I asked who. Didn't know his name, beyond Terry. They described him as about twenty-five through thirty, nearly six feet, and with "nice buns."
"That'll look good on a police report." It had to be Terry Waterman. The only guy I could think of in the county with a strong ass.
"Be creative," said Nancy. "Anyway…"
Terry found out that Shamrock was with the media. Trying to impress her, he said something on the order of "I just might have a scoop for you…"
"And I go, 'Oh, right,' like that," said Shamrock. "And he goes, 'No really, there's something big going down on Sunday.' And I go, 'Oh, sure.'"
She must have said it sweetly, because, as the evening wore on, he got more specific. Apparently, with both details and proposals. After the second time she refused to go home with him, he really turned on the charm.
"So he goes, 'You want to cover a bank job, sweet lady?' and I go, 'Maybe.' So he goes-" and she lowered her voice about two octaves- "'This is gonna be a record breaker. Five hits at the same time. Five. All close.'"
Five. There was the magic number again. And all close.
"No shit?" I took another slug of pop. "What else?"
Nothing. She'd still refused to sleep with him. So he got angry, called her a "media tease," and left.
Shamrock was laughing so hard she almost fell off the chair. "Mmmedia teeeasse!"
I was glad to see the local boys were still as adroit as ever. I laughed, too, but it wasn't easy. Five. Five.
When the gaiety subsided a bit, I pressed. "You sure it was five?"
"It was," said Nancy. "Five hits, and all close together. That's what he said."
I excused myself, and went to the phone. Fascinating. I called the office, and got George and Sally looking for information on Waterman.
When I returned to the table, I popped the question. "So, what would you like in return? I suspect this little dinner isn't going to cover it."
As it happened, Nancy had a plan. All I had to do was tell her where the hits were going down, and they'd just "happen" to be in the area. Might even get a shot or two of the thing in progress. Scoop of the century. Hint, hint.
Or, as Shamrock put it, "That could make my whole career. Honest." The eyes had it, so to speak.
"Look, you two. I only have fair information on one location. I'll give you what I have, but you gotta promise to stay back where you won't get into trouble." I shrugged. "If it actually goes down. I'm not going to promise anything more than a fifty percent chance at this point."
Of course they would. Went without saying. Nancy I could really believe, as she'd been in the crap before, and wanted no more. I felt I could rely on her to keep Shamrock from getting carried away.
I took a deep breath, and let it out very slowly. "Right. Okay, look, sometime on Sunday, we think there may, and I emphasize may, be a hit on the bank in Frieberg."
"No shit! This Sunday?" Nancy was genuinely excited. It dawned on me that they hadn't had any idea of the reality of the bank hits until I'd confirmed it. They'd been guessing. Maybe "hoping" would be a better word. But they obviously hadn't expected anything so soon.
"Yeah," I said, "tomorrow. Don't make me sorry I told you…"
"No, no. But that's the little bank just up the street from the Beauregard, isn't it?"
"Yep."
"Fantastic," said Nancy. "You can see it from the boat. We'll be able to do a phony shoot from the boat, and pick up the bank really good…"
"How far to the bank?" said Shamrock.
"Eight hundred feet? Right, Carl?"
"About."
"Great! I've got a five hundred millimeter Schmitt-Cass in the car…" Shamrock, I thought, was going to be happy with this arrangement. Good. I didn't want either of them getting in close.
"What time?" asked Nancy.
"For the hit? Don't know. Sunday is all I have."
"You trying to tell me that you guys are going to set up on it, full force, for twenty-four hours?"
"Yeah."
"Good Lord, Carl," she said. "You really like these marathon things, or you just have bad intel?"
"I'm just in this for the food. You decide." I smiled. "Look, if you two get any more, let me know. But for Christ's sake, don't breathe a word of this to anybody else."
"You mean, like, the competition? Get real." Shamrock had that eager look about her. "They can buy my frames, man. Big bucks. Big, big bucks."
"Take a deep breath, dear," said Nancy.
Shamrock stuck out her hand. "Thank you, Carl. I mean it."
I shook her hand, a little surprised. "Hey, it's nothing definite. Just a chance, here."
"Oh, no," she said. "That dude Terry really wanted it, last night. He didn't lie."
"We'll talk about evaluation as we get ready," said Nancy. "Lust makes guys stupid, but it doesn't make 'em tell the truth." She laughed. "He was just stupid enough to let it slip."
Because we were to be on duty for twenty-four hours straight, I tried to catnap after Nancy and Shamrock left. Right. Like I could just go to sleep. I did try. Sat there, watching TV. Dozed once, I think. Not for more than forty-five minutes.
I kept the Weather Channel on and saw that my favorite blue and pink segmented worm of a jet stream was making progress. Tomorrow would be much warmer. A real, sudden "January thaw," in all its glory.
That was Iowa, for you. In eighteen hours, the temperature could change fifty degrees or better. Much better, in this case. It looked like we'd hit thirty degrees by 3 A.M., and go up from there.
God bless warm fronts. If we were going to have to be outside for any period of time, warm was so much better…
When I got back to the office a little after 2200, they gave me everything I'd requested on Terry Waterman. I would have liked to haul him in, but good sense prevailed. After Sunday, either way, Terry would pay us a visit. Beforehand would just tip people off. With his inadvertent contribution, however, the estimates on Sunday actually happening went nicely past the fifty-fifty level.
The main control point was designated as Hester's DCI office at the General Beauregard pavilion, in Frieberg. It was just about on top of the main target bank, it was well equipped with communications devices, it had its own teletype and fax, and it was warm and comfortable with many creature comforts. I came drifting in about 2230, having picked up Sally at Volont's request. He wanted a top-notch dispatcher with us. Hard to argue.
When we arrived, we established Sally with the radios, and a good land line to the Nation County Sheriffs Department, and to the Conception County Sheriff's Department across the river. Both were to be contacted on special phone numbers which were not to be used for routine calls until further notification.
She had the base station portion of the FBI scrambled radios, and a small base set with local police, fire, and ambulance frequencies. She was all set.
I picked up the scrambled walkie-talkie I'd been given. FBI issue. Looked a bit older than I'd expected. Almost as old as my new one for the Sheriffs Department. "What's the range on these?"
"Couple of miles, line of sight," said George, clipping his inside his jacket.
"Totally secure?"
"Absolutely. Programmed to a different code every time, downloaded before each operation. No duplicates. You can even say 'fuck' on these and the FCC won't ever know." He grinned broadly.
I was sorely tempted, but decided not to push my luck. I've always hated being first.
I don't know if you've ever noticed this, but in a law enforcement crisis situation, there are cops at two general locations. One is for management, and it always has the same general features: warm, dry, and a place to take a leak. The other is for the nonmanagement folks at the pointy end, and tends to be cold, wet, and a mile from relief. It's just the way of things, I guess. There's an added dimension with long-term situations. Management always manages to find chairs and couches. The pointy end gets to stand in the rain, or lie in the snow. As we were setting things up in Hester's office, I thought about that.