Pronto

  Joyce said, "You're getting ready to take off, aren't you?"

  Looking out the window he didn't answer right away. When he did he said, "I've been ready."

  She moved her hand across his shoulders, over and back again. "You know where you're going?"

  "Of course I do." He said, "I may need your help to get started."

  It surprised and scared her a little. "What would you want me to do?"

  "I'll let you know." Another minute went by before he said, "I think tomorrow will be the day. Why hang around."

  "But if you testify," Joyce said, "and they put Jimmy away--"

  "It wouldn't matter, he could still get people to do a job on me."

  "If you talked to him? Look at how long you've known each other."

  Harry said, "I have bags packed ready to run and I shot one of his guys. As far as he's concerned I skimmed on him, the same as stealing money, and there's no way to convince him otherwise."

  "The FBI, they'll be after you, too, won't they?"

  Still looking out the window he said, "I doubt it. They'd have to justify the expense and I don't think they'd be able to."

  She said, "Can I ask where you're going?"

  Harry turned his head and she was looking into his eyes, a bright clear blue with light reflecting in them through the window.

  He said, "If I'm the only one who knows, I should be okay." He touched her face then, caressing at first, then fooling with her ear and the curly ends of her hair. "I'll tell you something I've never told a soul," Harry said, this time sure of it. "I actually have been skimming off those people over twenty years. You can't imagine how much money I've put away."

  Chapter Five.

  After that business at the Atlanta airport, losing a federal witness in his care, Raylan Givens was assigned to the academy at Glynco, Georgia, where future marshals got their training.

  He told Harry Arno, the two of them having an early dinner at Joe's Stone Crab, the training center was south of Savannah toward Brunswick and that guys applying as Treasury agents, ATF and Secret Service, also Customs, were trained there too. Raylan said what it was, you go through a Criminal Investigator course with the emphasis on PT, physical training. He was a firearms instructor. He said it wasn't a put-down to be assigned there; most guys liked the duty. It was just they knew he wanted field work, fugitive investigation, so he felt that in a way it was like a punishment.

  "One thing they knew I could do without messing up was shoot. So I taught the care and use of basic firearms. Like that Army-issue .45 you used, developed about a hundred years ago to stop the fanatical Moros during the Philippine Insurrection. It stopped them too."

  When Raylan said, "Hey, I'm doing all the talking," Harry Arno told him no, go on, it was interesting. Harry busy cracking those crab claws and dipping them into butter or a kind of mustardy sauce. The hash browns were good; everything was good here. Harry said to have the Key lime pie after.

  Raylan said, "It wasn't too tough at the academy, but if you weren't used to it, it could be stressful. There was one trainee, he threw his suitcase over the fence and was climbing it when they pulled him off and asked him, 'What are you doing?' He said, 'I've had enough, I'm leaving.' They said to him, 'Well, why don't you use the front gate?' This trainee had the feeling he was in prison and to get out he'd have to escape."

  "When you were a trainee," Harry Arno asked, sucking on a claw, "did you have that feeling?"

  "No, I liked it," Raylan said. "I was in the Marines before that, so it wasn't anything new. I mean physical training." He said, "I had a roommate, though," and had to grin recalling the guy, "who couldn't wait to get out. He'd sit there in the room looking at a map of the United States he had Scotch-taped to the wall? He'd say, This is how I'm going home, this road here and this one,' showing me how he'd get to St. Louis, Missouri."

  Harry said, "Is that right?"

  You could see he was interested and enjoying himself.

  "Then the next time, the guy would ask me what I thought of the route, a different one. He had roads traced with a colored pencil that were like the straightest lines to where he wanted to go, but without taking interstates if they weren't direct routes. You know, that might be longer but would be quicker? It was like he was on the run, using back roads and such."

  Harry touched his napkin to his mouth, put it on the table, and said, "Excuse me a minute, Raylan."

  Raylan gripped his chair arms, ready to get up.

  Harry said, "I'm just going to the men's. I'll be right back." He was up now but paused to smile.

  And Raylan knew he was thinking about that time in the Atlanta airport. Raylan grinned back at him.

  "It seems to me you said that once before."

  Harry raised one hand, the way you might interrupt someone to say good-bye, and walked off around the tables -- just about all of them occupied now -- toward the men's room over on the other side.

  Raylan was thinking that when Harry came back he'd tell him the other thing the map reader did. How he went to bed real early every night, around eight, instead of going into town for a few beers. Raylan would come back around midnight and if he was quiet, the roommate would be quiet the next morning when he got up about an hour early. But if Raylan accidentally made any noise at night when he came in, bumped into his locker or knocked something off the desk? The roommate would make the exact same noises the next morning.

  He could tell Harry that one. He could tell about guys he knew from his training he ran into in the field.

