The Fool's Run

dark-complected man in an expensive banker’s pinstripe. His nose had been broken a long time ago, well before he acquired his current sheen, but he did not look at all like Mary’s Little Lamb.
    I was standing in the hotel gift shop, looking at magazines, and caught a flash of her in a mirrored pillar. I turned away and gave them time to get through. I bought a few magazines while I waited, plus two paperbacks. This time, I would stay in the room.
    What?
     
    Everything set?
     
    Set and checked. Hacks on line. We’ll trip you off exactly at 4. Then we’ll have a cascade on the other plants.
    Timing would be delicate. I debated calling her as early as 3:30, but we wouldn’t have that much to say to each other. On the other hand, she might have people scattered around the hotel. She’d want them together before she came into the room. So when to call? I rehearsed the probable moves and finally decided there would be at least ten minutes to talk. And I should be able to stretch it out, if need be.
    I would call at 3:40. At three o’clock, time started to slow down. I risked a trip to the Coke machine down the hall, got three, drank two, and looked at the clock. 3:15. I did a few desultory tarot spreads: not enough time now for the tarot to help. I watched television, paced. 3:30. More pacing. A pit stop in the bathroom, dumping the processed Coke. Last-minute thoughts. At 3:39 I dialed the operator and got her room number. She picked up the phone on the first ring.
     
    “THIS IS KIDD.”
    “Yes. I’m here.”
    “I’m in Room 2406. It’s almost right straight below you. I’ll wait five minutes, then I’m gone. And Maggie—you may be tempted to send in some shooters to take care of the problem. That would be a major mistake. You would remember it for the rest of your life as the mistake that ruined you. I don’t have a gun, I just want to talk. Okay?”
    “I’ll be down.”
    I did have a gun, the MAC-10. I glued a fat strip of Velcro to the grip and stuck it on the side of the easy chair where I planned to sit. It was out of sight, in an unexpected place, all cocked and ready. It was too big and would be an awkward draw, but if they came in shooting, I would make it more than a simple execution. That was the idea, anyway.
    After Maggie hung up, I unlocked the door, pulled the drapes, turned on the TV set and adjusted the sound until it was barely audible, got the last Coke, and sat in the chair. At 3:44, there was a knock at the door.
    “Come in.”
    A short, tough-looking blond with a brush haircut pushed the door open with his finger while he stayed in the hall. He looked at me, nodded, took a slow step inside, glanced into the bathroom. The dark man with the broken nose was behind him, dressed in a different, but equally conservative, pinstriped suit. He waited in my line of sight, watching me, while the blond went into the bathroom and pulled back the shower curtain. The blond came back out, opened the coat closet near the door, looked in, then came into the room. The beds were on pedestals, but he looked between them and behind the one next to the wall. Finally he turned to the dark man.
    “It’s okay,” he said. The dark man stayed where he was, and the blond went back to the hallway and came in with a briefcase. He opened it and took out a debugging loop and started working his way around the room.
    “Look, it’ll take an hour to find a bug if I put one in . . .”
    “We don’t think you did. Nothing heavy, anyway. We’re just making a quick sweep. We’d be embarrassed if you had something as crummy as a cheap tape recorder.”
    “I don’t.”
    He smiled and followed the loop around the room. When he was satisfied, he folded it and shoved it back in the briefcase.
    “I think it’s clean,” he said.
    The dark man stepped into the room. “Mr. Olson,” he said, nodding at me. Maggie was a step behind him.
    “Kidd,” she said. Her face was taut. Not frozen, but ready, like an athlete on the starting blocks.
    “How’s Anshiser?” I asked. The blond shut the door without locking it, and the dark man sat on a corner of the bed, looking at me. Maggie perched on the other chair.
    “He’s out of it,” she said. “They’re off the tumor theory. They think now it may have been a series of ministrokes over a period of time, killing his brain in such tiny increments it was impossible to find. They’re still not sure. One of the doctors said the only way they’ll ever be sure is