Not a week later in early May Warlock was sitting in a Lake Leelanau tavern named Dick’s Pour House. There was a lump of sadness in his throat over an unusual January memory: he had thrown a snowball at a big blue jay that had been bullying the chickadees away from the bird feeder. Warlock had knocked the blue jay into the bird version of eternity and wished he hadn’t. He turned to greet someone tapping his shoulder: it was a grease-stained mechanic smelling of gasoline and oil. The man rubbed his filthy hands through his graying hair.

“Schmidt’s the name. We’re all set up. It turns out Feingold had nothing to do with it. It was an older partner whom we’re luring up here whenever you want. Presented with the evidence it’s my bet that both he and Rabun will pony up. Their option is a five to seven and they’re both old. You owe me nine grand, including expenses.”

“You want it in cash?” said the shocked Warlock.

“Of course I want it in cash, no bigger than twenties please.”

“You sure would have me fooled.” Warlock felt a growing admiration.

“I’ve never met anyone I couldn’t fool. Even myself. Right now I got the feeling I could fix a car.”

“Let’s do it tomorrow,” Warlock said, on a sudden impulse, and wanting to be shut of everything.

“Fine by me. I’m going to have to hook you for another few grand to set up the sucker shot in style. And by the way, I wasn’t sure I should tell you this, but I’ve been tapping Rabun’s phone and he’s lunching with your wife tomorrow on a boat. Sorry.”

“Thanks a lot.” The wearing of invisible horns had to be the dreariest experience of his life.

Chapter 44

It was not so much the boredom as the cold. It was past noon in early May with the wind, a northwester, sweeping down the arm of West Bay. There was a slight chop in the marina but beyond the breakwater there were five to seven footers, full of pale green furious water and foam, sweeping straight out ahead of the crests. This was purportedly spring but the wind was from the icy reaches of Manitoba, roaring down across Lake Superior, across the pine and swamp barrens of the Upper Peninsula, across Lake Michigan, until the wind hurtled itself against the bay town of Traverse City.