William Bernhardt - Double Jeopardy

Mario was just trying to scare him, Kramer told himself. He just wanted Moroconi and Byrne brought in. And this was his way of ensuring that Kramer worked night and day to make that happen. Bastard.

Fine. He’d bring in Byrne. He had hoped to do it with a minimum of fuss, but since Mario was in such a goddamn hurry, he’d expedite matters. He’d continue with his main plan—tracking Byrne—but he’d put his contingency plan into action as well. One or the other was bound to produce results.

After all, Byrne might be able to hide himself. But he couldn’t hide all his friends, too.

50

8:15 P.M.

TRAVIS ASKED CAVANAUGH TO pull over to a relatively unpopulated QuikTrip.

“Sure you understood what Crescatelli told you about the blue box?” he asked.

“Well enough. But make it quick, okay?”

“I’ll do my best.” They got out of the car and walked to the phone booth. Cavanaugh closed the glass door and opened the blue box.

“This will take a few minutes,” she said, “while I line up eight or ten trunks. You stand guard.”

“I can do that.” Travis watched as she dialed an 800 number randomly chosen from the phone book. She did seem to know what she was doing, and for that he was grateful. He hadn’t absorbed enough of Crescatelli’s lecture even to feign competence. He was so absorbed in watching Cavanaugh work that he didn’t notice the woman with the poodle until she was directly under his nose.

“ ’Scuse me,” she said. “Can I get to the phone, please?”

Travis could barely make out her face—it was buried beneath layer upon layer of makeup. She was chewing gum and her hair was in curlers. Now that Travis noticed, the poodle was in curlers, too.

“I need to use the phone,” she said.

“It’s occupied.”

“There’s a three-minute limit,” she said, cracking her gum for emphasis. She pointed to a sign on the phone-booth door.

“I’m sorry,” Travis said. “This is very important.”

“So is my call! If I don’t call Maurice, he’ll cancel our appointment. Then poor Sugar Pie and I will have to wear our curlers all week.”

“Maybe there’s a phone inside you can use.”

“There isn’t. I already asked.”

“Well, I’m afraid this one is tied up.”

“This is an outrage! I shop here regularly. I’m probably their best customer.”

Travis assumed that meant she bought her cosmetics here. “Ma’am, if you’ll please go away, I’ll give you five bucks for your trouble.”

She slapped the money away. “What do I look like, a streetwalker?”

Travis decided not to comment.

“I don’t want your money. I want the phone. I have a constitutional right to use the phone. And by God, I intend to!” She pivoted on one foot, dog in tow, and stomped back into the store.

Travis saw her stop at the cash register and complain bitterly to the clerk. Just Travis’s luck—he had to run into the only woman in Dallas who thought she had a constitutional right to talk on the phone.

Cavanaugh was punching in numbers, and the red light on the blue box was still glowing. Apparently she hadn’t gotten to a line she considered sufficiently safe yet. And if they disconnected the line now, she would have to start all over again.

The woman with the poodle reemerged from the store with an extremely reluctant clerk. Thank goodness I’m wearing the sunglasses and hat, Travis thought. By now, he had probably made the tabloids, and this woman undoubtedly read them every day.

“Uh, pardon me,” the clerk said, shuffling his feet. “There’s a three-minute limit on the phone.”

“There are two of us,” Travis said, gesturing toward Cavanaugh. “So we get six minutes combined.”

“You’ve been on the phone for more than six minutes,” the clerk observed. “But actually, you get no time, because you aren’t customers, because you haven’t bought anything.”

So the clerk was a literalist. Swell. Travis searched his brain for a new tack; the situation was becoming desperate. Ridiculous, but desperate.

“Ma’am, how long has your dog had poodle herpacocci?”

The woman looked at Travis blank-faced. “Had what?”

“Poodle herpacocci. Well, the full medical name would be”—he took a deep breath—“streptocardioencephalodoggy herpacocci, but I don’t see any reason to get bogged down in a lot of Latin, do you?”

The woman appeared stricken. “You think my Sugar Pie has a disease?”

“Surely you’ve noticed.” Travis bent down beside the dog. “The bloodred eyes, the discolored toes, the waxy quality of the coat. Oh yes, it’s a clear-cut case.”

“Are you a—”

“Yes, of course. Am I to understand that this dog is not undergoing treatment?”

“Why, no—”

“My God, woman!” He glared at her accusingly. “Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have pets.”

The woman made a choking sound, her hand clasped against her throat. “Sugar Pie … if I had only known …” She cradled the dog in her arms.

“You need to get that dog to a veterinary hospital immediately, ma’am.” Travis made a snorting noise. “You’ll probably want to wait until after you make your phone call.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll go right now.” She started toward her car, then stopped. “Wait a minute. Can’t you treat him?”

“Of course not,” Travis said. “I’m using the phone.”

He stepped into the glass booth with Cavanaugh and closed the door. Confused and concerned, the woman carried her dog to her car and sped away.

A large smile playing on his lips, the clerk returned to his cash register.

“Holyfield and Associates.”

“Hello, Gail?”

“Travis! Is that you?”

“Yes. Thank goodness you’re still at the office. Now, stay calm—”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! Travis, what’s happened to you?”

Thanks for staying calm. “I’m in a lot of trouble, Gail.”

“I know! I keep reading the awful details in the newspaper.”

Great. All my sins revealed. “You really shouldn’t believe—”

“And those pictures of you and that … little girl. I had no idea you were so lonely, Travis. You know, if you had just told me …”

Travis felt his face flushing. “Gail, those pictures were trumped up. I didn’t really … you know.”

“You didn’t?” She sounded almost disappointed.

“Gail, I called to give you a message—go on vacation.”

“Vacation? I don’t think I can—”

“Gail, you haven’t taken a vacation for years. Cancun is a paradise this time of year. Go.”

“Well, I’ll have to check my bank account. …”

“Good news. Dan is paying for this one.”

“He is?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t know it yet, but he is. Even if it has to come out of my salary. “Think of this as an assignment, Gail. Be out of town before sunrise.”

“But why ?”

“I don’t want to go into it on the phone, but it’s best for all concerned. Trust me.”

She paused. “All right. I’ll go.”

Thank you. He was glad to be spared the explanations. “Now connect me with Dan.”

“I don’t know if he’s free—”

“Tell him his favorite fugitive is on the line. I think he’ll take the call.”

“All right, hold on.”

A few seconds later he heard: “Travis? Where the hell are you?”

“It’s best we don’t go into that. …”

“What do you think you’re doing, running all over the city, leaving a trail of dead bodies?”

“I’m sorry if I’ve created any inconvenience—”

“ Inconvenience ? I’ve spent the last two days fielding phone calls about you! My God, I’ve never dealt with a disaster of this proportion. My firm has never been linked with organized crime or … prostitution! And they say you’ve killed some men, Travis.”