Run into Trouble

better write down the address, but he didn’t have pen and paper handy. Drake asked the man to repeat it. He did, his voice showing impatience. Then the line went dead before Drake could find out his name and how they would know him. A typical spy operation. Drake had been out of the business for too long. He had no desire to return to it.
    ***
    “PCH?”
    “Pacific Coast Highway.”
    “I thought I was catching on to American English, but you Californians have your own brand.”
    “So do other sections of the U.S. Just like your beloved UK. Although I think in the UK it’s more of a class difference.”
    Drake began whistling “Why can’t the English teach their children how to speak?” from My Fair Lady .
    Melody grabbed Drake’s arm to keep him from crossing a street as the light turned red.
    “I could make some comments about class in the U.S. Or ethnic groups. Or what some people call race, although last time I checked we’re all members of the human race.”
    Drake was glad they were walking and not running. It allowed him to stretch his muscles without abusing them. The day off would be very helpful to him. He was already planning to take an afternoon nap. It was another cloudless day of California summer, and Melody had insisted they put on sunscreen, just as if they were going to be out running all day. Even with the sunscreen, their faces and limbs had grown several shades darker since the start of the race. In Drake’s case, it helped hide the bruise on his nose. When he looked in the mirror, the image he saw looked almost like he pictured himself.
    Drake spotted the coffee shop, which looked a lot like small restaurants everywhere. It was far enough from the motel that they were unlikely to see anybody connected with the race. They walked in at one minute to ten and looked around. Before Drake saw anybody who resembled an agent, Melody nudged him. She directed his gaze to the booth in the corner. A man sat with his back to the junction of the two walls wearing mirror sunglasses. He gave an almost imperceptible nod in their direction.
    As they made their way to the booth, Drake spoke under his breath. “Those shades make him look like a California Highway Patrol officer.”
    “No remarks. Remember, he’s doing us a favor.”
    “At least he knows how to keep his back to the wall—unlike Wild Bill Hickok.”
    “Enough.”
    They came up to the booth.
    Melody extended her hand with a smile. “Melody.”
    He shook her hand briefly. “Slick.”
    As Drake shook his hand he wanted to say, “I’m sure you’re slick, but what’s your name?”
    They sat down opposite him. With his short-sleeved sport shirt he looked like any other tourist except for the bulging muscles in his arms. Even his iron-colored short hair contributed to his look of hardness.
    A waitress in an ugly brown uniform immediately bustled up, so Drake ordered coffee and Melody ordered iced tea. Slick was sucking on a tall glass of Coke through a straw. After the waitress filled their cups, there was silence for a minute while Melody put a spoonful of sugar in her glass.
    Melody spoke first. “Thanks for helping us.”
    “Blade said you were good people and to do whatever you asked.”
    It was the same mellifluous voice that Drake had heard on the phone. That was Drake’s cue to open the top of the brown paper bag he was carrying and show Slick the contents.
    “The envelope and note may have fingerprints on them. Well, we know they have our prints, but they may have others. We’re hoping you can connect them to people in the government files.”
    Slick opened an attaché case he had on the seat beside him. He placed the bag in the case and pulled a couple of items out.
    “Since your prints are here, I’m going to fingerprint you now. I know we’ve got your prints on file, but it’s always a pain to look them up, especially since they’re not stored here. This way we can eliminate them from the evidence before we send it back east.”
    Drake wasn’t keen on being fingerprinted, but as Slick said, their prints were already on file, so it didn’t make a lot of difference. He and Melody rolled each of their fingers on the inkpad and left their prints on a card, being careful not to smudge them. Because they were in a corner booth, nobody saw what they were doing.
    Drake tried to wipe the ink off his fingers with a napkin. “Please don’t share the contents of the note with anyone except Blade. You don’t need to do