One of the plainclothesmen lifted a walkie-talkie to his mouth and spoke into it. He just came out in Darnell’s car. You guys stay on your toes.”

They followed the Chrysler to I-76. When they saw Arnie get on the eastbound ramp with its Harrisburg sign, they turned up the westbound ramp, toward Ohio, and reported. They would get off I-76 one exit down the line and return to their original position near Darnell’s Garage.

“Okay Junkins voice came back let’s make an omelette.”

Twenty minutes later, as Arnie was cruising east at a sedate and legal 50, three cops with all the right paperwork in hand knocked on the door of William Upshaw, who lived in the very much upscale suburb of Sewickley. Upshaw answered the door in his bathrobe. From behind came the cartoon squawks of Saturday-morning TV.

“Who is it, honey?” his wife called from the kitchen.

Upshaw looked at the papers, which were court orders and felt that he might faint. One ordered that all of Upshaw’s tax records relating to Will Darnell (an individual) and Will Darnell (a corporation) be impounded. These papers bore the signature of the Pennsylvania Attorney General and a Superior Court judge.

“Who is it, hon?” his wife asked again, and one of his kids came to look, all big eyes.

Upshaw tried to speak and could raise only a dusty croak. It had come. He had dreamed about it, and it had finally come, The house in Sewickley had not protected him from it; the woman he kept at a safe distance in King of Prussia had not protected him from it; it was here: he read it in the smooth faces of these cops in their off-the-rack Anderson Little suits. Worst of all, one of them was Federal—Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. He produced a second ID, proclaiming him an agent of something called the Federal Drug Control Task Force.

“Our information is that you keep an office in your home,” the Federal cop said. He looked—what? Twenty-six? Thirty? Had he ever had to worry about what you were going to do when you had three kids and a wife who liked nice things maybe a little too much? Bill Upshaw didn’t think so. When you had those things to think about, your face didn’t stay that smooth. Your face only stayed that smooth when you could indulge in the luxury of grand thoughts—law and order, right and wrong, good guys and bad guys.

He opened his mouth to answer the Federal cop’s question and produced only another dusty croak.

“Is this information correct?” the Federal cop asked patiently.

“Yes,” Bill Upshaw croaked.

“And another office at 100 Frankstown Road in Monroeville?”

“Yes.”

“Hon, who is it?” Amber asked, and came into the hallway. She saw the three men standing on the stoop and pulled the neck of her housecoat closed. The cartoons blared.

Upshaw thought suddenly, almost with relief, It’s the end of everything.

The kid who had come out to see who had come to visit so early on a Saturday morning suddenly burst into tears and fled for the safety of the SuperFriends on channel 4.

When Rudy Junkins received the news that Upshaw had been served and that all the papers pertaining to Darnell, both at Upshaw’s Sewickley home and his Monroeville office, had been impounded, he led half a dozen state cops in what he supposed would have been called a raid in the old days. Even during the holiday season the garage was moderately busy on Saturday (although it was by no means the bustling place it became on summer weekends), and when Junkins raised a battery-powered loudhailer to his lips and began to use it, perhaps two dozen heads whipped around. They would have conversation enough out of this to last them into the new year.

“This is the Pennsylvania State Police!” Junkins cried into the loudhailer. The words echoed and bounced. He found, even at this instant, that his eyes were drawn to the white-over-red Plymouth sitting empty in stall twenty. He had handled half a dozen murder weapons in his time, sometimes at the scene, more frequently in the witness box, but just looking at that car made him feel cold.

Gitney, the IRS man who had come along for this particular sleigh-ride, was frowning at him to go on. None of you know what this is about. None of you. But he raised the loudhailer to his lips again.

“This place of business is closed! I repeat, this place of business is closed! You may take your vehicles if they are in running order—if not, please leave quickly and quietly! This place is closed!”

The loudhailer made an amplified click as he turned it off.

He looked toward the office and saw that Will Darnell was talking on the telephone, an unlit cigar jammed in his face. Jimmy Sykes was standing by the Coke machine, his simple face a picture of confused dismay—he didn’t look much different from Bill Upshaw’s kid at the moment before he burst into tears.

“Do you understand your rights as I have read them to you?” The cop in charge was Rick Mercer. Behind them, the garage was empty except for four uniformed cops, who were doing paperwork on the cars which had been impounded when the garage was closed.

“Yeah,” Will said. His face was composed; the only sign of his upset was his deepening wheeze, the fast rise and fall of his big chest under his open-throated white shirt, the way he held his aspirator constantly in one hand.

“Do you have anything to say to us at this time?” Mercer asked.

“Not until my lawyer gets here.”

“Your lawyer can meet us in Harrisburg,” Junkins said.

Will glanced at Junkins contemptuously and said nothing. Outside, more uniformed police had finished affixing seals to every door and window of the garage except for the small side door. Until the state of impound ceased, all traffic would use that door.

“This is the craziest thing I ever heard of,” Will Darnell said at last.

“It’ll get crazier,” Mercer said, smiling sincerely. “You’re going away for a very long time, Will. Maybe someday they’ll put you in charge of the prison motor pool.”

“I know you,” Will said, looking at him. “Your name is Mercer. I knew your father well. He was the crookedest cop that ever came out of King’s County.”

The blood fell out of Rick Mercer’s face and he raised his hand.

“Stop it, Rick,” Junkins said.

“Sure,” Will said. “You guys have your fun. Make your jokes about the prison motor pool. I’ll be back here doing business in two weeks. And if you don’t know it, you’re even stupider than you look.”

He glanced around at them, his eyes intelligent, sardonic… and trapped. Abruptly he raised his aspirator to his mouth and breathed in deeply.

“Get this bag of shit out of here,” Mercer said. He was still white.

“Are you all right?” Junkins asked. They were sitting in an unmarked state Ford half an hour later. The sun had decided to come out and shone blindingly on melting snow and wet streets. Darnell’s Garage sat silent. Darnell’s records—and Cunningham’s street-rod Plymouth—were safely penned up inside.

“That crack he made about my father,” Mercer said heavily. “My father shot himself, Rudy. Blew his head off. And I always thought… in college I read…” He shrugged. “Lots of cops eat the gun. Melvin Purvis did it, you know. He was the man who got Dillinger. But you wonder.” Mercer lit a cigarette and drew smoke downstairs in a long, shuddery breath.

“He didn’t know anything,” Junkins said.

“The fuck he didn’t,” Mercer said. He unrolled his window and threw the cigarette out. He unclipped the mike under the dash. “Home, this is Mobile Two.”

“Ten-four, Mobile Two.”

“What’s happening with our carrier pigeon?”

“He’s on Interstate Eighty-four coming up on Port Jervis.” Port Jervis was the crossover point between Pennsylvania and New York.

“New York is all ready?”

“Affirmative.”

“You tell them again that I want him northeast of Middletown before they grab him, and his toll-ticket taken in evidence.”