“Don’t have to. You apply for a new license, you turn in the Mass license. It’s just to get bona fides on your applications. You did all this before, Fred.”

“It’s been eight years. I’d forgotten a lot of this.”

“It’ll come back to you.” Bradleigh lit a cigarette. “Think about it, let me know what you both decide. And incidentally I think you both ought to change your appearance. Jan, try a short haircut. Fred, I’d do a crew cut for a while and get one of those compounds that cover gray. You might think about growing a moustache.”

2

They brought him a typewriter and he sent brief letters to each of his clients. After lunch Caruso, a man whose face Mathieson always had trouble remembering, drove him several miles to a shopping center in Santa Monica. Mathieson changed ten dollars into coins in a bank; he made his calls from an outdoor phone booth while Caruso sat in the car keeping watch.

His first call was to Phil Adler. “Do you still want to buy me out?”

“Well naturally I’ll do whatever you want, Fred, but I’m sure right now you don’t want to have to be thinking about——”

“Is the offer open or not?”

“Well, you know, of course it is.”

“Draw up the papers. I’ll take whatever you think’s fair. A man named Bradleigh will conclude the deal with you, he’s got my power of attorney, he’ll be in touch with you in a few days to clean out my office and take care of the details.”

He finally got off the line and made the rest of his calls—the lawyers, the bank, his good-bye calls. Most of them had seen the news on TV or in the papers; he tried to keep his answers short and fend off their sympathies.

Finally he called the Gilfillans. Amy answered the phone. “Wait, I’ll get the string bean and put him on the extension.”

In a minute they were both on the wire. Roger said, “How’re they hangin’, partner?”

“We’ve got to clear out, I’m afraid.”

“I know. No forwarding addresses, I reckon.”

Amy said, “Billy’s going to miss Ronny.”

“It’s worse on the kids than anybody else.”

“Like some kind of fuckin’ divorce,” Roger said. “Listen, there’s some clown hanging around up at your place. About your size and he’s wearing that red and yellow sport shirt of yours.”

“Must be one of the government people,” Mathieson said.

“I told him it was a dumb thing to do, making himself a target like that. Man said, ‘That’s my job, sir.’ Just like one of them brave heroes in the movies. Stupid fuckin’ idiot.”

Amy said, “Fred, you and Jan and that boy take real good care of yourselves, hear?” Her voice broke; he heard the click when she hung up her extension.

Roger said, “I hope all your trails keep downslope with the wind at your back, old-timer.”

“Maybe one of these days we’ll come back.”

“Yeah.”

“At least I’ll see you in the movies.”

“You do that.”

“Christ this is a pain in the ass.”

“Just look after that good family you got, Fred.”

“So long, Roger.” When he hung up he couldn’t stop the tears.

3

Bradleigh woke him up, banging on the motel room door. Mathieson crawled out of bed, glanced at Ronny on the cot and went to the door. When the three-and-three knock repeated itself he opened up.

“Come next door a minute.” Bradleigh talked in a whisper.

He locked the door and carried the key with him, padding along the galleried porch in his pajamas. It was still dark.

When he entered the room Caruso gave him a tired nod. The bed was made; nobody had slept in there. Bradleigh closed the door and handed Mathieson a styrofoam cup of coffee.

He stumbled to the chair with it. “Thanks. I need it.”

“A little hung?”

“You could say that.” He’d thrown the empty vodka bottle in the wastebasket; it was the last thing he remembered.

“I had a call from Washington. They’ve found the leak. I thought you wouldn’t mind being rousted early for that bit of news.”

“Uh-huh. Time’s it, anyway?”

“Quarter to five.”

“Jesus Christ don’t you guys ever sleep?”

“When we have time to. It’s one of the secretaries in our office. They were blackmailing her—never mind for what. Ever heard the name C. K. Gillespie—a lawyer in Washington?”

“No. Gillespie? No. You mean he was blackmailing her and he was stupid enough to tell her his name?”

“No. She was smart enough to follow him after one of their meetings. She took down his license number.”

“He’s a lawyer? Then it’s a dead end. He’ll plead confidential privilege.”

“He doesn’t know we’re onto him. We’re keeping the woman on ice. We’re going to bug Gillespie every way from Sunday. Phones, office, apartment, car, even his clothes. After a while he’ll realize she’s disappeared—then we’re hoping he’ll panic and start calling people.”

“This wiretapping and bugging. Is it legal?”

“Warrants from the Circuit Court, sure. We want them airtight, we’re not going to fuck around with illegal taps.”

“She’s the one who fingered me to this Gillespie?”

“And Benson and John Fusco and Draper. All four of you. We’ve got the other three under cover, we’re relocating them all. Incidentally it looks like Benson’s going to make it all right. But don’t worry about C. K. Gillespie, he’s a drop in the bucket.” The smell of Bradleigh’s cigarette was slightly nauseating. “We may have a chance at the whole megillah this time, Fred. All we need is a few breaks. If we can get enough on Gillespie we can make a deal with him and maybe bring the whole structure toppling down.”

“Immunity from prosecution and a new identity if he’ll blow the whistle on Pastor and Ezio Martin and the rest of them. That’s the ‘deal’?”

“Sure.”

“So Gillespie set us up, and he ends up going scot-free.”

“Come on, Fred, be sensible. He’ll lose his law practice, that’s for openers. I told you, forget him. He doesn’t matter; he’s the smallest potato in the sack.” Bradleigh picked up an ashtray; he kept his feet, holding the ashtray left-handed like a guest at a cocktail party. “Given any thought to where you want to go? Discussed it with Jan and Ronny any?”

“Ronny’s all for doing a Swiss Family Robinson somewhere in the South Pacific.”

“That what you want?”

“No. I’d go nuts if I didn’t have people around me who talked the same language.”

“So?”

“We’ve talked. I realize you want the decision fast but we’re talking about the rest of our lives, Glenn. I’ll let you know as soon as I can—we’re not crazy about motel rooms either.” He threw the empty styrofoam cup at the wastebasket, missed, ignored it and leaned back in the chair. “Got any aspirin?”

Caruso went toward the bathroom.

Bradleigh said gently, “Scared, aren’t you.”

“Sure I am. They found us—they can do it again. I don’t really care how they did it, Glenn. I don’t care if you’ve plugged this leak. They can find another one. That’s what gives me nightmares.”

“No more leaks.”

“Suppose my kid had gone home to get his baseball bat or any damn thing. Suppose he’d been in the house when they threw the bomb.”

“It’s no good supposing. He didn’t. Nobody was home. They tried Benson and they tried you and they came up losers on both. Mobsters aren’t supermen, you know. They get power by keeping people afraid, but take away the guns and they’ll never last a day in the real world.”

“They may not be mental giants but they frighten the hell out of me.” Mathieson took the aspirin with the glass of water Caruso gave him. He rubbed his eyes; they’d be bloodshot all day.

Bradleigh said with unusual heat, “It’s a crazy mythology we’ve created about the mob. The cold professionals, the never-miss hit men. All they know is triggers and bombs. More often than not they can’t even handle the simplest job without screwing it up. Look at you. Look at Benson. Benson’s off the critical list, incidentally. About the worst they did to him was inconvenience him.”