his crotch and squeezed strongly. "You're hurting my ears, Beethoven. You want to trade hurts?" She squeezed again.
Boldt was distracted as well. The entire store was distracted.
"Out!" Lamoia shouted. Meyers left, red in the face-which wasn't all an act.
Okay," Maybeck called out to Boldt, waving the instructions at him. Boldt was thinking that had they brought this guy into interrogation and requested the password, he never would have volunteered it. Now, here he was waving it at Boldt like granny with her flag at a Fourth of July parade. Take it! he seemed to be saying. Each step closer Boldt drew to that piece of paper, his heart beat a little quicker. Finally, his fingers took hold. To his surprise, Maybeck refused to let go. They stood face to face, eye to eye. There was nothing in this guy's eyes-like looking down into a dark cellar. Maybeck's breath was foul; again Boldt recalled the comments of Sharon's housemate. It was the same guy the one who had dragged Sharon from the room; Boldt felt certain of it. He wanted to take the guy by the neck and choke him down. He wanted to hurt him.
Still holding the instructions-the password maybeck said, "You get the thing running, then I can buy it back for what you paid me, right?"
"Right."
"You'll look that up. You're being square with me. Right?" Could he sense Boldt's anger? No, it was the silence. The room had gone still. Boldt looked up a fraction of a second before the suspect. He saw Lamoia first, whose panicked eyes gave Boldt a sinking feeling in his gut.
And then he saw the uniform. A patrolman-a beat cop doing his job-had wandered into the pawn shop. Chances are he knew at least some of these undercover people by name. It had shut everybody up instantly. Maybeck went white as a sheet. Seeing this, Boldt improvised. He said strongly, but not loudly, "You've got no problem with the police, do you? We don't do business with people involved with the cops." He wanted to sound as if he were protecting himself. Being selfish. All-american. "Not me," Maybeck replied. "I'm cool." He looked terrified.
Lamoia crossed through the counter. "Officer Barnes! We're all out of Uzis this week."
Maria Romanello laughed and started mouthing off at the cop who, looking around, stood dumbstruck. He must have realized that he had walked into a sting, and now he wasn't sure how to act.
Boldt kept one eye on the cop. Maybeck kept one eye on the cop.
Lamoia said to Barnes, "I got a hell of a nice car stereo you might like." He led him over to the counter. Smooth as silk, he leaned in and whispered something when Maybeck's head was turned.
In a frightened but contained voice, Maybeck said to Boldt, "I'll be back later to pick it up." He turned.
Boldt caught him by the arm. He held on tightly. "Suit yourself, asshole. But I'm not wasting anybody's time on this unless you're here."
Maybeck glanced down at the way Boldt was holding onto him. Only then did Boldt realize that he was wearing his police academy ring. He never did this kind of undercover work, had never even considered taking his ring off. But now it glared back at him like a neon sign. He released the man immediately. Had he seen the ring? Had Boldt blown the entire setup? Had he sacrificed Sharon Shaffer?
The patrolman said goodbye to Lamoia and left the building.