"Penance for what?"
"That," said Drake with a twisted smile. "is between me and God."
"Then why pick this method of finance, if it's so personally repugnant to you? Why don't you just-"
"I do it this way because it's the only way. I'm locked in."
With a sudden, horrible sinking of despair, he realized that Drake had just explained why he had come here, why he had done everything.
"Are you all right, Mr. Dawes? You look-"
"I'm fine. I want to wish you the best of luck. Even if you're not getting anywhere. "
"I have no illusions," Drake said, and smiled. "You ought to reconsider . . . anything drastic. There are alternatives."
"Are there?" He smiled back. "Close this place now. Walk out with me and we'll go into business together. I am making a serious proposal."
"You're making sport of me."
"No," he said. "Maybe somebody is making sport of both of us." He turned away, rolling the bills into a short, tight cylinder again. The kid was still sleeping. The old man had put his cup down half empty on the table and was looking at it vacuously. He was still humming. On his way by, he stuffed the roll of bills into the old man's cup, splashing muddy coffee onto the table. He left quickly and unlocked his car at the curb, expecting Drake to follow him out and remonstrate, perhaps save him. But Drake did not, perhaps expecting him to come back in and save himself.
Instead, he got into his car and drove away.
January 14, 1974
He went downtown to the Sears store and bought an automobile battery and a pair of jumper cables. Written on the side of the battery were these words, printed in raised plastic:
DIE-HARD
He went home and put them in the front closet with the wooden crate. He thought of what would happen if the police came here with a search warrant. Guns in the garage, explosives in the living room, a large amount of cash in the kitchen. B. G. Dawes, desperate revolutionary. Secret Agent X-9, in the pay of a foreign cartel too hideous to be mentioned. He had a subscription to Reader's Digest, which was filled with such spy stories, along with an endless series of crusades, anti-smoking, anti-pornography, anti-crime. It was always more frightening when the purported spy was a suburban WASP, one of us. KGB agents in Willmette or Des Moines, passing microdots in the drugstore lending library, plotting violent overthrow of the republic at drive-in movies, eating Big Macs with one tooth hollowed out so as to contain prussic acid.
Yes, a search warrant and they would crucify him. But he was not really afraid anymore. Things seemed to have progressed beyond that point.
January 15, 1974
"Tell me what you want," Magliore said wearily.
It was sleeting outside; the afternoon was gray and sad, a day when any city bus lurching out of the gray, membranous weather, spewing up slush in all directions with its huge tires, would seem like a figment of a manic-depressive's fantasies, when the very act of living seemed slightly psycho.
"My house? My car? My wife? Anything, Dawes. Just leave me alone in my declining years."
"Look," he said, embarrassed, "I know I'm being a pest."
"He knows he's being a pest," Magliore told the walls. He raised his hands and then let them fall back to his meaty thighs. "Then why in the name of Christ don't you stop?"
"This is the last thing."
Magliore rolled his eyes. "This ought to be beautiful," he told the walls. "What is it?"
He pulled out some bills and said, "There's eighteen thousand dollars here. Three thousand would be for you. A finder's fee."
"Who do you want found?"
"A girl in Las Vegas."
"The fifteen's for her?"
"Yes. I'd like you to take it and invest it in whatever operations you run that are good to invest in. And pay her dividends. "
"Legitimate operations?"
"Whatever will pay the best dividends. I trust your judgment."
"He trusts my judgment," Magliore informed the walls. "Vegas is a big town, Mr. Dawes. A transient town."
"Don't you have connections there?"
"As a matter of fact I do. But if we're talking about some half-baked hippie girl who may have already cut out for San Francisco or Denver-"
"She goes by the name of Olivia Brenner. And I think she's still in Las Vegas. She was last working in a fast-food restaurant-"
"Of which there are at least two million in Vegas," Magliore said. "Jesus! Mary! Joseph the carpenter!"
"She has an apartment with another girl, or at least she did when I talked to her the last time. I don't know where. She's about five-eight, darkish hair, green eyes. Good figure. Twenty-one years old. Or so she says."
"And suppose I can't locate this marvelous piece of ass?"
"Invest the money and keep the dividends yourself. Call it nuisance pay."
"How do you know I won't do that anyway?"
He stood up, leaving the bills on Magliore's desk. "I guess I don't. But you have an honest face."
"Listen," Magliore said. "I don't mean to bite your ass. You're a man who's already getting his ass bitten. But I don't like this. It's like you're making me executor to your fucking last will and testament."
"Say no if you have to."
"No, no, no, you don't get it. If she's still in Vegas and going under this Olivia Brenner name I think I can find her and three grand is more than fair. It doesn't hurt me one way or the other. But you spook me, Dawes. You're really locked on course. "