“Will you be up for drinks later? We’ll do it at my father’s place this time.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight. But tomorrow definitely.”

Jack watched her and Oyv enter the leafy interior of her house, then, feeling sad and angry and helpless, he turned away.

9

Jack had lounged around with his father, dodging questions about the toys and the shell until his father nodded off in his recliner. An afternoon nap—one of the great pleasures in life. But Jack couldn’t indulge today. He had to wait for word from Semelee.

But that wasn’t the only matter on his afternoon schedule.

He stepped into his father’s bedroom and dialed Ramsey Weldon’s office. He learned from the receptionist that Mr. Weldon was on another line. Would he care to leave a message?

“No. When can I call back?”

“Well, he’ll probably be leaving in a half hour or so.”

Jack thanked her, hung up, then went out to his car.

The duct tape he’d bought earlier sat on the front seat in a flimsy white plastic bag emblazoned with the Novaton Hardware logo. He snatched it up, bag and all. As he was closing the door he spotted an envelope on the floor by the passenger seat. He picked it up and checked the contents.

Carl’s five hundred dollars.

He’d trusted Jack enough to leave it in the car for safekeeping. He’d also trusted Jack to bring him back.

“I’ve got your damn shell,” Jack said aloud. “I’m ready to trade.”

He glanced at his watch. Couldn’t wait around here any longer. He set off on a stroll toward the administration building.

This time he could walk in the open and say hello to passers-by instead of ducking into the bushes every time someone approached. When he reached the parking lot, his heart gave a kick when he didn’t see Weldon’s Crown Imperial, but eased back when he spotted a ‘57 DeSoto in Weldon’s space. This guy had some neat cars.

Jack strolled over to it. A four-door Firedome with a glossy turquoise body, white roof and side panels, big chrome bumpers, whitewall tires, and those fins—humongous wedge-shaped projections, each fitted with a vertical row of three rocketlike red lights that made the car look like a spaceship. Jack peered inside. White-and-turquoise upholstery and a dash-mounted rearview mirror.

What was wrong with Detroit—or Japan or Germany, for that matter? Why the hell didn’t they make cars like this anymore?

He hung around the DeSoto, studying it from every angle for what seemed like forever before Weldon showed up. He wore a pale beige silk suit today, so pale it was almost white.

“Another beauty, Mr. Weldon,” he said.

Weldon grinned. “Tom’s son, right? Jack?”

“You’ve got a good memory.”

“And you’ve got excellent taste in cars. How’s your father?”

“Doing great. He came home yesterday.”