and the faces were white. All of them. He parked next to the office and locked the BMW. The pay phone by the covered pool worked. He called a cab and gave an address two blocks away. He ran between the buildings, down a side street, and arrived precisely with the cab. "Greyhound bus station," he said to the driver. "And in a hurry. I've got ten minutes."
"Relax, pal. It's only six blocks away."
Mitch ducked low in the rear seat and watched the traffic. The driver moved with a slow confidence and seven minutes later stopped in front of the station. Mitch threw two fives over the seat and darted into the terminal. He bought a oneway ticket on the four-thirty bus to Atlanta. It was four thirty-one, according to the clock on the wall. The clerk pointed through the swinging doors. "Bus No. 454," she said. "Leaving in a moment."
The driver slammed the baggage door, took his ticket and followed Mitch onto the bus. The first three rows were filled with elderly blacks. A dozen more passengers were scattered toward the rear. Mitch walked slowly down the aisle, gazing at each face and seeing no one. He took a window seat on the fourth row from the rear. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and glanced behind him. No one. Dammit! Was it the wrong bus? He stared out the dark windows as the bus moved quickly into traffic. They would stop in Knoxville. Maybe his contact would be there.
When they were on the interstate and the driver reached his cruising speed, a man in blue jeans and madras shirt suddenly appeared and slid into the seat next to Mitch. It was Tarrance. Mitch breathed easier.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"In the rest room. Did you lose them?" Tarrance spoke in a low voice while surveying the backs of the heads of the passengers. No one was listening. No one could hear.
"I never see them, Tarrance. So I cannot say if I lost them. But I think they would have to be supermen to keep my trail this time."
"Did you see our man in the terminal?"
"Yes. By the pay phone with the red Falcons cap. Black dude."
"That's him. He would've signaled if they were following."
"He gave me the go-ahead."
Tarrance wore silver reflective sunglasses under a green Michigan State baseball cap. Mitch could smell the fresh Juicy Fruit.
"Sort of out of uniform, aren't you?" Mitch said with no smile. "Did Voyles give you permission to dress like that?"
"I forgot to ask him. I'll mention it in the morning."
"Sunday morning?" Mitch asked.
"Of course. He'll wanna know all about our little bus ride. I briefed him for an hour before I left town."
"Well, first things first. What about my car?"
"We'll pick it up in a few minutes and babysit it for you. It'll be in Knoxville when you need it. Don't worry."
"You don't think they'll find us?"
"No way. No one followed you out of Memphis, and we detected nothing in Nashville. You're clean as a whistle."
"Pardon my concern. But after that fiasco in the shoe store, I know you boys are not above stupidity."
"It was a mistake, all right. We - "
"A big mistake. One that could get me on the hit list."
"You covered it well. It won't happen again."
"Promise me, Tarrance. Promise me no one will ever again approach me in public."
Tarrance looked down the aisle and nodded.
"No, Tarrance. I need to hear it from your mouth. Promise me."
"Okay, okay. It won't happen again. I promise."
"Thanks. Now maybe I can eat at a restaurant without fear of being grabbed."
"You've made your point."
An old black man with a cane inched toward them, smiled and walked past. The rest-room door slammed. The Greyhound rode the left lane and blew past the lawful drivers.
Tarrance flipped through a magazine. Mitch gazed into the countryside. The man with the cane finished his business and wobbled to his seat on the front row.
"So what brings you here?" Tarrance asked, flipping pages.
"I don't like airplanes. I always take the bus."
"I see. Where would you like to start?"
"Voyles said you had a game plan."
"I do. I just need a quarterback."
"Good ones are very expensive."
"We've got the money."
"It'll cost a helluva lot more than you think. The way I figure it, I'll be throwing away a forty-year legal career at, say, an average of half a million a year."
"That's twenty million bucks."
"I know. But we can negotiate."
"That's good to hear. You're assuming that you'll work, or practice, as you