Bad News

44

He isn’t in that much of a hurry,” Irwin commented. He was behind the wheel of the Voyager, Fitzroy beside him, the courier Stan in a recent red Lexus some distance ahead, southbound on the Northway.

“Then neither are we,” Fitzroy told him, smiling like a man who’s had an advance look at the test answers. Which, in a way, is exactly what he was.

Everything was about to come out right after all, and at long last. His simple but profitable scheme to produce the missing Pottaknobbee heiress had almost derailed several times, had been forced to undergo all the complications produced by Andy Kelp and Tiny Bulcher and John Whatever his name was—and their timely assistance once or twice as well, it had to be admitted—but through it all, the original concept had remained intact. The hair in Little Feather’s hand would prove her ancestry and open the casino coffers to her and to her partners. Oh, happy day.

Of course, Fitzroy had no doubt a little intimidation would be required to keep Little Feather from forgetting she had partners, but Fitzroy also knew that he and Irwin were up to whatever persuasive methods were called for. And the bozos—Irwin’s word, which Fitzroy was happy to borrow, now that they were in endgame—were about to be dealt with for good and all.

In addition to the usual sidearms that he and Irwin packed on their persons, they now had a pair of Glock machine pistols under the Voyager’s front seats, and Fitzroy firmly expected to use them before this day was done.

And with a profit attached as well. Not only would they rid themselves of all these unwelcome associates but those associates, according to Stan, had just performed a very profitable robbery. That profit would do just as nicely in Fitzroy’s pocket.

The only remaining problem that he foresaw was Irwin himself, and those blasted tapes of his. While the tapes existed, perforce Irwin must also continue to exist. Well, once the bozos were dealt with, and once Little Feather was installed as the new full partner in the casino, Fitzroy would be able to turn his attention to the problem of Irwin. He had no doubt it was a problem that would eventually be solved.

In the meantime, on this cold and su

Nearly two hours after they’d started, they came to Albany, then made the transition from the Northway to the Thruway, and shortly afterward, the Lexus began to signal for a right. “It’s a rest area,” Irwin said.

“Good,” Fitzroy commented. “I’ve been feeling for some time I could use a rest area.”

“We need gas, too,” Irwin told him. “I’ll take care of that while you’re in the gents.”

“If I can find a bottle of soda or a sweet roll,” Fitzroy offered, “without our friend Stan piping me, I shall do so.”

“Just don’t still be gone when he comes back,” Irwin said. “I’m following him if you’re here or not.”

“Oh, I’ll be back in plenty of time,” Fitzroy assured him as they followed the Lexus into the rest area and to the passenger car parking lot next to the fast-food restaurant.

Irwin dawdled while they watched Stan on his car phone in there, absorbed in what he was doing, paying no attention to the world around him. “Reporting in,” Irwin commented.

“Establishing a rendezvous,” Fitzroy concluded.

Finally, Stan, too, concluded his phone call, and emerged from the Lexus, to lock it and head for the restaurant.

“Good,” Fitzroy said, “he’s decided to have lunch.”

“You can get me a sweet roll and a bottle of soda,” Irwin said.

“I shall.”

Irwin stopped in front of the restaurant entrance long enough for Fitzroy to climb down from the Voyager, then headed on for the gas pumps while Fitzroy went into the building and followed the sign to the men’s room, which was full of skier daddies and their tiny sons. Moving through all these elbow-height people, Fitzroy entered a stall and spent some time in there, listening to the families bond outside; it sounded like an aviary.

At last, ready to leave, he took down his coat, heavy with weaponry, from the hook on the back of the door, shrugged into it, opened the door, and Tiny Bulcher stepped in, pushing Fitzroy backward so that he sat abruptly on the toilet, while the big man came on in, squeezing into the space, pushing the door closed behind him.

There really wasn’t room for both of them in here. Fitzroy was about to say so, perhaps with some vehemence, when Tiny reached out, delicately, with thumb and first finger of his right hand, like someone choosing just the one perfect grape from a bowl of grapes, and grasped hold of Fitzroy’s Adam’s apple. Fitzroy froze, eyes and mouth wide open, and Tiny leaned down to speak to him very quietly, but with impact: “John is a humanitarian,” he explained. “He says I should let you stay alive unless you irritate me. It’s more complicated that way, but I’m willing to go along with it, not have this major mess on the floor in here with all these kiddies about, if we can do it that way. You go

Fitzroy didn’t trust himself to speak. Also, his throat was in extreme pain. Instead, understanding now why Stan had taken his time on the drive south and to whom he had been communicating on his car phone, Fitzroy spastically shook his head. No, he would certainly not irritate Tiny.

“Good.” Tiny released the Adam’s apple, which went on hurting anyway. He leaned his back against the door and said, “I’ll take the coat. Might as well leave the guns in it.”

Not questioning, Fitzroy removed his bulky coat and extended it toward Tiny, who said, “Just drop it on the floor.”

“It’ll get dirty.”

“There are worse problems,” Tiny said.

So Fitzroy dropped his coat on the floor, and Tiny kicked it backward through the space under the door, where hands at once grabbed and removed it.

And Tiny said, “Now the sweater.”

“It’s terribly cold out there, Tiny,” Fitzroy reminded him.

For answer, Tiny extended that thumb and first finger again, but this time he didn’t reach for the Adam’s apple. This time, he shot a marble from Fitzroy’s forehead.

Fitzroy’s head rang like a temple gong. He took off the sweater and reached it toward Tiny, who pointed at the floor. So he dropped it on the floor, and Tiny kicked it back out of sight and said, “The shirt.”

“Tiny, what are you—”

The thumb and forefinger showed themselves. Fitzroy went to work on the shirt buttons.

Watching him, Tiny said, “What I really liked, Fitzroy, was those Glock machine pistols under the front seat. Don’t stop unbuttoning, Fitzroy.”

Unbuttoning, Fitzroy said, “You saw those? We had no intention to use them, of course.”

“I know,” Tiny said.

Feeling sudden urgency, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, where’s Irwin?”

“At the moment,” Tiny told him, “he’s wrapped in about a mile of duct tape and resting comfortably in a great big tractor-trailer full of raincoats.”

“Raincoats?”

“On their way to Oregon,” Tiny explained, “nonstop. Get there in maybe five days.”

As the shirt went under the door, Fitzroy said, “Tiny, I need Irwin.”

“I don’t,” Tiny said. “Shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Shoes.”

Fitzroy considered resistance, then unlaced his shoes. His problems were more severe than shoes. He said, “Tiny, Irwin has concealed some audiotapes that could be very incriminating for me.”

“Kick the shoes under the door.”

Fitzroy kicked the shoes under the door. “If Irwin isn’t around to take care of those tapes,” he said, “they’ll be turned over to the police.”