Yeah, they’d really hit it off.

The cheeseburgers arrived with a basket of greasy potato chips, delivered by the bartender, who looked irritated about it. The burger was almost as thin as the slice of cheap cheese on it, but I started eating the thing anyway—my stomach had been empty since I puked earlier.

Steve took a bite of the burger, chewed, swallowed, then said, “So did she get away all right? To the airport? Sandy?”

“She got in a cab with a guy I know,” Hagan said. “Another Ace driver. Dependable. She’ll be fine.”

That was a fairly skillful lie—Sandy had gotten in a cab with another cabbie, all right; but wasn’t going to the airport unless it was the one in St. Joseph, Missouri.

“I miss her,” Steve said again. “I was too tired last night to do right by her, but I could use some, you know, companionship of the female variety. You think you could fix me up with another girl tonight, Johnny? I don’t wanna spend the night by myself. I get lonesome. Or is the Town House too high class for that?”

“I can find somebody,” Hagan said. “I know some girls who work the big hotels. Wised-up broads who know their way around.”

“Good. I like nice girls, remember.”

I knew all about that. I’d met Bonnie.

I ate about half of my burger, and Hagan wolfed his down, although Steve took only that one bite. He finished the second beer before saying, “If I’m gonna have myself a big date tonight, I can’t be looking like a bum when a guy like you all spiffed up is making the introductions. You know anyplace around here I can get some decent things myself?”

The cabbie shrugged. “There’s a Famous-Barr department store in Clayton.”

“Where’s Clayton?”

“Just another suburb, not far.”

In the small parking lot, dusk now, the green two-tone Plymouth waited; mud was on its tires and fender.

Where had Carl/Steve been this afternoon?

He told Hagan to drive—“I don’t have a license, why take chances?”—and I got in the back. Propped against the seat next to me was a shovel. The hair on the back of my neck prickled again.

Steve got in front and Hagan started up the car.

I said, “What’s the shovel for, Steve?”

“Oh, sorry. I was gonna bury something and changed my mind. No room in the trunk. My metal suitcases are still in there. Hey! Get a load of that.”

He had spotted my loaner Caddy in the lot nearby. He’d not seen me driving it—did he recognize it from the ransom drop two nights ago?

If he did, he made no mention of it. Instead he said, “Johnny boy, we’ll all be swimmin’ in Cadillacs before long. Drivin’ ’em right down the middle of Easy Street.”

I said, “That’s my ride.”

He turned and looked at me in the back sitting next to the shovel. “You Outfit guys travel right.”

“Well, we don’t go Second Class.”