■■■

Back at the hotel, I guzzled a bottle of the five-dollar water because there wasn’t any whiskey, and stared into my bloodshot eyes in the mirror. My expression was the same as after waking from a three-day bender. I showered with the spray set to strip paint and replayed the events of the day so far. Ventriloquism may as well be black magic to me. I questioned the scraps I did know. When a ventriloquist throws his voice, are you supposed to feel his breath in your ear?

Standing in the center of the suite, towel wrapped around my waist, slowly coming down from the extreme emotions of the past hour, I contemplated heeding Mandibole’s advice to get out of Dodge. For a bit of perspective, I signed into my bank account and studied the figures, particularly the pending transfer of Adeyemi’s second retainer installment. An eye-watering sum. Adeyemi was moderately comfortable, however by no means wealthy. This financial outlay represented a hell of a noble gesture toward his sister and dead nephew. It irritated me to consider, not for the first time, that the black-hearted sonofabitch secretly hoarded one or two human emotions. I prefer my bad guys to stay in character. They’re easier to sort.

I lingered over the sum, calculating how many outstanding bills it would erase versus the very real chance I’d have to go head-to-head with that Horseheads crowd sooner or later.

To paraphrase Beckett, I can’t go on. For this kind of dough, I’ll go on. Money, yes, money. Also, the fuck-you factor.

Changing clothes, I cleaned out my pockets. The Magician’s bone dropped onto the carpet.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A quarter past eight on Tuesday morning, Lionel walked in and joined my table at the Plowman’s Diner. That didn’t surprise me much. Lionel adhered to strict routines, yet was capable of deviating from the script in surprising fashion. Ezra Bellow, special agent, FBI, slid in beside him. That was unexpected. Lionel wore his safari hat, thrashed camouflage jacket, holey jeans, and Red Wing shoes. He was plainly hungover. Bellow, African American, late fifties, and solemn as a portrait of doomed royalty, wore a gray hoodie and cargo pants tucked into winter boots. Both were carrying.

Bellow operated out of Maryland and DC, although he went where the job took him. Extraneous circumstances, and his unorthodox philosophy, had led to our occasional collaboration. I’d begun to consider us friends. Granted, a former mob enforcer and an upright, uptight Eliot Ness–loving man of the law made for an odd couple. I harbored the suspicion that Bellow was as close to incorruptible as a cop gets. If a tiny grain of that rubbed off on me, all to the good.

I finished my plate of scrambled eggs while the waitress poured coffee. Lionel sipped and grimaced. He covered his face with both hands, hunched forward, and sat that way. Bellow asked for a menu. He unclipped a set of reading glasses and pushed them onto his nose. He scanned the menu like he was proofreading a deposition and eventually ordered eggs, hash, toast, and a glass of OJ. I resisted the urge to ask where he got the specs. I wasn’t there yet.