The man then put on the carrier and put the teddy bear on his chest.

“To the table,” he said. “Go.”

I returned to the front of the diner and walked over to the Sikh table as instructed. Sill sat next to me. His turban fit better than mine. In fact, he looked rather handsome with it cocked slightly to the side.

Rick James came from the washroom, went over and sat at our original table, started eating my breakfast. We sat with the men and drank coffee for a few minutes. The waitress noticed the change and was clearly confused, but she said nothing.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Sikh and ye shall find,” Sill said.

The men laughed. They laughed like they were paid to laugh.

I looked at the two men across from me. “My name is Wala,” I told them.

They looked at each other, then one said, “Pleased to meet you, Wala. I’m Otis Redding and this here is Barry White.”

“Are you also in the villainy business?” I asked.

They looked to Sill and then Otis Redding said, “We’re just out enjoying the morning. A stroll by the canal before going to work.”

Sill looked at his watch. “Gentlemen.”

“Yes.”

“Dog’s a go,” Otis Redding said to Sill.

“Let’s do it,” Sill said.

Then we all, turbaned men, got up and walked out of the diner and crossed the rather empty street, walked right past the baby-blue sedan. Neither Clinton nor Mitchell gave us even a passing glance. We walked up the hill to M Street. The Sikhs peeled off, walking west, and Sill and I got into a waiting east-pointing limousine. The Mercedes was driven by a woman who never looked back. She said only one thing: “Buckle up, gentlemen. This will be a short ride with no turns.”

Sill laughed.

The ride was indeed short and straight.

4

The limo driver delivered us, not surprisingly, safely at the front entrance of the Four Seasons hotel, as if we were any other guests being dropped off, as if we had no reason to concern ourselves with being seen, as if we wanted to be seen. We walked in with parking valets and bell captains flashing smiles and saying, Good morning, Mr. Sill, How’s it going, Mr. Sill, and ’Sup Sill from a tattooed young window washer.

“Is this what’s known as hiding in plain sight?” I asked.

Sill pulled a couple of black key cards from his shirt breast pocket. “Room 666, your room. Funny, right?”

I faked a laugh, as if I was paid. “I get it.”

“Sarcasm,” he said. “I didn’t know you were capable of sarcasm. But you are, aren’t you. It’s not a good look. And this other key. Be careful, it looks just like the other one. This is to room 667. Eigen is in there.” He looked at his watch. “Or she’s in yoga class. Or possibly swimming.”

“Okay.”

“Anyway. There are clothes in your room for you. Meet you down here in the Bourbon Steak at one for lunch.”