“Blan …” The man was completely at a loss.

“For heaven’s sake, man,” Hall said, “you and Fred Blanchard have worked together for years!”

“Oh, Fred!” Rumsey cried. “Fred Blanchard. Oh, sorry, right about that.” Now, leaning unexpectedly close as for a confidence, he said, “Out of context, you see what I mean?”

“Yes, well,” Hall said, automatically taking a backward step that bumped him into the staircase he’d just left, “this is rather new for us all.”

“Blanchard and Gillette,” Rumsey said, morphing back to near-erectness. “He’ll be the driver. The other one. Ten o’clock. Will do, sur.”

•

“Well, my dear,” Alicia said, over crustless toast and coddled eggs and strawberry jam and well-creamed coffee, “what do you think of our new people?”

“They’re perfect,” Hall told her. “Of course, I’ve barely seen them so far, and I must say Rumsey the butler’s an odd duck. But then, so many servants are, really.”

“America doesn’t know how to breed servants,” Alicia said.

“That’s perfectly true.”

“The problem,” she suggested, “is that the Inquisition had ended, or at least its really active years had ended, before the founding of the United States, so on this side of the Atlantic there was never that drilled-in terror over generations to make people eager to obey orders.”

“I like your insights, Alicia,” Hall said, patting his lips with damask, “but now I must go have a word with two more of our new acquisitions.”

•

Monroe Hall’s office, in the front right corner of the main floor, with large windows that offered ego-supportive views down toward his guardhouse and leftward toward his village and outbuildings, had been designed and furnished by one of the finest teams of nostalgic re-creators in America. Did you want a keeping room? Did you want a bread oven? Did you want gaslight to supplement your electric bulbs? Did you want, along a waist-high dado cap around the room, to tastefully display your collection of iron nineteenth-century mechanical banks? Call Pioton & Fone, and watch your dreams come true. Monroe Hall had, and he couldn’t enter his office, as a result, without smiling. Didn’t it look just like Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne’s office, just before Yorktown? Yes, it did. Mm, it did.

Today, entering the office, Hall saw Blanchard and Gillette already present, which made sense, because Hall was deliberately ten minutes late. Both were studying the iron banks on the little rail around the room, Blanchard leaning close over the one of a fisherman on a boat. Place a coin on the flat plate at the end of the fishing line and the weight causes the machinery inside to move the fisherman’s arm, and the fishing line, until the coin falls into the open mouth of the creel at the stern of the boat, and thus into the bank.

Looking around when Hall made his entrance, Blanchard said, “Morning, sir.”

“Morning.”

“Oh, yeah, morning. Sir,” Gillette the driver said.

“Morning,” Hall repeated. He was so pleased to have these people.

Blanchard dabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the fisherman. “How do I get my quarter back?”

“Ha ha.” Got another one. With a big broad grin, Hall said, “You don’t, Fred. Sorry about that. Ho ho. Now come on, you two, let’s work out our day.”

They obediently moved over toward the genuine nineteenth-century partners desk, built at a time when lawyers trusted one another. As Hall took a seat there, the other two remaining standing, Blanchard frowned back at that fisherman as though wanting to remember exactly where to find him, some other time, but then he joined Hall and Gillette and didn’t seem troubled at all.

37

FLIP MORRISCONE WAS NOWHERE to be found, all day Wednesday. He didn’t make his three o’clock appointment with Monroe Hall or, so far as they could tell, any other of his appointments. To be certain the man had neither overslept nor died in his sleep, the union team of the conspiracy trooped through the Morriscone house one last time, then came back out to report to capital, “Not there.”

Now that they’d finally made their decision, and had finally accepted the need and utility of cooperation between the two groups, it was frustrating that their very first decision couldn’t be acted upon. Before parting for the day, all five gathered in their usual places in Buddy’s Taurus, where Buddy said, “We’re still not getting anywhere.”

“One day,” Mark pointed out. “Maybe he had food poisoning, went to the hospital. Maybe his uncle came to town, he took the day off, they went to the races.”

Buddy, looking confused, said, “Races. Oh, the track, you mean.”

Mac said, “There’s no point giving up after just one day.”

“Exactly,” Mark said.

Ace said, “How much longer you wanna go spinning your wheels?”

“We’ll give it the rest of this week,” Mac said. “Two working days, and Saturday. If we don’t find him before, and if he isn’t home Saturday, we’ll try to think of something else.”

Os said, “I know some people in the Army Reserves.”

They looked at him. Even Mark seemed a little nervous, when he said, “Os? And?”

“If it goes into next week,” Os said, “I borrow a tank.”

•

Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. They did find him, late Thursday morning. Following what they knew of his schedule, they drove along, packed together into the Taurus—Mark and Os were truly sacrificing for this job—and there he was at last, Flip Morriscone, coming out of the well-appointed home of one of his clients. His green Subaru was parked at the curb of the public street, as they pulled to a stop farther along.

Here he came, long canvas bag bouncing on his shoulder, the satisfied look of the successful torturer in his eye. Mark and Mac, as representatives of the combined team, approached him as he reached for the rear door of the Subaru to toss the bag in, Mark saying, “Mr. Morriscone. If we could have a moment?”

It had been decided that an Ivy League accent would be more reassuring than a union accent for the initial approach, and that Mark was just naturally less scary than Os. In the Sancho Panza role, Mac was deemed by all to be the most acceptable.

Morriscone continued his movement of tossing the bag into the back of the wagon, then slammed the door and turned to them, seeming not at all worried to be accosted by strangers. “Yes?”

“There’s a certain someone that you and we know,” Mark began, smooth and calm, “that we have a dislike for.”

Morriscone looked baffled. “There’s somebody I know that you don’t like?”

“Exactly. Now, we want to do something to this fellow—”

“Hey,” Morriscone said, taking a step backward. “Keep me out of this.”

“Not to kill him or anything like that,” Mark assured him, “but to, let us say, cost him something.”

“Good God!” Morriscone was getting more and more agitated. “What are you, gangsters?”

“Not at all,” Mark said, “we are perfectly respectable people, as I’m sure you can see for yourself. All we ask is a little assistance from you, for which you will be well reimbursed as soon as—”

“Bribery!” Morriscone was actually shouting by now. “Get away from me!” he shouted. “I’ve got trouble enough, I can’t be—Do you want me to call the police?”

Mac could see that Mark’s oil was not smoothing the waters the way they’d hoped. They’d agreed beforehand not to mention the target’s name until they had Morriscone convinced to help them, just in case he’d feel the need to go warn Monroe Hall, but maybe all in all that strategy hadn’t been such a good one. Taking a deep breath, speaking forcefully into Morriscone’s agitated reddening face, Mac announced, “Monroe Hall!”

“Mon—” Morriscone’s jaw dropped. He stared at them both like long-lost brothers. “You want to get even with that son of a bitch, too?” A broad grin creased his features. “Why didn’t you say so?”