mean, presuming you got out of the right side of bed that morning?”
“Yeah. Of course I will. But for Christ’s sake, don’t expect miracles.”
“Be careful, buddy.”
“I will.”
Matthews hung up.
Ten minutes after her conversation with Matt Payne—while part of her mind was still occupied with wondering why she somehow just hadn’t been able to tell him that not only would she not have dinner with him tonight, but that the fun and games was over, period, don’t call me anymore, period—Susan Reynolds received a telephone call from Jennifer Ollwood.
“Hi,” Jennie began.
Susan gave her a telephone number and hung up. She rose from her desk and put her head in the door of Appeals Officer, Grade IV, Veronica Haynes.
“Cover for me, will you, Veronica? I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”
“Make it half an hour,” Veronica replied. “Fifteen minutes isn’t really long enough for an early-morning quickie, is it?”
“Is that all you ever have on your mind?”
“Yeah,” Veronica said, after appearing to have given the question serious thought. “What’s more important?”
“I can think of some things.”
“Some things that are as much fun?”
“Yeah,” Susan said, after appearing to give Veronica’s question as much serious thought as Veronica had given hers.
“Have fun,” Veronica said. “Keeping one eye on the clock, of course.”
Susan rode the elevator to the lobby and left the Department of Social Services Building. She walked to a car wash three blocks away. That morning, on her way to work, knowing Jennie—or less likely, Eloise Anne Fitzgerald—was going to call, she had had her Porsche washed.
While it had been going through—she hadn’t liked to think what the brushes and felt washing pads were going to do to the Porsche’s paint job, but doing this seemed necessary—she had walked to the corner, where there was a pay telephone booth, and written down—and later memorized—the number.
She entered the phone booth, took the handset off its hook, held the hook down with her finger, and pretended to be having a conversation until the phone rang.
“Hi,” Jennie said again.
“Hi, yourself. How are you?”
“Well, you know. Fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”
Being a fugitive from justice, wanted for murder, and that son of a bitch you’re living with comes immediately to mind.
“And the baby?”
“He’s just wonderful!”
And what’s going to happen to him when Mommy and Daddy are hauled away in handcuffs?
“Jennie, is something wrong? I don’t think these telephone calls, so many of them, are really smart.”
“Why don’t you come see the baby?” Jennie asked cheerfully.
“First of all, I don’t think—I was just there—that’s such a smart idea. As much as I’d like to, Jennie.”
“Bryan has something he wants you to keep for us,” Jennie said.
What? Another bag full of money he stole from a bank?
“Really?”
“Like the last package, only a little bigger,” Jennie said. There was a touch of pride in her voice.
My God, don’t tell me he actually did rob another bank!
I’ll have to get a larger safe-deposit box. The one I have is nearly full of money he stole.
“Jennie, I really don’t think coming there so soon again makes sense.”
“Bryan wants you to,” Jennie said. “He says you know why.”
If he’s arrested—when he’s arrested—he doesn’t want to be found in possession of money the cops will suspect came from one or more so far unsolved—or is the word “successful”?—bank robberies. He wants the money to pay for his defense.
I sometimes think that Bryan really would like to be caught, and put on trial. He thinks that with a good lawyer—and himself skillfully playing the role of noble young intellectual courageously standing up for moral principle—he will not only walk out of the courtroom a free man, but into a role as Hero of the New Order.
And, of course, Jennie has been mesmerized into going along with his fantasies. She thinks the father of her baby is the Scarlet Pimpernel.
“Jennie, there are reasons I can’t come there anytime soon. You’re just going to have to tell Bryan that, and to put the package someplace safe where you are.”
“What reasons?” Jennie asked, almost indignantly.
“Good and sufficient reasons, Jennie. I’m sorry.”
“You better tell that to Bryan yourself,” Jennie said.
“I don’t want to tell him—”
“Just a minute, Susie,” Jennie interrupted. “Hang on.” The son of a bitch is there. Probably sitting in his car. Let Jennie do the work.
What I should do is just hang up. But if I do that, he’ll make her call the office, or the house. What the hell am I afraid of? If he comes on the phone, I’ll tell him why I don’t want