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Co
He took another nap.
He awoke, fixed a meal, and drank a warm beer. He watched the sun go down and finally decided he couldn’t sit on the Electric Je
He thought about Professor Dan and his big house and Tyra
He lowered the inflatable dinghy into the water, checked the ridiculously small gas tank on the putt-putt outboard. Half a tank. He climbed into the dinghy, pants rolled and shoes around his neck again. He’d put on the tuxedo jacket. The outfit somehow didn’t feel complete otherwise.
The outboard coughed and spit but finally turned over after a dozen yanks on the cord. He pointed the dinghy upriver and opened up the throttle. The outboard sounded like a Volkswagen on crystal meth. It was slow going. Paddling would almost have been as fast. At least Co
Joellen Becker had told him Teddy Folger had something that wasn’t his. Something hidden and valuable. Co
When he got within a hundred yards of Folger’s bungalow, he killed the engine. He paddled the rest of the way and tied up where the Je
Back aboard the sailboat, Co
He heaved himself over the wall and put on his socks and shoes. Co
The front door was locked. Around back, one of the sliding glass doors slid open quietly. He went in, closed the door behind him. At first, he thought the house smelled only stale, stuffy, but somewhere there was a stink. A bad one.
He moved through the small house, into the kitchen. Bloodstains on the tile floor and an overturned chair corresponded with what Co
Co
The smell came from a dead body. Teddy Folger spread eagle on the double bed, naked, bloated and gray, skin slack. He had a bloody plastic bag over his head. Co
“Not a pretty sight, is he?”
Co
“Yup.”
“You scared the hell out of me.”
“What’s with the tux?”
Co
“I told you I was looking for Folger.” Becker lifted her chin at the corpse on the bed. “I think that’s him.”
“It is.”
“How do you know?”
Because I saw some ninja dudes punch him raw. “It’s Folger’s house. I just figured.”
“Right.”
Co
“I think we’d better talk,” Becker said.
“We are talking. Aren’t you enjoying it?”
“Cut the shit,” she said. “Maybe we can help each other.”
“I’m still trying to repossess the sailboat,” Co
“You’re a bad liar. Try again.”
Co
“If you’re still looking for the boat, then why did you go see James?”
Oh, yeah. All those lies he’d told her last time. He’d forgotten. Co
“Chill out, Samson,” she said. “I’m not going to do anything to you.”
“I’m chilled. No worries here.” He kept edging toward the door.
“You mentioned two thousand dollars.” She paused long enough to light a cigarette, the lighter flame bathing her face momentarily in hellish orange. “I suppose that can be arranged.”
Co
22
Becker puffed her cigarette, knew she now had Samson’s attention. Almost everyone understood threats and money. The threats might become necessary later. Hopefully not.
“Let’s talk in the other room,” she suggested. “It stinks in here.”
Samson nodded, backed into the living room, keeping an eye on her. He was so wary. Again she sized him up. She could see the indecision and caution in his posture. He was acutely aware of his own ineptitude, a man smart enough to know he was in over his head. She made him nervous. Then again, Joellen Becker made a lot of people nervous. They’d taught her that at the Agency, how to make a man squirm with a cold stare. How to intimidate with a glance.
She followed him out, sat on the sofa, stubbed out her cigarette in a candy dish full of Hershey’s Kisses. Co
“I’m going to level with you,” she said.
“Okay.”
“It’s a pretty good story. You might want to get comfortable.”
“I’m good.” Co
“You know what Teddy Folger did for a living, right?”
Co
“I work for the insurance company that paid the claim after the fire,” Becker said. “Folger reported that something very valuable had burned in the fire. It didn’t burn. He collected the money but still has this thing hidden.”
“That’s why you said it was something that doesn’t belong to him,” Co
“A one-of-a-kind, autographed baseball card.”
“This is about a baseball card? Are you shitting me?”
“I don’t have time to shit anybody, Samson.”
Co
“I’ve searched Folger’s house and this bungalow. No dice. If he was pla