The Fool's Run

progress report?”
    “Go ahead.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his stomach, now the executive listening to a subordinate. I told him I’d hired two associates and had begun processing names from Dillon’s report. I outlined a couple of methods of attack, told him we’d be working out of the Washington area, and that I would call him every few days with reports. When I finished, he looked at Dillon, at Maggie, and back to me.
    “We have a request,” he said.
    “What?”
    “We want Maggie to work with you. To see what you’re doing, how it’s done. She won’t interfere unless it looks like you’re getting carried away. What I’m saying is—we’d like to keep some oversight.”
    I looked over at Maggie and thought about Bobby’s report on her. She looked back, a level gaze, no smile.
    “I run the show,” I said to Anshiser. “It’s my ass on the line. I don’t care if she observes, but I’ll give her only one option: she can pull the plug. If she says kill the program, we kill it. But she doesn’t tell us how to run it.”
    “That’s all we ask,” Anshiser said. He pointed a finger at her. “If there’s any sign of trouble, you get out.”
    “Right.”
    “Speaking of trouble,” Anshiser said to me, a cold note in his voice, “let me say a few words to the wise. Do not try to steal this money from us, Mr. Kidd. We want performance. If you can’t perform, say so. But you must try. I won’t be stolen from. I’m not threatening to break your legs should you abscond, but a billion dollars can purchase a world of legal and financial trouble for anyone I’d choose to pick on. Understood?”
    “Fine,” I said. I picked up the money bag. A million dollars . . . It was lighter than I’d expected. “A friend and I are leaving for Washington tomorrow. I’ll get back to you when we’ve got a place. Maggie can fly out then.”
    “Good luck,” Anshiser said, standing and extending a hand. His hand felt cool and damp and mealy, like tightly wound wet tissue paper. I shook it, dropped it hastily, and left.
    “Partners in crime,” Maggie said in the hallway.
    “I hope you’re well paid,” I said. “This will be a major event.”
    “I’m well taken care of,” she said.
    I opened my mouth, and quickly shut it.
    “What were you going to say?”
    “A wisecrack,” I said.
    “You’re not deferential,” she said, looking up at me with mild amusement. “Why’d you hold back?”
    I shrugged. “My mouth sometimes gets me into trouble with women I like. I’m trying to be friendly and it comes out wrong.”
    “You like me?”
    I looked into her cool green eyes. “I could. You’re bright and mean as a snake. Those are decent recommendations.”
    She laughed out loud, the first time I’d ever heard her do it. It sounded nice, unrehearsed.
     
    “A MILLION BUCKS,” LuEllen said in a reverent tone. “We could be in Brazil in eight hours.”
    The money was spread on the hotel bed, so we could look at it, count it, check serial numbers, and run our fingers through it. When we were satisfied that it was all there, we packed it into three bags. There was $600,000 for me, $250,000 for LuEllen, and $150,000 for Dace. We put the hundred thousand of expense money in with Dace’s cash.
    “A hundred thousand for expense money,” LuEllen said. She looked at it, looked at me, and started giggling.
    When she finally stopped, we checked out of the hotel, dropped our personal shares at the bank, and mailed the safety deposit keys back home—mine to Emily and hers to somebody in Duluth. I didn’t ask who, and didn’t tell her where mine went. The rest of the money, less a few thousand for pocket and purse, went into a small, hidden box just forward of the spare tire well in the trunk of the car.
    Late in the afternoon, armed with the Chicago Tribune ’s want ads, we drove around the suburbs and paid cash for two used Kaypro IBM-compatible computers and a Toshiba printer. Then we drove south, made the big turn at Gary, and headed for Washington.
    “You sure about this friend of yours in Washington—Dace?” LuEllen asked.
    “I’m sure.”
    “He’s got a place for us?”
    “Yes. Furnished, telephones, dishes, the whole works. We can move in the same day.”
    “How much?”
    “Two thousand a week.”
    She whistled. “That’s steep.”
    “It’s a special deal. The landlord runs a call girl operation for the Pentagon brass, in Alexandria. The apartments are