The staked Goat

the shop of the Button’s brother. I got into the car and drove to Eddie Shuba’s junkyard.
    I drove by slowly and counted off the five side streets Eddie and I had agreed upon yesterday. I turned right and spotted the old Pontiac slumped into a parking space next to a weather-beaten house and across from a nonoperational auto body shop. I pulled in ahead of the Pontiac and walked back to it.
    I got in and found the keys on a wire just under the glove box. I pulled off the ignition key and turned the engine over. The car started on the third try. I let it warm up while I went back to the rental and transferred my cargo from it to the Pontiac’s cavernous trunk. I put the Pontiac in gear and drove it into the driveway of the auto body shop and behind the building itself. The old car still had effortless power steering and crisp, albeit squeaky, braking.
    I turned off the engine and sat in the car for a few moments with the front windows rolled down. No noise, no voices. I got out and walked to the back of the car, my footsteps crunching the unshoveled snow. I reopened the trunk, taking out the tools Eddie had left there for me, and returned to the front of the car. I opened the hood of the Pontiac and went to work.
    It took less than an hour.
    Oh, I had to push a few wires and hoses out of the way. Also, I spent fifteen awkward minutes cutting a hole through the engine side of the glove box and niggling into place a doubled-over shirt to take the powder burns. Three of the Button’s braces were perfect, though, and the wire to the dead-man’s switch was easy to attach. I ran the wire down through the dash and mounted the switch itself on the floor next to the headlights’ dimmer switch. I armed the switch with the shotgun empty and did a few trial runs. Then I tossed my remainders into the trunk and folded one of the mailers into the glove compartment. I reset the system and took the Pontiac out for a bouncy test drive of about two miles. I came back in behind the auto body shop and tried it again. I heard the satisfying click from under the hood. I reset the switch and loaded the shotgun. Then I paused a few minutes to think things through one more time. The only flaws I could see were those of timing that I had already anticipated and those of chance that I could not predict.
    I started the Pontiac and headed toward Weston Hills. I stopped at a pay phone in Newton and dialed Murphy’s number.
    ”Lieutenant Murphy’s line, Detective Cross speaking.”
    I tried to disguise my voice. ”Lieutenant Murphy, please.”
    ”I’m sorry but he’s not available. Can I take a message?”
    ”No,” I said, ”I can call him back.” 1 paused. ”Just tell him Mr. Lazarus tried to reach him.”
    ”All right.”
    I hung up. I walked several stores down and bought a paper, a tuna sub, and two root beers. I walked back to the Pontiac and killed nearly three hours before I drove on.
     
    I got to Weston Hills about 3:30 P.M. I found a parking space across the street and three doors down from the real estate agency. It struck me that the Pontiac was the oldest, cruddiest car on the street but I passed that worry and found another pay phone just across from ”Belker’s” office.
    I dialed the number and got the Mount Holyoke receptionist again.
    ”Weston Hills Realty, may I help you?”
    ”Mr. Belker, please.”
    ”May I say who is calling?”
    I had given the answer to that question a lot of malice aforethought. It was luck that he was in, but as much as I wanted to twist the knife in him, I couldn’t let ”Belker” and Al’s death, and therefore me, appear connected in any traceable way.
    ”This is the Board of Registration of Real Estate Brokers and Salesmen. A former customer of your agency has, ah, expressed some concerns to us, and I wanted to speak with Mr. Belker about them before the situation got out of hand.”
    ”Yes, certainly. Hold on, please.”
    Nicely done, Cuddy. Too flustered to remember to ask about your name again. There was an outside possibility that she would monitor the rest of the conversation or that he would tape it, but that was a risk I would have to run.
    A click and then, ”Hello, this is Clay Belker.” Another perfectly modulated voice.
    ”Hi, this is Al Sachs calling.”
    Silence from his end.
    ”Or would you prefer Sergeant Ricker?” I continued.
    ”Who is this please?” he said gamely.
    ”Or maybe a heroin pusher named Bouvier?”
    ”I’m sorry to