The Face

wind or no wind,” he told Trotter, “you will be in Bel Air, at the rendezvous point, at seven o’clock sharp, as originally planned.”
        “Weather control,” Trotter muttered darkly.
        “Don’t even think about not coming. Do you know how many eyes are on us right now-up in those hills, out in those fields?”
        “Lots of eyes,” Trotter guessed.
        “My people are everywhere in this canyon, ready to keep you honest or blow your brains out, whichever you want.”
        In fact, the only eyes on them were those of the crows, hawks, sparrows, and other members of the feathered community gathered in the ancient California live oaks that sheltered the house.
        Jack Trotter had fallen for these lies not because of the phony NSA credentials, not because of Corky’s bravura performance as Agent [422] Robin Goodfellow, but because Corky had known so much about Trotter’s many aliases and at least a few things about his thus far successful career as a bank robber and a distributor of Ecstasy. He believed that Corky had learned about him by means of the ruling cabal’s all but omniscient intelligence-gathering apparatus.
        What Corky had learned about Trotter, however, he had heard from Mick Sachatone, the hacker and multimillionaire anarchist who traded in forged documents, untraceable cell phones, and other illegal paperwork, objects, substances, and information. Mick had provided Trotter with the identities that subsequently he revealed to Corky.
        Ordinarily, Mick would never disclose to one client the affairs of another. Considering the kind of people he did business with, such a lack of discretion would result, if he were lucky, in his death or, if he were unlucky, in the excision of his eyes, the extraction of his tongue, the severing of his thumbs, and castration with pliers.
        Because Mick had reason to hate Trotter with an intensity nearly homicidal, he had risked sharing information with Corky. Jealous rage of operatic proportions had caused him to violate his usual standards of client confidentiality.
        For his part, Trotter had earned Mick’s enmity, though he seemed unaware of it. He had stolen Mick’s girlfriend.
        Mick’s girlfriend had been a porn-movie star renowned in certain jerky circles for the inhuman flexibility of her body.
        Perhaps Trotter didn’t think that anyone could become profoundly emotionally attached, on evenings and weekends, to a woman who did two, six, and even ten men at a time in front of a camera, during her regular business hours.
        Since the age of thirteen, however, Mick’s most cherished dream had been to have a porn star for a girlfriend. He felt that Trotter had robbed him of his heart’s one true desire and had thwarted his destiny.
        After four months with Trotter, the woman had disappeared. Mick was of the opinion that, having tired of her, Trotter had killed her [423] either because she had learned too much about his illegal activities or merely for sport, and had buried her deep in the canyon.
        Now she was of no use to anyone, and this pointless waste of her exceptional flexibility further infuriated Mick.
        Lowering the Glock from Trotter’s forehead, Corky said, “Let’s go inside.”
        “Please, let’s not,” Trotter pleaded.
        “Need I remind you,” Corky said, lying with delightful panache, “that your cooperation with me could earn you erasure from all public records, from all tax records, making you the freest man who ever lived, a man utterly unknown to the government ?”
        “I’ll be there tonight. Seven o’clock sharp. Wind or no wind. I swear I will.”
        “I still want to go inside,” Corky said. “I still feel the need to make my point with you.”
        A sadness came into Trotter’s Mad Hatter eyes. His walruslike face drooped.
        Resigned, he led Corky into the house.
        The bullet holes in the walls, from the previous occasion when Corky had needed to teach Trotter a lesson, had not been repaired; however, the living-room display shelves had been filled with a new collection of Lladro porcelains-statuettes of ballerinas, princesses dancing with princes, children capering with a dog, a lovely farm maiden feeding a flock of geese gathered at her feet…
        That a paranoid, conspiracy-drunk, bank-robbing, drug-peddling survivalist with bolt-holes leading from here to the Canadian border should have a weak spot