  He'd ask Harry if he did any fishing. Explain how he'd only been in the Miami Marshals Office since last spring and had not done any fishing around here. Growing up he'd fished mostly for catfish in ponds and streams that were contaminated and had hardly any fish in them. Then, instructing at Glynco and living in Brunswick, Georgia, he'd fished in the ocean, out in St. Andrew Sound off Jekyll Island. Ask Harry about bonefishing down in the Keys; he might know.

  Now he wondered if Harry had fallen in.

  He hadn't shown Harry pictures of his kids yet, his two boys, Ricky, nine, and Randy, three and a half.

  If he did, though, he'd have to mention that his wife, Winona, was still in Brunswick with the two boys, but not go into any detail unless Harry asked why they weren't with him. How did you answer that in a few words and not bore him with a long, involved story? Well, you see, Winona's divorcing me. I left to report here, she stayed to sell the house, see if we could get sixty-seven nine, what we paid, and fell for the real estate salesman who sold the house and didn't even get our price. Let it go for sixty-five five, took his commission and also Winona. Like I'd call her up during that time? "Well, how we doing, hon?" "Oh, okay." She wouldn't say much till finally this one time she goes, "I have some good news," meaning the house was sold, "and some I know you won't like, so I expect you're going to give me a hard time." That was how Winona talked, always a little smart-alecky. If Harry wanted to hear about it... Harry had been divorced and might offer tips on how to accept what you saw coming and not take a baseball bat to that real estate salesman up in Brunswick. The thing was, he didn't especially miss Winona. The two boys, yeah, but not Winona. Raylan put his napkin on the table, got up, and followed Harry's route to the men's room. Pushed open the door and went in.

  Okay, he wasn't here. Nobody was, the doors to the stalls were partway open and no feet showed underneath.

  He's around, though, Raylan told himself. He's having a little fun with you, that's all.

  Boy, did he want to believe it.

  Torres got to Joyce Patton the next afternoon and talked to her in her apartment, Torres looking around the living room as he asked her, "Why don't you tell me where he went? Save us a lot of trouble."

  She said she had no idea.

  Torres said, "You know I'm a friend of his. I don't want to see him become a fugitive. But if he's left town or fails to show up for his arraignment, that's what he is."

  She didn't say anything.

  "At l
east he can't leave the country. We made him hand over his passport."

  She was composed, standing with her arms folded waiting for him to finish and leave. A good-looking woman, nice figure.

  "They know him at Joe's Stone Crab," Torres said, "he's been going there, what, twenty years? The hostess said he left about ten to six, as they were starting to fill up. A few minutes later the marshal he was having dinner with came looking for him. The valet parking kid told us Mr. Arno came out and got in his car. He didn't drive it there, the marshal who was with him drove. But it was his Eldorado pulled up on the other side of Biscayne the exact moment Harry came out the door. He walked across the street, got in, and the car left. The valet kid didn't notice who was driving."

  "I don't know anything about it," Joyce said.

  She looked right at him, Torres thinking, Like she might have prepared herself for this knowing it was coming. He said, "Wherever Harry went, he didn't drive. So I'm thinking he flew, but didn't want to leave his car at the airport." He waited a moment. "We're checking all the flights that went out yesterday." He paused again. "You understand I think you drove him to the airport and brought his car back to the lot where he keeps it."

  She didn't move or say anything. If she had made up her mind to outwait him she was doing okay.

  "I bet you have his car keys," Torres said, "in your purse."

  Her expression changed slightly, eyebrows raising.

  "That would prove I drove him to the airport?"

  "It would to me."

  She shook her head. "I can't help you."

  "You mean you won't."

  She said, "What's the difference?"

  Raylan Givens was standing by as McCormick and another agent searched Harry Arno's apartment. They were casual about it, Raylan didn't think very thorough, though they didn't make a mess tossing the place. Raylan almost asked if they were looking for anything in particular, but decided to keep quiet. McCormick would sound like he was a nice guy, but underneath it was a snot-nose attitude he couldn't hide. He liked to make fun of people, especially with another agent to show off in front of. One on one, when you had business with him, he wasn't so bad. Then, he hardly paid any attention to you. McCormick was about fifty-five, heavyset, had his suit coat off to work in his shirtsleeves, his blue-and-yellow-striped tie pulled down.

  Looking around the living room he would raise his voice to the other agent searching the bedroom, telling him that after he had the resident agent's job in West Palm he was ready to retire, take a job in corporate security, and should've instead of coming down to this Third World city. Talking about Miami. He said he worked an investigation once, a broad who lived in this same hotel tried to extort six hundred grand from the old guy who owned the place. They had her practically indicted and you know what happened? The old guy married her. His attitude: So she was trying to take him, he didn't give a shit, he wanted her. Not long after that he died of natural causes. She was a former movie star, Jean Shaw?

