“It’s okay, I’m not the gabby type, and I don’t work for the company, anyway,” I said. “I have an appointment with the big guy, and ordinarily I would just butt in on him, but since I’m here to ask a favor I’ll wait in line like a good kindergartner.”

That made them laugh again. They shifted to make room for me against the hall wall. I listened as they talked about their upcoming routes. The guy in the Harley jacket was getting ready to leave for El Paso, but the others were on local runs. They talked about the Bears, who had no offense, reminded them of the team twenty-five years back, right before Ditka and McMahon gave us our one whiff of glory, but was Lovey Smith the man to bring back the McMahon-Payton era. They didn’t say anything further about the bedsheet queen or Grobian’s ambitions for the home office. Not that I needed to know, but I suppose the main reason I’m a detective is a voyeur’s interest in other people’s lives.

After a longish wait, Grobian’s door opened and a youth emerged. His reddish-brown hair, cut short in a futile effort to control his thick curls, was slicked down hard. His square face was dotted with freckles, and his cheeks still showed the soft down of adolescence, but he surveyed us with an adult seriousness. When he caught sight of the man in the Harley jacket, he smiled with such genuine pleasure that I couldn’t help smiling, too.

“Billy the Kid,” the Harley said, smacking him on the shoulder. “How’s it hanging, kid?”

“Hi, Nolan, I’m good. You heading for Texas tonight?”

“That’s right. If the great man ever gets off his duff and signs me out.”

“Great man? You mean Pat? Really, he’s just been going over the logs and he’ll be right out. I’m real sorry you had to wait so long, but, honest, he’ll be with you in a second.” The youth stepped over to me. “Are you Ms. War-sha-sky?”

He pronounced my name carefully, although not quite successfully. “I’m Billy—I said you could come in today, only Pat, Mr. Grobian, he’s not quite a hundred percent, well—he’s running late, and, uh, he may take some persuading, but he’ll see you, anyway, as soon as he gets these guys on their way.”

“Billy?” a man shouted from inside the office. “Send Nolan in—we’re ready to roll. And go collect the faxes for me.”

My heart sank: a nineteen-year-old gofer with enthusiasm but no authority had organized my meeting with the guy who had authority but no enthusiasm. “Whenever I feel dismayed, I hold my head erect,” I sang to myself.