  The agent in the bedroom said he'd never heard of her, but then asked where she was now.

  "Who knows?" McCormick said.

  Talking, they didn't seem too interested in what they were doing. Going through the motions. McCormick was in the kitchen now, bent over poking around in the refrigerator. Coming out to the living room he said to Raylan, "You wear that hat all the time?"

  "When I go out," Raylan said, "yeah."

  "You wear it when you sit down to eat?"

  "Not usually."

  "Some of you cowboys do. Never take your hat off. Watch country music awards on TV. You see all these bozos sitting there with their hats on, pretending they're cowpokes." He said, "Why don't you make us some iced tea? There's some instant in there."

  It was the first time since they got here McCormick had spoken to him, and what was it about, his hat. Raylan fixed two glasses with ice cubes and lemon wedges he found and brought them out to the dining table. McCormick looked over from where he stood at a wall of pictures. Raylan thought he was going to ask to have his brought to him, but he came over to the table.

  Raylan said, "You haven't found anything? Any clues to where he might be?"

  "No, but I'll let you know if I do," McCormick said. He raised his voice to the other room saying, "Jerry? Raylan wants to know have you found any clues."

  Jerry's voice came back, "Who?"

  This was Jerry Crowder, a young agent who could learn a bad attitude, Raylan believed, hanging around McCormick. Basically he was a good guy, big and rangy, a former college football player. Raylan had backed him a couple of times making arrests.

  McCormick had picked up his iced tea. He sipped it looking at Raylan and said, "I've meant to ask you, when Harry Arno gave you the slip, did he stick you with the dinner check?"

  Giving Raylan a serious, interested expression now, waiting.

  "Sixty bucks," Raylan said. "I paid it."

  "I hope you don't put it on your expense account." Raylan didn't say anything and McCormick said, "What grade level are you?"

  "GS-Eleven."

  "For how long?"

  "Seven years."

  "Stuck, huh? That's a shame. I understand this is the second time you've let Harry Arno get away. Is he a friend of yours?"

  "I've never thought of him as such, no."

  "Didn't they teach you never let a prisoner out of your sight?"

  Raylan said, "He wasn't a prisoner," and knew right away he shouldn't have. It was like talking back to the teacher.

  McCormick said, "Well, you were watching him, weren't you? That's what we're talking about."

  Raylan felt now he had to keep going and said, "You want to know how I see it?"

  "How you see what?"

  "This situation, with Harry."

  "I sure would, but wait," McCormick said, and called out, "Jerry, come in here." Crowder appeared in the bedroom doorway, almost filling it, and McCormick motioned to him. "Have an iced tea. Raylan's going to tell us how he sees it."

  Coming over to the table Jerry said, "How he sees what?"

  "That's what we're going to find out." McCormick looked at Raylan. "Go on."

  "Well, first of all," Raylan said, "I can't think of a reason why Harry would take off knowing he needs protection. Another reason, he's too smart to become a fugitive, have to hide out the rest of his life."

  McCormick said, "You know Harry pretty well?"

  "I was with him on two occasions. Both times we talked, shared experiences, you might say."

  "If he realizes he needs protection," McCormick said, "and knows he'll become a wanted fugitive if he runs, then why did he?"

  "Maybe he didn't," Raylan said. "Maybe he was abducted."

  They hadn't thought of that, both of them turning enough to look at each other. "By who," Jerry said, "the bad guys?" And McCormick jumped in, asking, "What about the fact an eyewitness saw him walk out of the restaurant and get in his own car? Someone there to meet him."

  "He could've been tricked," Raylan said. Damn, wishing he had thought this through and had answers.

  It did stop them again, giving them something new to consider. McCormick said, "He comes out thinking it's a friend driving his car?"

  "Somebody he trusts."

  "But it isn't. Is that what you're saying?"

  It was simpler in his mind. "Something like that," Raylan said.

  "But why's he leave you sitting there and duck out? What would the plan be that he got taken in? You understand what I mean? Did a friend set him up?"

  Raylan shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't figured it out yet. Right now it's a feeling I have."

  "It would seem to me," McCormick said, "his idea was to take off. That's the feeling I get."

  "Or somebody talked him into it," Raylan said, thinking hard.

  "I'll tell you how I see it," McCormick said, straight now, not having fun with him. "You don't want to believe you twice blew your assignment and because of it you aren't going to get any higher in the Marshals than
where you are. So you want to blame it on someone else, Jimmy Cap, the bad guys? You've told yourself this bookie you've come to know so well, he wouldn't fuck you over again, you trust him. Raylan, is that what you're thinking? You see yourself getting sent back to the academy as an instructor? Then retiring and living in Brunswick, Georgia, the rest of your life?"

  McCormick put on his blank expression again.